Fic- Farewell to Samwise

[ray gower]

A long time ago, somebody asked for a Lord of the Rings based fiction. Foolishly I accepted the challenge. So having worked on it for far too long I am now within a page or so of completion, so I thought I would post a few chapters per day.

Farewell to Samwise
An Elvish mistake leads to a new threat to the Shire and a dangerous adventure for four Hobbits, a band of unwilling Dwarves and a pair of Elves sent to prevent the disaster from occurring.

Middle Earth, Hobbits, Dwarves et all. Belong to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien. I hope he will forgive my fumbling attempt to 'borrow' them for my own pleasure.

Authors Note: This story is based loosely around the time of the mysterious disappearance of Samwise Gamgee and the Appendices from The Lord of the Rings.
Thanks to Legolas and Skip for keeping me going as I struggled with a style of story I am not really at home with:wave:

Constructive criticism and comments are welcome on e-mail story@rgower.plus.com

This story is rated PG13 Some violence

Chapter 1
Rumours from Abroad

“I hear's tell of Dwarfs over yonder Evendim,” Thrace Sandyman spouted to the clientele in the The Ivy in general.

“You hears tell of a lot of things nobody else has mind to listen to, Sandyman,” old Bowman called him down to the general laughter in the cosy fire lit parlour of the inn. “What if there were. It ain't as if they've settled in Bywater or Hobbiton and I doubt they be interested in your mill either. Not at your prices.”

“It's true I says,” Sandyman persisted. “My Brock saw 'em from up on top of the North Downs. They had carts an' all. I don't hold with it. The old King, he said that all that land belong to us an' he would protect us. They should be made to go.”

“The King's a seven 'undred leagues to the south, he ain't going to worrit none about a few Dwarves, Sandyman. An' them hills ain't part of the Shire, and all there is below it is marsh 'n' moor nobody cares for,” a voice called from amongst the faces. “If yer so worried why not see 'em off?”

There was more laughter. The Sandyman's were not the most popular inhabitants of the Shire at present for the price of his flour. Though that had not been his fault, the excessively wet summer and autumn of the previous year had seen to that, the poor crops from the fields of the Shire forcing him to bring grain in from beyond Bree.

“Tain't a few,” Sandyman argued. “They had carts an' all. You mark my words. No good comes from dwarves.”

“Sides,” he added darkly. “It be sixty years since that Frodo Baggins went off and there were trouble. Sixty afore that were Bilbo Baggins, then there were the Trolls that came in uninvited afore that.”

There was a reflective silence. Sandyman had a point, as far as it went.

Every sixty years or so something happened in the Shire and Hobbits hated things happening that were not related to a steady supply of food and drink. That was the limit of his point. In the way of rural myth, much of the truth had been lost in the retelling and the happenings outside of the Shire were considered irrelevant. Thus the unfortunate things that had heralded the return of the King were placed squarely upon the shoulders of Gandalf the wizard and Frodo Baggins, neither being there to defend themselves. Whilst Samwise, Meriadoc and Peregrin were hailed saviours and suitably rewarded.

That there was a king that ruled the whole of Eriador and had graciously extended the Hobbit homeland upto the foothills of Evendim was, if not appreciated, accepted. Otherwise life for Hobbits was much as it had always been and they had successfully managed to avoid contact with the world outside the Shire borders.




As it happened Sandyman was not the only one that had news of the newly arrived Dwarvish band. Will Whitlow, as newly elected Mayor of the Shire and by tradition also Chief Sherrif, Postmaster General and a number other civil dignitaries in the one package, had also heard via numerous individual tales. It worried him. Then most things did. Will Whitlow was the worrying kind. He worried that the rains may not arrive, then when they did there would be too much water. It meant he tended to inaction, which suited Shire folk to the ground.

The news he received, of a potential invasion of Dwarves, suggested that simply worrying about it would not make the problem go away. It was going to need action.

He took it. Shrugging on his threadbare jacket he scurried out the door of his modest hole and down the New Row towards Bag End.

“What do you be hurrying for, Master Whitlow?” Samwise greeted him cordially as he entered the path for the door of Bag End.

Samwise was sat easily upon his garden chair supervising the kneeling 'Young Tom' as he tended the garden. Despite his 101 years Samwise had not lost his love of gardening and could still grow vegetables to match those of his gaffer, but now largely preferred to supervise the activities of his numerous children. Being oft to remind them that was how he had started out, then regaling them of stories of how he did for Mister Frodo and how he would do so again one day.

For their part, the children as youngsters had listened enthralled at the tales of adventure, then as maturity had grown upon them, with rather less enthusiasm, until the point of dutiful tolerance. Like the chore of being supervised whilst tending the garden. Any interruption was welcome.

“I'll get Daisy to bring out some tea?” Tolman offered seeing that Will was intent on talking to his Gaffer. He scrabbled to his feet, dusting rich loam from his trousers and disappeared towards the hole.

“He's a good lad my Tom,” Sam offered congenially. “Good green fingers, even if I don't tell him so as oft as I ought. Now make yourself at home whilst we wait for Daisy?”

There are rituals in all societies that must be observed for politeness, from simply commenting on how wonderful your neighbours new curtains are, (even if they do look like the moulded cheese you threw away the week before), to the formal actions of a Chinese Tea Ceremony.

Tea for Hobbits has the concatenations of both, not that mouldy cheese would ever be permitted on the table of Samwise Gamgee. Thus it proved to be as old Rose, Sams wife, Daisy and young Rose toiled out in procession, each bearing trays laden with tea, wine, bread, well cured ham and finest Westmarch cheeses. Minor business of state would wait, in favour of the far more serious.

“Now, Master Whitlow, what brings you here?” Sam asked, his belly pleasingly comfortable, leaned back in his rustic chair. From the ground beside him he picked his pipe and pouch. The later he offered to Will.

“There be stories of Dwarves over Evendim,” Will said, carefully filling his own small corncob with fine Brandybuck leaf before handing the pouch back to his host. “The Bounders think they is settling. You knows dwarves. What should we do?”

In silence Samwise filled his own long pipe as he thought, his eyes misting in memory. “Dwarves is alright,” he said finally, striking a match and sharing the taper with his guest.

He leant back in his chair sucking contentedly. “They can give you a nasty shock, mind, if you ain't prepared. I remember when I first met them. I were with Mister Frodo, I were, when I first met them. Good thing to. Real fiery chap was that Mr Geswen, red beard and iron hat with horns. And the way he waved his hammer. Never have known he could make toys as dainty as you please. Working ones at that mind!”

He sucked again and blew a long streamer of smoke. “Thinks you can ignore them. They won't hurt. I doubt there is much in those hills to keep them happy. So I doubt they'll be there for long. Now will you stay for a spot of lunch?”

[ray gower]

Chapter 2
A New Adventure

Samwise was rarely wrong, so his comforting words quelled many a troubled Hobbit mind. The Dwarves short stay stretched into a full two years before the subject was voiced again in the Gamgee household.

It was a full month after Old Rose's funeral and Samwise had taken to his bed, still feeling the terrible wrench from the departure of his beloved wife. Tolman settled to his evening pipe and genteel conversation with his brother Bilbo and brother-in-law Farrimer Took, before the fire, tankards of fine beer at their hands.

“The problem here is that we do so little,” he observed in some concern for the old Hobbit. “Everybody sees our Gaffer for advice and don't see us.”

The statement had been prompted by old Hamfist Cotton having barged into the hole before dinner, demanding to see Samwise for advice. The advice sought had proven to be of the most trivial sort regarding tending a sapling. Any apprentice gardener of more than two summers could have answered.

“It's because he's travelled,” Farrimer observed wisely. “The Thain gets the same.”

“Ah. But he expects it,” Bilbo asserted. “Our Gaffer don't. He gave up Mayoring 'cause he didn't want people asking what to do. He's fair worn out some days 'cause of all the questions that ordinary Hobbits should know the answers to.”

“So what do we do?” Farrimer asked.

“Got to do something,” Tolman agreed.

There was silence as they thought, reflective trails of smoke from three Hobbit pipes twisted and tied together forming complicated pictures above them. One of those pictures took Tolman's eye, there was a distinct form of a dragon. It prompted a memory.

“It were all Mr Bilbo Baggins fault,” he blurted. “If he hadn't gone looking for that dragon our Gaffer wouldn't have had to go with Mr Frodo.”

“Ah!” The others agreed with one voice.

“If somebody else went for an adventure, perhaps people would turn to them instead of the Gaffer?” Bilbo suggested slowly.

“There ain't no adventures left!” Tolman protested. “They went when the Gaffer and Mr Frodo tossed that ring in the Crack of Doom.”

“There's them Dwares up Evendim?” Bilbo commented. “There's been stories of smoke over yon hills. Some as says that the upper reach of the Evendwr's gone black?”

