[Kransha]

The deeps of the Ered Luin were home to many things. Trolls wandered throughout, as was known to most denizens; some goblin bands scouting the mountains sometimes delved deep enough to penetrate the cavern bulwarks; wolves or wargs from the outside in packs occasionally wandered through smaller, burrowed openings in the mountainsides were they opened to the valleys between each mighty, white-capped peak, and even more bizarre creatures, like the hordes of white-wolves from the south or wandering spiders from the distant forests made there ways into the deeps. These things, though, did not spend their lives in the caves; most ventured inside to suit swift purposes: hunting, sightseeing, sanctuary.

The only things that were always in the caverns were the original residents, though none of the others ever caught sight of them.

Narguzbad the Twenty-Third’s ears were not what they once were in terms of hearing. His beard, once black as night and sleek like the fur of a wolf, was grayer than gray these days. His eyes were nestled between vast pouches of rough, armor-like skin that sagged over weary eyelids, but the two bulbs that lay past all of this were grim and fiery, brown in color but tinged with bloody red like a raging inferno. He still held the passion that a warrior of his caliber was reputed and expected to possess. After slaying many things, the bladed axe at his hip was still sharp after being attended to each day with a dwarven artisan’s whetstone and the warhammer strapped to his back had lost none of its weight or intimidation factor. He was a soldier through and through, even after two centuries living in the darkness of caves that had once been rich with the light of Dwarf wealth. Still, though, he had lost the honing of his senses, at least those besides his ocular senses. Years of darkness made him almost nocturnal, surprisingly, whereas his ability to hear noises far off, and smell life in the deeps was dimmed severely.

Despite all this, he was who he was, and that was the Lord of the Ered Luin (technically). In reality, he controlled little in the Blue Mountains, save for a motley band of Dwarves who were the sole survivors of a once-great kingdom. He did know were everything was – almost everything – which was generally advantageous in so vast a realm. He had, in his helmeted head, stored knowledge of the cartography of most of the cavernous deeps, the cities, now ruined, of Belegost and Nogrod, and even the ultimate depths, caves and mines that belonged to things he had never faced…and never hoped to face. Those enigmatic creatures could be blamed for the death of his great-great-grandfather, Narguzbad XXII, but the Dwarf held them no malice. Many strange things had taken the lives from his ancestors. His father, Azaghâl XIII, had been crushed by a giant mithril knocker on one of the vaulted double-doors in the chambers of Old Nogrod. His great-great-great (seven greats) grandfather, Barazbud IV Flamehair had been killed by a flaming goblin shield flying like a proverbial discus (long story). Narguzbad himself expected to die a bizarre death, but he had come to terms with this. Being alone in such an expansive region conditioned one to such things.

Of course, he was about to find out that he was not alone.

“Lord?”

The gleaming, aged eyes swiveled about with the madness of a great warrior in their sullen sockets. Narguzbad saw nearby his Grand Vizier and Arch-Counselor, Zinshathûr, who was also the Chancellor of the Belegost Senate, and High Priest of Oromë. Most Dwarves in the caves had a string of titles, since there were so few of them to occupy important positions, and strings of titles sounded nice. Honestly, it was suspected that the Dwarf-King who had installed the titling custom, Barazbud II, had been a bit insane. Most Dwarf-Kings nowadays and, come to think of it, most Dwarves in the caves were actually a bit insane, but none of them knew or cared. They had wisdom, strength, and fancy titles. What else did they need?

“Yes?” replied Narguzbad, Lord of Nogrod, Regent of Belegost, Emperor of the United Blue Mountains, Warchief of the Khazâd, and Commander-in-Chief of the Belegostian Legions, stoutly.

“There is news, milord.” Narguzbad snorted, a puff of steamy mist swelling and pouring from his hefty nostrils. “There is always news, Zinshathûr, and it is seldom good news. If it is interesting news, however, it would be very nice to hear it.” He grinned a little, the whiskers of his beard flailing like little maces. Zinshathûr, entwining one prickly stump of a forefinger in his long, grayish matte of beard, replied with reproachful bemusement. “It is very interesting news, milord.”

He said nothing after this, prompting Narguzbad to lean forward and say, in a conspiratorial whisper: “Well, out with it, man.” Zinshathûr, who was actually odder than most other Dwarves, by virtue of his strange duties, nodded, his lower lip folding up over his upper, and paused for effect. “Milord,” he intoned, “There is something in the deeps!”