There was silence as thoughts delved into minds, looking for a reaction.

It was Tolman that voiced the first. “It would be an adventure,” he said slowly. “Perhaps enough to stop folk's running to the Gaffer at every drop o' rain. But who goes. I can't rightly says I want to go all that way. Only been up West March once!”

“We goes together!” Bilbo dove in. Of the seven sons of Samwise, it was he that the magic of his fathers stories had lasted longest. They had lit a fire, that had smouldered for fifty years, without ever having been extinguished, even into adult hobbithood. Now it could be felt stirring.

“It can't do any harm to go and have a look,” Farrimer said thoughtfully. “But we can't start immediately. I'll have to see the Thain first and we ought to prepare properly. No sense in getting uncomfortable and I guess the Dwarves will still be there in a week or two.”

“Ah! That's good thinking. I'll get Elanor to send a copy of Mister Frodo's map from the Red Book,” Bilbo accepted. “Now what else will we need? We got Mister Frodo's chain coat and sword in the Mathom House. Can you bring some ponies? It be a good four days ride up there!”

“I'll borrow the Thains mail. It's not as if he'll need it. Besides it's bears the Kings mark, which won't do us any harm,” Farrimer agreed. “But we don't have a third set.”

“I ain't goin' to do no fighting!” Tolman protested vigourously. “We'll only get in trouble if we go like the dark riders!”

A chill went through the room and Tolman regretted his outburst. The Riders were never mentioned in the Gamgee household, though mothers elsewhere used them to frighten their children to sleep.

“We won't go openly bearing arms,” Farrimer promised. “It's just a precaution. Now the important things. The food!”

The rooms warmth returned as Bilbo and Farrimer continued to make the plans, whilst Tolman leant back and let their ever more excited chatter wash over him. He wished he had never brought the discussion up. Unlike his elder brother, he was satisfied being a normal Hobbit, with no more cares than whether the flowers grew, or lunch was plentiful and on time. What they were planning suggested that lunch was going to be lower on the priorities than it ought and gardening not at all. Whilst they were not travelling far from the Hobbit homeland in miles, the moors they would be travelling were a world away from the fertile Shire and avoided by Hobbits for that reason.

“Jus' one thing,” Farrimer remarked as their plans accomplished they broke for bed. “Don't tell the Gaffer, or he'll want to come. You hear Tom?”

“Aye,” Tolman accepted, still in reflective mood.

[ray gower]

Chapter 3
Underway

Farrimer returned to Bag End a week later. “I stabled four ponies in the old guard house on the Bywater road. They'll be safe for the night there. Is everything else ready?”

“Aye. We got almost everything and Rose has made a good pack,” Bilbo greeted him happily. "We can start soon after breakast. Tom's just bedding stuff in the garden."

It came as a sharp reminder to Farrimer Took that the Gamgee household were, inspite of their inherited wealth and history, still a family of gardeners at heart. It was a heart that was maintained by the Gaffer with some firmness with his occasionally rebellious sons. "Tom still worried about going?" He asked.

"Tom's always worried," Bilbo declared cheerfully. "He'll be grand once we're on the road. Now if you're ready, there be a bath an' such ready. It could be the last chance for a while. An' the last of a proper bed.




Dinner was a quiet but not sombre affair, as Hobbit meals often are, the discussion ranging far and wide, excepting their journey. After which they sat in deep stuffed armchairs, smoking their pipes in contented peace.

"You don't want to go looking for no trouble," Samwise suddenly broke out. "Dwarves is all right, just don't provoke them."

The others looked on the elderly Hobbit in surprise and he nodded in contentment.

"My ears ain't strangers, as my old Gaffer used to say," he continued, "and I still see plenty. Getting Mr Frodo's things from Micheal Delving, then there has been your little discussions. Still I ain't going to try and stop you. I did my travelling with Mr Frodo. No sense in doing more." With that he nodded off to sleep.




Farrimer Took was woken by the repeated thumping on the door. "Come on, sleepy head!" Bilbo called gaily. "Or we'll have eaten your breakfast as well!"

"Just you wait!" Farrimer retorted, levering himself from a cosey bed.

A glance from the porthole window showed the dawn starting to break in a sea of gold and red over the hills to the East. In the garden he could see the Marigolds nodding gently, their heads heavy with dew. It promised a fine and sunny day with just enough breeze to stop things overheating. In short the ideal travelling weather

It was therefore with rather more enthusiasm he emerged for breakfast.

From his bedroom window Samwise Gamgee watched the three budding explorers leave Bag End with mixed feelings. Whilst their departure was far from hurried, certainly compared to Mister Frodo's all those years ago. He could not shake the feeling that things were going to be less than easy. Still it was their turn and he did not begrudge them the chance of adventure, or that it may not be as dangerous on the surface as his own flight.




The four ponies, three bays and a pie, Farrimer had brought with him from Tookland were classic Hobbit mounts. Short in the leg and broad in body. Sturdy mounts for the less adventurous, that could travel far, if slowly. And were quickly saddled and packed.

“Just one problem. Tom's never been on a horse afor!” Bilbo laughed at his far from secure brother as he sat upon a sturdy bay.

"Bonny is a steady pony," Farrimer grinned, securing the last of their packs to Green Leaf. "Nobody has ever fallen from her."

"Still I suppose there is always a first time," he added, taking at look at the decidedly green looking Hobbit. "We aren't looking to race, so if you just get the hang of sitting still, you'll be fine!"

Moving about the last thing on Tom's mind, unless it was to get off. His seat felt decidedly loose as his steed shifted its weight. Given a free choice he would much have preferred to walk, though he had not relished the idea of carrying the packs either.

Once he had got the idea that his mount was as docile as he had been told and was not going to launch itself at the world with unexpected glee, he settled to become nothing more than a passenger and enjoy the scenery as it wobbled past. It was at this point he fell off, much to the glee of his fellow travellers.

"Can't you see it's time for elevenses," he grumbled, glowing in embarrassment.

"We've only been going an hour," Farrimer laughed.

Still the idea had appeal and they settled on the grassy verge for a comfortable snack from the bottled beer, bread and jams, before they dozed.

By the time they awoke again it was too close to lunch to set off, so by unanimous agreement they settled for an early one. Breaking out more bread and potted meats.

"How long will it take?" Bilbo queried settling back as he finished his fill.

"At this rate, a month," Farrimer grumbled. "I reckon it's about forty leagues to the foothills. We've done one. And we will have to cross the moor after the Turkey Turnpike. There are supposed to be paths, but I don't know them."

"Suppose we ought to get going then?" Tom grumbled, still less than enthusiastic about remounting, but determined to finish what had been started. "Or it'll be time for tea before we've done another. 'Sides we can stay in the Bay and Horse for the night, if we get that far. Do a grand ale, so young Butterblow say."

Another well received idea. Whilst the day bode well for an equally pleasant evening and night, Hobbits always preferred a cosy bed. If nothing else it also meant an easy morning and relaxed breakfast.

[ray gower]

Chapter 4
Turkey Turnpike

The Turkey Turnpike Inn was the third inn the Hobits used as they travelled the great highway that traversed East to West across the West March. It was also to be the last. From there they would need to leave the well paved road and branch out into much wilder country.

The inn itself was one of a number of stone and brick built stopping places that had been built over the years to service the needs of the travellers intent upon their business, travelling between the harbours in the west and the human lands to the East in the Arnor, or South into the plains of Gondor. Therefore, although many were owned and run by Hobbits and a few had even become the nucleus for small Hobbit settlements and farms, all had been built to cater for their much larger guests.

The Turkey in particular, being three leagues from the nearest Hobbit settlement and run by a human, had little need to cater for those of short stature and ground loving nature.

All the same the landlord, Brock, welcomed his guests with much favour, especially after he caught a glimpse of Farimers mail cloak and insignia. "You just be sat in the private parlour," he recommended as the three portly Hobbits entered. "I'll be getin' Joe to settle your ponies. You'll be wanting food as well, so I'll need to find that. No doubt you'll not take so kindly to the rice that the Easterlings in the other bar be wanting, so I'll have to get the Missus to include tatties. Then a room. There's the small room on the first floor. I'll get Joe to include a third bed." He continued, his voice settling to a mumble as he spoke as much to himself as to the Hobbits as he listed what he needed to do.

Brock seemed to spend much of his time thinking aloud.

After they had eaten their fill the three travellers adjourned to the public saloon. As much to satisfy their own curiosity over some of the travellers that they had shared at least some of their road. There were a number of the Easterlings at the Turkey that night. Their small fur rimmed conical hats, sallow complexions and stocky build, formed a marked contrast to the darker burnt trader of Gondor that leaned against the bar, observing all and sundry.

The three hobbits themselves were ignored by the Easterlings. They were gathered around two tables, an air of restrained excitement over them, along with a rapid clacking.

Intrigued by the noise Farrimer squeezed between the stocky Easterlings. On the table lay hundreds of small tiles, some face up, some neatly arranged face down in walls, and the four players were slapping down tiles and picking new ones, seemingly as fast and as randomly as they could.

The shout, 'Dong-Jah', briefly brought a lull in the proceedings as tally sticks moved between the players. It allowed Farrimer a chance to pick up a number of the tiles to look at. Perhaps inch and a half long by an inch wide, with a wooden back and, he guessed, bone face. Each was carved in what looked like Elven Runes.

By this time the four players were starting to gather up all the tiles again and build new walls. As they did not seem to be interested in Farrimer, or the two tiles he had in his hand, he pocketed them and returned to the others sat in the corner of the bar, pint pots and pipes in hand.

From there he watched in puzzlement and alarm as the table fell into commotion.

A hooded figure slid up beside them. “It was not wise to take the pieces,” he observed. “The Easterlings are very good with figures, but not with thieves. Leave them on the table and retire until they go tomorrow.”

“Ah! That sounds good,” Bilbo agreed as knives appeared. “Thank you, Mister?”

“Just a traveller that has a liking for Hobbits. Even the stupid ones.”

Bilbo tried to peer up inside the hood, but could make nothing of the face inside, except that it was thin. The stranger turned away before he could make more of it.

As they fled gratefully for the door they saw Brock sally forth, broad sword poised threateningly. “We'll ha' none o' that here!” He bellowed. “You little beggars probably dropped the pieces on the floor. Now put them 'picks away afore I 'ave ya.”




It was gone mid-morning the following day before the Hobbits ventured from their room and into the public room again. Brock was scraping the tables and his stable lad spreading new saw dust over the floor.

He greeted them cordially. “Morning, little masters. I 'opes you weren't put off too bad by them Easterns las' night? I saw youse heading for the door when they pulled knives. Don't wan' to take notice of 'em. Allays doin' that they is if they lose a piece, allays find 'em on the floor after. Why they need so many I'll never know. Now yous'll be wan'ing breakfast?”

“Yes, please!” They issued together, having almost given up getting to some sort of sensible statement from the landlord chunnering to himself.




"Now which way you be heading?" Brock asked quietly. "You came in from the East, so's I reckons youse be goin' West a ways?"

"Why?" Tom asked guardedly.

"Nutten bad, an' nowt to do with me. Just reckons you should avoid the Easterns an' a couple of the other rum 'uns. Doubt they'll do owt to the Kings man, but you never know with some of these foreigners."

"Well we're turning off soon," Farrimer laughed. "We're heading North a step. I'm told there is a good path?"

Brock beamed. "Ah, there be a good path over the bridge, mile down the road. Keep left an you'll be safe from the marsh. There be a couple of Hobbit farms, so you'll be good for shelter. Will you be wanting an early dinner before starting off?"

Thanking the landlord profusely, the Hobbits accepted.

[ray gower]

Chapter 5
The Marshes

Brock's word was good, a definite track led from the main highway and the Hobbits followed it for several miles as it meandered through gently rolling downs, the river, if not in sight, always in hearing range on their right. Finally the track struck off firmly, following the edge of an escarpe.

The hobbits stopped to consider their options. There was still a trace of a narrow path that continued along the bank of the river, though it looked as if it had not been used for some years.

"I guess the path goes on towards the farm Brock told us about," Farrimer observed. "But its too early to stop."

"Well the path by the river ain't bad," Bilbo suggested with confidence, "And we knows the river goes in the right direction, so we can't get lost."

For the first hour it looked as if Bilbo's confident assertion was correct. Although the path was overgrown, it was clearly visible and their ponies capable of pushing between the small rowan bushes. Then as the Downs gave way to Moorland, the ground became wetter and the soft rye grass to cassock and fern, often hiding what remained of the path.

Still undaunted they pressed on, though slower, for the ponies had to pick their path, confident that the river would not lead them astray.

As the sun started to dip towards the hills in the far west they struck out from the river to mount a low hill, hoping for drier ground to rest for the night. From the small vantage point they realised that whilst the river was not sending them wrong, it had formed a deep 'S' and the last two leagues they had toiled had barely made an impression on their intended progress.

"Well I suppose we could cut straight across tomorrow," Farrimer offered philosophically, gazing at the wide and rich green plain that surrounded them.

"Ah! 'Appen we could." Tom agreed. He looked up from the small fire he was trying to start with bracken and a few sticks from under a bush and gazed towards the West. "But I reckons there could be spot of wet weather comin," he commented with a countryman's assurance.

He was right, for it came on as a fine drizzle not long after the sun went down. The hobbits huddled together under their blankets in misery; cursing the idea of following a path that had taken them a full seven miles out of their way, wishing fervently they had chosen to accept hospitality at a Hobbit Farm, all be it a short day.

It was still drizzling when the sun rose, though that in itself was a misnomer. There was no sign of a firey ball in the sky, it merely got brighter. It did little to improve the mood. Especially as Tom failed to manage to get the fire to light for a warming breakfast.

"Ain't nothing for it," Bilbo declared. "We's as wet as we're gonna get. So we might as well get on. There was a stand of trees a few miles to the north. 'Appen we might find a little shelter, perhaps some dry wood for Tom's fire."

"But which way is it?" Farrimer exclaimed. "We can't see more 'n a few yards in the mist!"

"That way!" Bilbo declared hopefully, pointing in a direction.

"I think that way," Farrimer countered pointing in a somewhat different direction.

"Tom?" They both asked.

"Appen I don't rightly know," Tom admitted. "Strikes me it won't matter too much, as long as we be on a straight line. Bound to hit the river again. Then we'll be right."

It seemed like a good idea and they set off in a direction that formed a good compromise between the choice of Bilbo and Farrimer, striking confidently downhill.

Maintaining a straight path was more difficult than any of them imagined and they still thought they were heading downhill an hour later. There was no sign of the river and the ponies were becoming skittish as the ground became wetter. So much so, that the Hobbits were forced to dismount and lead them instead.

“We should have reached the river by now!” Farrimer complained eventually, splashing to a halt and allowing the others to gather around him. “We are going to have to wait for the fog to lift. I've no idea which way we are going anymore!”

“Well we can't stop here!” Bilbo declared, looking around. The green patch they were standing in was misleading. Below the rich green grass that surrounded them was glutinous mud. “We're upto our knees!”

“Choose a direction,” Farrimer offered.

In desperation Bilbo looked around at the nothingness of fog and pointed. “That way!” He said, waving in a direction.

He tried to turn, struggling to lift a foot from the mud. “Give us a hand!” he demanded. “I'm stuck!” Worse the other leg was sinking further as he struggled to lift the first.

It was a predicament that the others found they were also in as they attempted to struggle to his aide.

“Got to be able to get out somehow” Tom declared in alarm. “C'mon, Bonny. Pull us out!” He urged his pony to pull him forward.

The pony, born of more sense, refused to move.




“Three Hobbits seeking adventure,

Went on a spree!

A very silly three!

They ate and supped,

Then broke the game from the East.

A silly three indeed!




Three Hobbits seeking adventure,

Went on a spree!

A very silly three!

They got lost in the fog,

Now they're stuck like a tree.

Is this the end of the silly three?”




The gaily mocking lyrics struck them long before they could see the two grey hooded figures skittering through the throngs of fog.

“I think Hobbits are either far more stupid than Elrond said, or really like getting themselves in trouble, Malindron. After what you did for them at the inn?”

The first of the figures danced into better view and pulled down the hood to reveal the golden hair and pointed ears of a female elf.

“An' what you going to do 'bout it?” Tom demanded, irritated at the levity at his now waist deep predicament.

“Well we could just leave you,” the she Elf laughed. “But that would be cruel on the ponies and your cries assault the ears so!” She flitted to each pony in turn and whispered in their ears, before taking the reins and gently walking them out of the bog.

The three Hobbits watched in forlorn despondency as their sturdy mounts vanished into the mist. Their place was taken a few minutes later by the return of the second grey hooded figure trailing a fine rope.

Tom noted with further irritation he was not sinking into the mud either, as he knotted the line around his chest.

“I suggest you do not move,” the elf whispered.

He shouted out, “Get on Eithan. Pull your little master.”

Tom stiffened as the line went taut around his chest, restricting his breathing. There was a slurping noise and he was free and being dragged through the mud.

It felt like a long way, though in fact it was mere seconds before he was laying on firm ground again, gasping for breath. From there he watched as his pony, Bonny, towed his two comrades from the mire.

“Who are you?” Farrimer asked as he recovered his breath.

“What no 'Thanks'?” The she Elf demanded gaily. “We should have left you longer!”