There was no real reaction. Narguzbad coughed. “Zinshathûr, there is always something in the mines. Spiders, orcs, wolves, trolls. If it is a horde of walking ale-mugs, filled to the brim, then, perhaps, this would be a situation worthy of note.” Zinshathûr nodded, as if he’d expected all this. He leaned forward again, his eyes narrowing into mysterious slivers, and said, “Milord, there are things in the deeps!” Narguzbad was obviously a bit peeved at this point, but he’d gotten used to the actions of his Grand Vizier. Quietly, and without a hint of the annoyance that was bulging in his gut, he said, “What things?”

“Afterborn!”

This, in fact, was something interesting. Even though he had nothing in his mouth to splutter with, Narguzbad spluttered – quite a lot. He was standing in a large, empty chamber that opened into many diffusing passageways that crisscrossed through the “royal chambers.” As the voice of the Dwarf-King formed the single syllable “What?!” his word echoed magnificently through the room, bouncing off the arches of the high ceiling and reverberating deep into every inlet and side-hall. The armored Dwarven guards stationed at each door, and meandering throughout the room busy with one thing or another, all turned, eyes widened and throats sealed, creating one drastic holding of breath that created a sort of vacuum. As if in retaliation, Narguzbad gasped for air. “Afterborn? You mean,” he halted, “the Edain? Men?”

“Yes.” Spoke Zinshathûr, “There are men in the deeps. Scouts near the ruins of Gabilgathol’s warehouses saw them roaming. They have set up a very large base camp in the eastern antechamber, and have many men.” He looked about with suspicious grimness, and a familiar paranoia. “Perhaps they are invading.” There was another vacuum created as all the nearby Dwarves inhaled, but Narguzbad shook his head quickly, to assuage their fears. “No,” he said, “They would not do such a thing. The Edain fought by our side, or we by theirs, at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. They were at times misguided, but would not make war on us.” He considered for a moment, looking morose, “Besides,” he said depressingly, “They probably do not know we are here. We’ve not talked with their kind for generations. They are probably from very far off, one of the lesser kingdoms.”

Zinshathûr nodded a dank little nod, and the other Dwarves drooped, their flowery builds wilting in accordance with the mood. “But,” said Narguzbad, perking up, “They are here, and they are many in number, yes?” Zinshathûr nodded again, a confused look on his face. “Perhaps they have food, supplies, or a camp on the outside. That would explain the orc incursions of late. Their expansion may have pushed goblins into the caves.” Suddenly, Narguzbad looked ecstatic. “Lads,” he said, to the room mostly, “This could be our chance for emancipation from these catacombs. If there is civilization near enough, we may venture to it.” There was a beam of light, metaphorically, that filled the room with vigorous happiness. A kind of joint cheer rose from the Dwarves, but Zinshathûr hushed them solemnly.

“Milord,” he murmured, “They are many, but they are not the Afterborn in the Old Books. They are different. They speak a different language, which none of the scouts knew. We will not be able to communicate.” The conversation, so far, had been held in the Dwarves’ tongue, Khuzdûl, for they knew no Westron. The mood fell again into the dank depths, but Zinshathûr, who seemed at first defeated, ventured a hopeful remark. “But,” he said, “there are others among them.” Narguzbad watched him with less-than-patient eagerness, awaiting a reply again. “Elves! The Elves, though, are in a splinter group far from the base camp. They have ventured into the dark caves miles from here, and are probably in danger.”

Narguzbad was not excited, but he became instead meditative. “We have known the Elves more than we have their mortal kin. Some volumes in Elvish are in the Library, I think, but I do not think any of us are fluent.” He looked around the room, and got only reluctant head-shaking. “I suppose we all have a rudimentary knowledge of it, but it will not be easy to communicate. But, we must try. If the Afterborn and Firstborn come bearing news of the outside world, we must seek them out in force.”

He turned from his Vizier, and addressed the guards. He knew scouts, excavators, and other dwarves (perhaps a hundred, which was all that had survived the long centuries) were elsewhere, but they could be brought together. “Go hence,” he said majestically, “and assemble all the Khazâd of Nogrod and Belegost. We must reorganize and find the Elves and Men. They may be in dire straits even now, having gone into the lairs of dark beasts, and we must find them if we are to obtain the sustenance we require. We must move quickly, if we can, and unite with them. This is our chance, lads. To arms!”

With a shout, a gnashing of teeth, a glaring gleam of axe blades and mace spikes, and a clinking of plate and chain mail that rustled the hazy, fogged air, the Dwarves surged together in the chamber and through the passageways that led northeast, towards the Dúnedain and Eldar in the distant caverns.

Watching Zinshathûr swish along behind them, Narguzbad leaned down and kissed the dully shimmering ring on his forefinger for luck, then followed his kinsmen into the deeps.