“Oh! We do!” Bilbo put in quickly. “Tremendously so! But we want to know who to thank?”

“Well if you follow us to the Byre, perhaps we'll tell you,” Malindron suggested. “The fog will not lift for the a while and I'm not pulling you out of the mire again. Now up you get!”

Elves were not great ones for giving answers, Tom remembered from his Gaffers tales. Still the chance of some shelter from the cloying wet fog would be welcome, so he followed the other two as quickly as he was able.

It was a rapid pace as well, that had the Hobbits shambling forwards at a dead run. Their benefactors never quite in sight, but never out of it either. Their grey cloaks merely forming slightly darker shadows. But always they could hear the two singing to each other, sometimes in common tongue throwing some gentle insult at the Hobbits slow progress, but usually in Elvish that the Hobbits suspected it was probably a good thing they did not understand.

[ray gower]

Chapter 6
Elven Tales

The byre had been built under the stand of rowans that the Hobbits had spotted the previous night, the lower boughs tightly intertwined to provide an almost solid cave that could keep all but the most inclement weather from its occupants. It had obviously been erected for some time, Tom decided. There were green shoots projecting from the mesh and a number that had been trimmed. “How long, 've you been here?” He asked curiously, trying to get a better view of the workmanship. “That be as good a bit of laying as I've seen and I've known a few good uns. Must be a good three year old!”

The she elf laughed. “Not as long as these bushes. There is drink and food at the back. We know Hobbits are always hungry! I am Othmiel. Malindron is my brother.”

“You promised to explain why you are here,” Bilbo prompted after they had taken, by Hobbit standards, a modest lunch of elven bread, fruit and bright spring water, flavoured with some sort of cordial that the elves poured into their glasses in carefully measured amounts. “The only elf left in Eriador is Legolas and he's down over Rohan way.” He waved expansively towards the South-East.

“Oh, there are always elves!” Malindron assured him, glancing towards his sister. “We come to watch and wait. Sooner or later men will stray further West and our new homelands will be overrun again.”

“Now suppose you explain why three fat hobbits are wandering the marshes?” Othmiel demanded all business. “There are no Hobbit villages North of here.”

“It's because of the Gaffer!” Bilbo blurted in uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “People won't leave him be. He gets fair tuckered with all them folks asking silly questions.”

“And the foolish Hobbits think that going on a journey will change that?” Malindron suggested, a smile playing across his smooth face. “Your people go to your Gaffer for advice because of his wisdom, not for the size of his tales.”

“They ain't got no right to see him to an early grave!” Tom lashed out in defence of his brother.

“With more than one hundred summers behind him, Samwise Gamgee will never be ready for an early grave!” Othmiel laughed. “Well your words are spoken with true heart. So what are you intending to do with the Dwarves when you find them? Chase them away? I think they may be a match, even for three sturdy Hobbits?”

We don't rightly know,” Farrimer admitted. “Thought we might talk to them and get them to stop fouling the Evendwr?”

Othmiel became serious. “Listen good Hobbits. Elves are not known for giving advice, freely or otherwise. But this I do for the service your brethren have done for us. Not all dwarves are as Gimli, son of Gloin, good of heart. You would be wise to return to the Shire if all you are able to offer is words.”

“We're here. Ain't goin' home till we been an' had a look,” Bilbo declared resolutely.

“In that case you should rest here until the fog lifts. We will not be able to help you further in your travels,” Malindron cautioned mildly. “Our path does not lead to the North and we must leave you here.”




The fog lifting was the sign for rain to start, forming an even thicker grey curtain around the Hobbits small refuge. It was not a feature that encouraged further travels abroad, especially after their earlier escapades and with little idea as to where they were.

The Hobbits silently and unanimously took their rescuers advice and settled under the Byre's protective canopy to await better weather. But found the wait, wet as they were, cold, damp and miserable.

Tom finding kindling amongst the Elves small store at the rear, plus a small pile of dry timber, risked a brief foray into the wet world outside for more dead wood and built a small fire in the entryway. It did at least offer a little warmth and the prospect of hot tea, so they gathered around it gratefully until long after nightfall.




The first weak gold rays of the sun rising in the East played across Bilbo's face. He snuffled at the unwanted intrusion and tried to brush it away. The slap he gave himself woke him with a start. For a few minutes he did little else other than worry at the all encroaching stiffness that belied a nights sleep with nothing more than one's own knees for a pillow, then crawled outside.

He found himself nose to nose with Green Leaf, their erstwhile pack pony, still with the packs attached. He guessed that the Elves had found her on their way to were ever and had brought her to the Byre. For that he was grateful, though he still felt a tinge of regret that they had not done the same with the other ponies. Perhaps they were hoping that the Hobbits would simply return to the Shire on foot.

Well, he reflected as he rifled the pack for the means for breakfast, they were a lot closer the Dwarves than Hobbiton. It would be waste to come this far and not finish by having a look. Besides the day was promising fine weather, the sun rising in a cloudless sky was already warming the wet grass around his toes.

Satisfied with the bread and cheeses he pulled from the pack, he settled to rebuilding the fire. Tom was the great fire builder, not Bilbo. But with the aide of the long matches from the pack and the kindling and wood that Tom had put aside the night before, he managed to light the fire before the smell of the smoke awoke the others.

“Gonna be a hot day,” Tom grumbled mildly as he staggered around the glade trying to retrieve some feeling in his cramped legs.

“Well at least we can see what we are sinking in!” Farrimer opined brightly. “Might even get beyond the marshes before the sun goes down?”

“Aye, but in which direction?” Tom asked sourly. “Them Elves were less than keen for us to see the Dwarves. Thought they be trouble. What are they doing here any roads? They didn't say owt, as they said they was.”

“I think they have their own business,” Bilbo offered. “Besides they pulled us out of the marsh.”

“Aye. T'is that,” Tom agreed. “Ain't complaining 'bout that.”

“I don't see a problem carrying on. It's not as if we're looking for trouble,” Farrimer asserted confidently. “Look, we can see the hills from here. So we aren't that far. We still have Green Leaf and we would have to lead the ponies before long.”

It took some time to break Tom from his ill-humour, taking not just breakfast and copious tea, but second breakfast as well to return him to his normal ambivalent view on life.

It was, therefore, rather later than any of them would have liked by the time they physically set off. Farrimer leading, testing anything that looked soft with a long stick and Tom leading their pony, trailing the other two.

[ray gower]

Chapter 7
Seeking Dwarves

“Well! Where are they then?” Bilbo demanded in frustration.

The three footsore Hobbits had been wandering in the foothills of Evendim for three days and there was no sign of the Dwarves workings. It had not dawned upon them how difficult it might prove to find their quarry until now. Farrimer, in particular had been positive that finding at least a spoil heap would have been possible, if only because of the waste that had emerged when extending the Thain's own halls the year before. Sadly Evendim was full of potential spoil heaps. Long slopes covered in grey and blue slate shale that cut their feet, adorned every other slope.

Now they huddled together in a small cwm, taking advantage of the small pool to ease their feet.

“I ain't going no further today,” Tom grumbled, examining the cut on his foot and gently teasing a shard of stone from it. “If I never slide down another of those screes it'll be too soon. Now I knows why them Stocks wear boots. Never seemed right afore.”

Farrimer, said nothing. Instead he sat, his back against the cool rock face of the cliff behind and tried to think.

He was certain they were near the Dwarf Halls. They had found and followed cart tracks into the deep 'U' shaped valley below two days ago, giving all a brief fillip of hope. From there the ground had become too stony to provide any help and the valley had led into three more smaller valleys. From the lip of the cwm they could see into the rock strewn extents of all three. There was no way a cart could have travelled far in them.

Finally he looked up. “Unless we see a cart. I don't think we are going to find them,” he admitted. “The Thain said that the Dwarves are pretty good at concealing their entrances. Perhaps I should have listened more.”

He was about to stand when the cliff behind him disappeared.

From the hole that was left three Dwarves appeared, coughing violently and heading for the pool.

“I told ye there were gas behind that rock!” One spluttered.

“No you didn't, you daft old fool. You said it was a cavity!” The second pronounced firmly and gesticulating with his axe.

“Fool yourself. You knows that there is gas in cavities. Goes with the coal!” The First protested righteously.

“Aye and when are we getting past all that useless stuff? Grydore said there is valuable stuff here. We've been digging like Orc's for three years an all you've found is useless slate and coal!” The third of the party joined the argument, whilst washing his face.

“Found the Malachite spoil last month didn't I?” The first declared. “Always a good sign!”

There was a sound somewhere between snarl and splutter and a lot of splashing, before they looked up and espied the three Hobbits.

There was a brief moments silence as both sides gazed upon each other mute surprise.

The first of the Dwarves regained his wits first. “Who do you be?”

“'N' What you do think you're doing here?” The third demanded, fingering for the axe hanging on his back.

The Hobbits backed away in alarm from the threatening dwarves, but rapidly found that any escape route was rapidly blocked off.

“We don't want no Orcs!”

Two dwarves looked incredulously at their third companion, whose red eyes were still watering from the gases in the tunnel. “You daft old geezer, Borin!” The first scolded.

Farrimer finally found his voice. “We are Hobbits from the Shire!” He declared hopefully.

“Don't want none of them either. Be off with you!” Borin continued stubbornly.

“We came to find you!” Farrimer protested.

“So you can bring Orcs!” Borin snapped, snatching his axe from his belt and bounding forward.

“We are named Dwarf Friend by Gimli, son of Gloin, son of Thorin, King Under the Hill, son of Balin!” Bilbo cried in desperation, reeling off the Dwarf blood line for effect. “We've nothing to do with Orcs! There ain't been Orcs here in o'er sixty year!”

It was fortunate for the Hobbits that the remaining two dwarves caught their comrade by the arms. “Perhaps they might, Borin. But only if they escape,” the first muttered.

“Aye. And if we kill them here and they are Dwarf Friend of Thorin then it'll be worse than Orc's we have,” the third added. “We'll take them to see Farin and Grydore. Grab them!”

The three Hobbit's found themselves caught by gnarled hands and dragged back through the cave entrance.

Behind them the entrance to the cave was closed again, leaving all dark.

“At least we will not have to tell them to duck,” a muttered voice echoed, before becoming sharper. “Do not attempt to escape. It would be dangerous to try, there are shafts.”

Pushed forward, with one of the Dwarves leading and the others following there was little option but to comply to the directions.




From the ridge opposite sharp Elven eyes and ears watched and listened on to the activities in the cwm.

“I do not know if I am glad that the Hobbits found the Dwarfs, Malindron,” Othmiel observed quietly. “They could make things more complicated?”

“At least the Dwarves did not kill them,” Malindron placated. “There may be more to the Hobbits than there looks. Elrond and Gandalf always claimed they are a stout people.”

“But simple,” Othmiel agreed. “They do not know what they are getting themselves into. Perhaps the Dwarves will let them go before they delve too far and find the seal?”

Malindron shook his head thoughtfully. “I doubt the Dwarves will allow them to go so quickly. Still the Hobbits have found the way into the halls for us. That entry was well hidden. Perhaps they will stop them looking?”

“We will wait for a little longer,” he added.

[ray gower]

The Halls of Evendum

The tunnels the Hobbits were led along meandered bewilderingly, sometimes dipping, otherwise rising, often sharply and suddenly making them stumble, but always twisting. They quickly lost all sense of distance and direction.

After a sometime Bilbo realised that things were not quite as dark as it seemed. In many places the walls glowed faintly, not enough to avoid the occasional rock that he tripped upon, but just enough to avoid the occasional boulder that blocked their path that the Dwarves, for unknown reasons had left in place. Not that the Dwarves were not trying to guide them safely, three times they had stopped one or other Hobbit from stepping into an unguarded and unseen shaft. They just assumed that the Hobbits could see the stray outcrops.

Bilbo got the impression that many of the tunnels they were hurrying along had been dug as quickly as possible, they certainly had not been finished as the Gaffer had described the Halls of Moria. Smoothness of walls and floor were obvious by their absence. Then he supposed they had not been ensconced for that long, barely three years.

Finally the tunnel opened into a small cavern, not much more than a wide tunnel, which, unlike the tunnels they had been travelling, was lit by huge flaming torches. Again, this looked unfinished to Bilbo's inexpert eye. The impression aided by the small party of six dwarves swinging axes into the walls, gradually widening it into a hall.

At the far end of the hall were two more dwarves upon a low dias. One was sat upon a stone seat. Beside him stood what Bilbo could only think of as an ancient dwarf. Bent and leaning firmly upon the long handle of an axe. The impression was completed as they came closer. The Dwarf's beard flickered red and yellow in the torch light in only the way a truly white beard could and dragged on the floor.

The two were in some discussion.

“So how many shafts are still working, Grydore?” The seated Dwarf was demanding of the older.

“Shaft Six is still looking promising, they made 100 feet yesterday. Four hit a seam of iron granite. They should get through that in a day or two,” the older Dwarf announced in voice that screeched to set teeth on edge.

“How about nine and five?”

“They are following the Malachite seam in nine,” Grydore explained patiently. “It will give us goods to trade with the Easterns.”

Finally the two noticed the small party approaching.

“Borin. Why have you stopped work in Six?” the seated dwarf demanded. “Who is that with you?”

“We hit a gas pocket,” Borin reported to be received by a groan from the seat. “Can't start working again until it clears. These,” he pointed at the Hobbits, “claim to be Hobbits from the Shire and Dwarf Friend.”

The perfunctory introduction brought a closer examination, the old dwarf Grydore hobbling over to the three Hobbits for a better view.

"By whose authority do you claim Dwarf Friend?" The seated Dwarf demanded. "I warn you I am Farin, Son of Falloth, Master of these halls. We will not tolerate Orcish spies that damage our carts."

"We are not Orc's!" Farrimer burst out indignantly.

"There be no Orcs in these parts in o'er fifty years!" Tom snapped. "An' no Hobbit has touched your carts!"

Bilbo stepped forward, raising his hand to stop the howls of indignant protests of his compatriots.

"We are three Hobbits of the Shire," he declared quietly. "These hills belong to the Hobbit's homelands as bequeathed by King Elissar. None may settle in these lands except on his or our permission. We came rightly to ask the same of you, for whilst we are friendly to all and have little use for these hills, you have damaged the river right down to the Southfarthing. We were named Dwarf Friend by Gloin, son of Dorin, descendant of Balin. I am Bilbo Gamgee, son of Sam Gamgee, member of the Fellowship of Nine Dwarves, Elves, Men and Hobbits that set out to destroy the One Ring and at your service," he bowed deeply then guestured towards Tom. "This is my brother, Tolman Gamgee. The other is Farrimer Took, also descendant of the Fellowship."

The two Hobbits bowed as they were introduced, but rather less deeply than Bilbo, watching the Dwarves suspiciously.

It was well they did, for the Dwarves did not appear overly impressed by the introductions and descended into a low whispered conversation.

Finally Farin rose from the huddle and spoke. "You may be as you claim," he admitted. "It is small matter we have never met Gloin and have not had contact with Balin's people for many a year. But these hills are not free for Elissar to bequest. The workings we are in are Dwarvish and have been for many years before Elissar or Isildur stood in its former glory. We have merely reclaimed them. We cannot permit you to carry news of why we are here until we have finished, yet we will not kill you, in case your claims are true. So you will remain guests of my hall. Borin, find a suitable billet for our guests, they are to be well cared for, but must not be allowed to leave."

"We don't know why you are here?" Farrimer protested as they were about to be led away. "We came to find out why you turned the river black!"

Farin glanced at Grydore, who stepped forward. "Mythryl," he said quietly. "There was a seam of Mythryl once in these hills. I remember it from when I was a dwarfling. It was a thin seam then. But richer than anything to be found now from the Western seas to the Far Mountains in the East. Finding it would establish this as a new dwarfdom to rival any hall."

This short explanation was all the Hobbits were to receive as they were led away.

"Well this is a pickle, an' no mistake," Tom observed as they were shown into a small chamber, equipped with three lumpy mattresses a torch and little else.

He proded a matresses with a toe then pummeled the worst of the lumps out before sitting firmly upon it. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know," Bilbo admitted quietly slumping desolutely beside his brother. "I suppose we wait. We can't find our own way out of these tunnels and I don't think they aren't going to show us anytime soon."

[ray gower]

Councils of War

Malindron and Othmiel watched the encounter between Hobbit's and Dwarves from the vantage point of the ridge on the opposite side of the valley with mixed feelings, not all charitable. "Those stupid Hobbits!" Othmeil fumed. "We warned them. Now they'll expect us to rescue them again!"

Malindron was prone to be less sceptical than his sister. "They are stubborn. They would have come anyhow, nor were they killed. They may even be of use to us," he observed mildly. "Nor are we well placed to sweep down and take on Dwarves, for rescue or anything else. Not in their mine. If this were the forests, perhaps."

"So what do we do now, Dear Brother?" Othmeil demanded. "The dwarves must be getting close to the seal by now and nothing we have done is stopping them!"

"Perhaps it is time to seek further help?" Malindron suggested thoughtfully. "Now that Hobbits have got themselves involved, we can hardly be blamed by Celeborn or the Lady for allowing them to be drawn further?"

"This is a matter between Dwarves and Elves!" Othmeil protested hotly. "We cannot."

"Hobbits also. Now," Malindron pointed out. "We cannot stop the Dwarves in their mine and sabotaging their carts has not worked."

"Very well," Othmeil sniffed her acceptance. "But who do we seek for assistance? Hobbits may be stout of heart, but I doubt they can match Dwarves in battle."

"That will remain to be seen, Dear Sister. Come. I think things are safe for the time being."

With that Malindron and Othmeil set off south, using more direct routes than any Hobbit knew.




Samwise Gamgee had set the latch of the big round door that guarded the entrance of Bagend. The hour was late and there were unlikely to be visitors at this time, or none he would see fit to allow to walk in uninvited. With so many travellers now on the Bywater Road, one slept sounder knowing thw door was secure. Though he had lingered before he had closed the door, looking up the lane that lead to that same road as he had every night since his younger charges had set off.

It was a foolish thing to do, he knew. Even if they had ridden and marched hard they would still be less than halfway back in the three weeks since they had left and Hobbit's did not strain unless they had to. Besides there was no reason for them to return just as he closed the door for the night and if they did they would pound on the door until it was opened again.

None of this would shake of the foreboding that suggested that not all was well. The news that three ponies had arrived in Tookland seeking their stables had done little to ease things. Thus he no longer shuttered the windows against the cold. Rose had chided him over this and the chill draft the omission created. "Not good for your Chest, Gaffer!" She had scolded just that morning. "What would we do if you came down with a chill an' at your time in life!"

He had, however, caught her looking expectantly out when she unlatched the door each morning and accepted it all as a mutual concern, not for him, but the others.

He had settled into the old armchair for his habitual evening pipe before the hearth when there was a scratching at the door. He watched it suspiciously, in the belief of animals, perhaps a dog or fox, though neither came into Hobbiton often. More alarming was the latch lifting, dropping back before there was a soft knock at the door.

Quietly he took the poker from the hearth and opened the door sharply, intending to brain the intending thief before he could run far. It was with the maximum of effort that he diverted the blow into the door frame, where it landed with a thunk!

The last thing in all Middle Earth he was expecting was a female elf. For a long moment both gazed at each other on open surprise. Finally he found his voice and muttered. "Happen you could've just knocked and called. We ain't a bed yet?"

"We did not know who was abroad," Othmeil informed him, regaining her composure and bruised ego. "Nor were we sure which hole we were looking for. This is Bagend?"

Sam nodded impassively. "Says so on the gate."

"And you are Samwise Gamgee?"

Again Sam nodded. "Since the Gaffer named me."

Othmeil gave a low whistle, summoning Malindron from his lookout post. "We need to speak quickly," she urged.

"Aye well, perhaps you should come in?" Sam suggested numbly, backing away to make room for his guests. "Sit by the fire there an' I'll fix some tea."

"It is urgent," Malindron insisted. "It will affect the safety of the Hobbits and men."

"Appen it may," Sam agreed determined not to be rushed. "But it will be no worse after some tea."

Frustrated by the old Hobbit's dogged following of Hobbit protocol the Elves did as he bid.

Bringing forth bread, cheeses, tea and light beer, he bade them to eat and refused to listen until they had at least sampled the profender. It gave him an opportunity and observe the two Elves.

They had both carried the deeply curved Elven hunting bows, and the familiar long slender knives that could serve as short swords. That at least suggested they had a mission of some form, but apart from the small leather bags, no larger than a purse, at their right hips there was no sign of further supply. He guessed that they may be brother and sister, there was more than passing similarity in their fine facial lines.

When satisfied they had eatten and drunk to his satisfaction, Samwise brought the discussion to the front with a blatent statement. "Now. You'd better explain yourselves. Tolman and Bilbo are in trouble and it may effect others. So start from the beginning. None of that fluffy stuff you people put in mind. I've had twelve children. I knows when things are not being hung straight."

"Hobbits are not noted for straight speech," Malindron postulated.

"Not noted for vague stuff neither."

For a few minutes there was silence, then Malindron began. "The three Hobbits found the Dwarves in the Evendwm. There words were some harsh words spoken and they were taken into the mine. We do not think they are in immediate danger."

"We warned them not to search for them," Othmiel inserted.

"Aye. And to get a hog to move you tie a line to its hoof. Your being here has somethin' to do with the Dwarves and the fact that Tolman an' the others are in trouble has to do with you. Hasn't it?" Sam observed shrewdly. "Now let's have the rest."

The elves fidgeted uncomfortably. Samwise was proving to be shrewder in his age than Frodo Bagins had ever led them to believe.

"In the dying years of the Elders and the beginning of the First Age," Othmiel reluctantly started to tell the story, "Elves were rich in magics as you know. But much of the magic was raw and powerful and we did not know its full effect and experimented. Too deep. We found things that no living being should find. One was dark, in the form of a grey mist. We named it the Valtar, it was pure evil."

"Like the Balrog in Moria?" Sam put in with a flash of the terrible event.

Malindron shook his head sadly. "Worse. It stole souls. Only sourcery of the highest order could ensnare it."

"It claimed some of the finest Elven wizards of the time before it could be captured," Othmiel continued. "But it could not be destroyed. So it was contained in a chalice of purest Mythril. but it was not going to be enough. We needed somewhere to imprison it permanently. It came in the form of a small Dwarf mine in what you call the Evendwm. The mine was all but worked out of its notable minerals but still retained a thin seam of Mythril. It was agreed to entrap the chalice inside a box of Mythril, then bury that below that seam."

"So why are you here. All except a few elves went west almost thirty year ago?" Samwise demanded breaking the silence that formed where Othmeil finished.

"We were sent to guard the mine," Malindron admitted.

"The elves have not forgotten our responsibilities, even if the Dwarves have!" Othmeil cried.

"Pipe down, girl. You be thinking the Dwarves are seeking your bane?" Samwise demanded. "Why bring the story to an old Hobbit that can barely walk?"

"The Dwarves are not seeking the chalice," Malindron admitted softly. "But they are greedy. They are seeking the Mythril. When they find that they will find the chalice. Valtar will be released and it will be the bane of all living things. They must be stopped."

"And you wish me to do what?" Samwise demanded again, almost angry this time. "When I returned I didn't want no more adventure. Just look after Rose an' Mr Frodo until he wanted me no more. I ain't goin' charging into no mine to fight Dwarves, or this Valtar character."

"You cannot fight Valtar. Nor do we wish to start a war between Dwarves and Hobbits," Malindron assured him. "But we must prevent Valtar being discovered."

The room descended into silence as the old Hobbit thought.

Finally he looked up from his pipe. "We ain't going to do nothing tonight," he observed quietly. "I am going to bed. There are guest rooms off the pantry. If you wish to sleep. If you want to leave then shut the door behind you."

Thus dismissed he left them to their own devices and unsure as to where things were to go next.

[ray gower]

Rescue Party

Samwise found the two Elves were still sat in the two comfortable armchairs in which he had left them the previous night. He was less than certain he was happy with the situation, elves were, in his experience gaye folk and these two were particularly sombre almost surly and impatient. Silently he prepared tea and breakfast bringing the plates and tray to the table then invited his guests to join him for breakfast.

Politely they refused, but watched him as he prepared toast.

"Sure you won't join me?" He asked. "It's not the fancy fare you Elves provide. But. Well no Hobbit likes to eat alone?"

The Elves finally submitted and joined him in a slices of toast and tea, until he was satisifed and led them back into the parlour.

"Been thinking," he admitted. "Is there a reason why we can't send news to the King? He can have real soldiers here in three months."

"These are the Hobbit Homelands," Malindron pointed out quietly. "Won't they defend their land?"

Sam thought for a moment and shook his head sadly. "They would try," he admitted. "But only when their part of the Shire is threatened. In that case I suppose we ought to see the Thain. Old Master Peregrin, he created a Militia to protect Tookland and the Shire after his adventures. Perhaps he can lend you some. Shouldn't take more'n a few days?"

"That is too much time," Othmeil decreed stonily. "We need to return to Evendum. If we are not to late."

"Perhaps you could send word?" Malindron suggested. "We can meet them at the head of the road into the hills. Where the valley divides?"

"And you expect me to come with you?" Sam asked.

"Gandalf the White spoke highly of you," Malindron coaxed. "They said 'if there was ever a sturdy Hobbit with a head on his shoulders it was Samwise Gamgee'."

"And it is displaying it. By wanting to keep feet separating it from the floor!" Sam snapped. He relented a little at their expectant faces. “Aye. Well 'appen all I'll get today is old Will Whitlow, an' it has been quiet without the young uns. Appen I can come as far as Evendum with you. Least I can tell Master Perrigrin where you went.”

He wrote the note, carefully and left it on the dining table. Rose would find it when she came to 'do for him'. He hoped, as he selected a stout walking stick from the rack, it would find its way to Tookborough quickly.

The path was easier than he had imagined. The late summer sun was warming and the grass over which they walked was soft and springy and for a while he forgot his age and started to hum the old walking song that Frodo had used to sing when they had wandered the Shire. It was easy to ignore the swifter progress of the two elves as they shuttled ahead and back, keeping him on the right track. They were always tireless and quick. He remembered that clearly.

But after a few hours progress did start to slow. Finally he sank slowly to the floor.

"It's no good," he complained. "Old Hobbit legs don't carry as far as young uns and not as far as Elves, especially when it is before a proper breakfast. I need to rest!"

“Time is limited, Master Gamgee!” Othmeil disputed impatiently. “And it is a war your people cannot win that we are attempting to prevent.”

“If it's all so pressing then you go on and deal with it! I'll wait here!” Sam snapped. He was starting to take a decided dislike to the elf. Nearly as much as she seemed to dislike his presence.

“Othmeil is correct. The need to hurry is great, for everybody's sake,” Malindron eased softly, handing a water skin to Sam. “We do not know when or if the Dwarves will break the seal. But we forget that age befalls others. We can rest a short period.”

“What is in this?” Sam asked in wide eyed surprise after taking a draft of the sweet fluid and finding the tiredness in his limbs lifting.

“It is a simple drink,” Malindron assured him. “You are able to walk on?”

Sam rose and tested his legs. “Feel as fresh as when we started,” he agreed.

“What do I do if there is any fighting?” he asked curiously as they started off again.

“We hope there will be no fighting, Master Gamgee,” Malindron assured him with a wan smile. “I do not think the dwarves will be violent.”

From the pouch at his waist he drew a small phial which he pressed into Sam's hand. “This will give you some protection, better than swords and bows,” he offered.

With care, Sam examined the item that had been placed in his hand. It was a small phial, barely 4” in length and 1” in diameter it pulsed dully in the morning light.

“What is safer than the Lady's light in a dark place?” Malindron asked. “Keep it safe.”

Taking the recommendation, Sam tucked it deep into his jacket. “Well suppose we'd better get on with it then.” Gamely he lengthened his stride a little to attempt to keep Othmiel insight.

[ray gower]

Dark Happenings

Tom, Farrimer and Bilbo had lost track of time. From the regular (and plentiful) meals it felt as though it was at least four or five days. Whilst their gaolers had not been inattentive of their needs, they had made it very clear that leaving the room in which they had been incarcerated would be resisted. Something the Hobbits did not relish. The result was that they had fallen into a sullen reverie from which they were rudely shaken by the sounds of running hob-nailed boots and shouting from outside their cell.

Alarmed at the consternation being shown by their hosts, Tom called out. “'Ere what be goin' on them?”

He got no reply, but the dwarf that had guarded their cell had disappeared.

Uncertain as to the reason he ventured forth into the passageway, the other two following him. They had no idea of which way would be safest, there was noise coming at them from both directions and the passage was only dimly lit by the occasional torches, so they set off in the direction that they hoped would lead them back to the audience chamber. Farrimer helping himself to one of the burning torches to light their way as they went.

The passage came to a fork that none of them remembered. A short debate had them following the wider passage on the left. It sloped gently downwards through a gentle series of turns, finally depositing them into the audience cavern.

It looked more than ever like a widened cave than it had been before. Over sixty dwarves were milling around shouting at each other in obvious confusion. In the midst of the melee upon their dais stood Grydore, trying to make himself heard.

Unfortunate for the Hobbits was the fact that they were spotted before they could flee again. “Grab them!” Grydore bellowed, pointing in their direction.

It was more unfortunate still that the order was obeyed. They were set upon by eight dwarves before they could act and dragged before Grydore.

He gazed upon them critically before saying. “You will fit perfectly! Follow me!”

With little choice, they followed him through a maze of passages until they arrived upon a small opening. There Grydore measured them again.

“You can pass through that gap?” He demanded.

“Why?” Farrimer demanded forcefully.

“There are three dwarves trapped inside. One is Farin. I need you to take tools to help dig themselves out,” Grydore explained impatiently, handing them tools and pushing them for the gap. “Nobody else can get through and we can't begin to dig until we've shored up. Now get on.”

The gap turned into a tunnel more than thirty feet in length and the Hobbits were forced to crawl for much of it past cracks lined with jagged quartz. Grydore had been right about it being impossible for Dwarves to pass.

More surprising was that the tunnel at the end of the blockage was empty. So to was the next 80 yards of tunnel. The Hobbits, curious as to where the distressed and missing dwarves were, followed it.

They found them in a small cave off of the passage and rather more interested in another rock face than the fall that cut them off from the rest of the world.

The reason for their apparent interest was revealed as another small dark fissure in which a dwarf was stuck fast. Or so it looked to the three Hobbits as they darted forward to help.

“Get off. You little fools!” Borin emerged red in the face and kicking furiously at his three would be rescuers. “I was trying to get through!”

“But we were told you were trapped!” Bilco expostulated wildly, waving the short pick in his hand. “The roof's caved in!”

“Ah. Well that can't be helped,” Farin admitted. “We'll have to do something about that later. This is more important. We think we've found it!”

“Found what?”

“The Mithril! It's behind this face and it's only a couple of strides thick!”

For the second time that day the Hobbits found themselves being measured up by calloused eye. “If you could get through and get some samples?” Farin suggested. “Then we can see about releasing you?”

They were given little opportunity of refusing as calloused hands pushed them forward.

“Just a few handfuls of ore is all we need,” Farin assured them.




The walls of the small cave the Hobbits found themselves in, shone with a deep silver lustre. Reflecting the light of the feeble torch many fold, leaving stunted shadows with no physical shapes in the grey light.

It was, Tom found, unnerving in the extreme, seeing all the walls as smooth surfaces, but finding them deeply and roughly hewn. He took an experimental swing with his pick at the surface. The tool glanced off leaving no visible mark upon the surface. The task was going to be harder than anybody had hinted at.

“I think we will have to find something to work at?” Farrimer suggested examining the surface with him. “I think there is a crack here, lets see if we can get the lever in?”

Whilst Farrimer and Tom worked at the virgin wall, Bilbo explored their surrounds, hoping to find a loose rock to fulfil the requirements of the Dwarves outside. It was he therefore that fell over the casket.

It was small, barely the imprint of his foot in size and the same grey colour as the floors and walls. Carefully inset into the floor with only the top 4 inches showing, it had not moved when he had kicked it, but lifted easily when he had picked it up to investigate.

Although the top was deeply carved in runes, it was completely unadorned in decoration or device. The runes were not in a style he could recognise either, he guessed they were ancient Elvish or perhaps a Dwarf dialect. Peevishly he attempted to open it, before calling his friends. Neither of whom could make any more sense of the strange box, or able to make any better progress in opening it. In the end they dragged it back the way they had come for Farin to consider.

The small Dwarf company were, if anything, more surprised than the Hobbits at the appearance of the strange casket. Farin turning it over time and again to find any new clues as to its identity. The script on top meaning nothing to him. Finally he attacked the lid with an axe and lever.

The catches broke with an audible crack and the lid fell back, everybody craning forward to get a better view.

“But there is nowt in it!” Tom protested. “Just dust!” To prove his point he stirred his stubby finger in the fine grey ash and watched as it billowed in a thin cloud around it.

Farin was even less impressed. “Pah,” he cursed, kicking it over and returning his attention again to the hobbits. “Just something that was left behind. Not even particularly good workmanship either. Probably why it was left. We'll make better! Now where are my samples?”

The Hobbits ignored him, watching, mesmerised by something behind him.

“If you haven't got them it may go bad,” Farin threatened, annoyed at being ignored so. “Now take these tools.”

“Still the Hobbits said nothing and it dawned upon Farin that there was something else happening behind him.

He turned slowly. The small pile of ash that had been inside the box was billowing up in a cloud of fog as if blown by a draft and leaning towards the nearest torch. Small flecks of light flickering inside. Farin felt a sudden chill thread of dread grip his spine.

The first whisps of fog caught the torch and it spluttered before dying away. As if it were a signal, panic exploded amongst those in the cave. The Hobbits dropped their tools and darted for the exit, not waiting to see what happened next. All sound died behind them as they dived into the narrow tunnel left by the rock fall.

“What is happening?” Grydore demanded, grabbing Bilbo and shaking him, as the three Hobbits appeared, red in the face and panting hard.

Bilbo pointed wildly back the way they had come and tried to speak. “Back there!” He gasped, shaking himself free and running blindly on up the tunnel.

For a moment Grydore considered sending dwarves to catch them. Whatever they had seen had terrified them and he wanted to know what. In the end he signalled at the company with him. “Start digging.”

Twenty minutes later the first of the white vapour started to ooze from around rocks and through cracks. Its presence unnoticed by industrious Dwarves as they worked.

Then as Grydore watched, Farst, a stocky dwarf busy driving a wedge into a crack, started to change. His black boots blanching white, where they were touched by the thin mist laying around them. The blanching continued up his legs and his actions became slower, more mechanical, until like a wound down clock work toy he stopped in mid swing of his hammer.

The whole process took just a few minutes, but Grydore watched in fascination. The danger not burning itself into his mind until a second and third dwarf came to a standstill in a stoney stance. Then he screamed a warning and bolted up the tunnel, followed by as many as could. Six others were were less fortunate. Their legs and been claimed and all their struggling could achieve was to fall and watch in mute horror.

[ray gower]

Elves and Dwarves

The two Elves had insisted on travelling day and night with scant and short rests and keeping a pace that was far too fast for Sam to maintain without paying, even with the energy giving Elven drink. Despite this Sam had the distinct impression that Othmiel wanted them to go faster and her frustration was increasing with every step they took. Several times over the four day journey Malindron had had to call her back, stopping her from charging ahead. Once there had been sharp elven words spoken between the twain and she had dutifully stayed with brother and elderly hobbit for several hours, before the urge to race ahead overcame her again.

Now, as they breasted the lip of the valley that housed the entrance into the Dwarf halls, Sam paid his price, sinking to the ground in total exhaustion, allowing the Elves to go on ahead. Even in his blown condition, it was obvious that the Elves still had no idea as to how they were to gain entry.

The problem was accepted with some relief by Othmiel. She spoke lightly to Sam for the first time in their acquaintance. “Well Master Hobbitila. It looks as if we have worn your feet through for little gain. The doors are closed, the Dwarves do not answer our summons and we know not the means of opening them. So you may rest. For a while at least.”

Her good mood slowly evaporated as the sun sank in the West, to be replaced by a nervous impatience that Sam had never seen in an Elf. She kept leaving the fire that they built in the shelter of the cliff and walking back to the spot Sam assumed housed the entrance.

Finally Sam's patience gave up. “Appen you ought to tell why you are pacing the valley?” He suggested sourly.

“There is no reason for concern,” Othmiel excused quickly.

“Like tatties don't grow where they ain't planted,” Sam retorted.

The Elf girl turned and stormed away.

“It is not her fault,” Malindron interceded sadly. “Her role, if the Valtar is released, is more dangerous than ours. She is the only one who can control it and believes it is going to be set free.”

Sam gazed at the young elf intently, silently challenging him to explain further. Before he could do so there was a shout from Othmeil.

They turned in time to see the heavy entrance to the Dwarf halls being thrown open and more than forty Dwarves appear, running as if their lives depended upon it.

“Stop!” Malindron yelled. He leapt to his feet and raced after them, bringing down the rearmost of the posse.

The felled dwarf struggled furiously. He may even have escaped had Sam and Othmiel not arrived to subdue him further.

“What is happening?” Othmeil demanded, signalling to her brother to rise and allow the dwarf to sit. “Why are you running? Where is the leader of your halls?”

“Stone!” Was all the terrified dwarf could manage.

He kept repeating the same word over and over again, defying even the patient Malindron's attempts to get more from him.

Finally the two elves turned away, leaving Sam to guard the captive. There was intense and harsh argument between the two. Although they were conversing in the Elvish, a language he did not pretend to understand but the subject was clear; the name of Valtar appearing more than once.

Again he wondered why they had come to him for help. Something that frightened Elves and Dwarves alike suggested something more than an elderly Hobbit would be able to handle. He also found himself worrying on the fates of Tom, Bilbo and Farrimer.

He turned back to the captured Dwarf and offered him the water bottle. “There be three Hobbits. My kin?” He asked urgently.

“Stones!”

“We believe the Valtar has been released and is roaming the mine,” Malindron confided, his discussion complete and rejoining Sam. “What we do not agree upon is when he will leave. She believes he will leave almost immediately, when the night grows thick. I think he will need time to gain strength and scour the mine for souls. It will give us a little time to prepare.” He paused uncomfortably before admitting. “Elves are not at home underground, without fresh air and the trees. We must gather some dwarves to lead us through the mine. But the entrance must be guarded incase I am wrong. You are not fast enough to catch dwarves Master Gamgee. So we must ask you to guard the entrance.”

“Arh. 'An what do you be expecting me to do if he do?” Sam demanded sourly, under no delusions as to his abilities in any fight.

“You have the light,” Malindron pointed out. “Valtar fears light. He must not be permitted to escape.”




The night started to draw heavily around Sam after the elves left him with only the now silent dwarf for company. He sat in trepidation, his back warmed by the fire, watching the dark opening of the mine entrance.

It was some hours later that he thought he saw a slight lightening in the shadows. He blinked several times, thinking that his continuous staring was nor playing tricks. But the brightening persisted.

Perhaps it was another Dwarf, that had got lost in his earlier panic and had only just found the way out, he guessed hopefully.

Grabbing a burning brand from the fire and holding it up as an improvised torch, Sam approached the entrance warily. “Who be there?” he called. His nerves were getting the better of him, it came out as a whispered croak.

He tried again, trying to be more forceful. “Who's there?”

A bitter coldness overcame him, starting at his toes it spread swiftly, becoming a welcome numbness as it did so. The improvised torch spluttered briefly, before being snuffed out like a candle. Vaguely, he recognised there was only total dark around him, even the fire, not 15 yards distant, had disappeared. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run to, even if he could.

A terrible burning sensation appeared from Sam's breast pocket, searing at the welcoming numbness that was enveloping him. Desperately, he rammed his hand into the pocket, hoping to rid himself of whatever was causing the pain. His fingers closing around a small phial, he pulled it out, then shut his eyes tightly as bright white light flooded around him.

There was a scream, he knew not from where, then he was falling.




“Master Gamgee! Master Gamgee!” They were the next words Sam heard, along with some violent shaking.

It was not an intrusion that was welcome. He screamed and lashed out, for his flailing limbs to be caught and held until he woke properly, to find the concerned faces of both Malindron and Othmiel.

“You are safe, Master Hobbitila,” It was Othmiel that was offering comfort, her voice taking on a soothing, almost musical tone in its softness. “Valtar did you no harm. The light protected you.”

Only then did Sam notice that Malindron's hand was resting firmly on the hilt of his long hunting knife. Behind him there were some eight dwarves and although none appeared armed, their faces were less than friendly.

“We were afraid that Valtar had claimed you,” Othmiel continued lightly. “It would have meant he had escaped. But he was no match for a sturdy hearted Hobbit. Perhaps that is why Gandalf the White places so much store in Hobbits. Now come and warm yourself by the fire. We will have much to do in the morning.”

She led him by the hand back to the fire, for Malindron to ply him with tea and lembas, though Sam found he had little appetite for the light energy giving elven biscuits. He felt drained from the encounter and kept slipping towards sleep, barely listening to the argument that was obviously being held between the elves and Grydore.

Sam wake with a start as his name was mentioned, what had gone before and why his name mentioned, he did not know, but it had obviously animated the dwarves.

“We've have no elven magic to protect us like the Hobbit. You've got your familiar to keep you safe to take you through the mine!” Grydore shouted, bouncing to his feet in his rage.

The remark stung Sam to his own feet. “I'm no elf familiar!” He shouted back. Finding the small phial that had protected him earlier still in his hand he threw it at the white bearded dwarf. “We Hobbits did not ask you to come here, or wake what be there. But it's my kith and kin in yonder mine and I'll be going to find them!” With that he snatched up his walking stick, turned sharply on his heel and marched towards the dark shadow that marked the entrance.

He was caught quickly by Othmiel. “You will not enter alone Master Gamgee,” she sang. “Malindron and I will be by your side, all be it fatal to us all. But there may be things inside now that are more dangerous for stout Hobbit hearts than Valtar's cool mist. Now you should rest.” She forced him to lie down beside the fire and whispered a soft rhyme in elvish over him. He dropped peacefully into sleep.

Satisfied Sam was sleeping peacefully, she turned to the Dwarves, her features hardening again. “The old and peaceful Hobbit is braver than greedy dwarves,” she sneered. “He knows a little of what he will face and is innocent of all that has befallen this place. Yet he is prepared to enter your hole to find his kin, though he knows their certain fate. If dwarves were only as strong as Hobbits?”

[ray gower]

A Place of Safety?

Tom. Farrimer and Bilbo merely ran after leaving the cavern. Without knowing where they were or where they needed to go, the directions they took were arbitrary. The choice as much on the grounds of the absence of dwarvish voices as any sense of direction. Where possible they took passages that looked as if they were leading upwards, though this was often misleading as well.

Eventually they were stopped by a blank wall, all three crashing into it in their blind flight. They lay, stunne