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Under cover of darkness, Riv and his five companions crept as quickly as they could from hillock to hillock. Each had rubbed a thin layer of mud over the metal fittings of helm, shield, weapons, and mail so that no stray shaft of new moonlight betrayed them with its glintings. Not wanting to alert any enemy who might be listening in the darkness, they spoke no words to one another; only kept close enough that each might pass back the signals from the leader to the man following.
The West Gate was in sight when a sudden fall of pebbles and debris skittered down the mountain side. They crouched down quickly in the deep shadows of a rocky outcropping. Their dark eyes darted round them, looking for any signs of movement.
A breathless eternity passed, or so it seemed to Riv, before the signal was given to move on. And then the entryway was reached and passed, the Dwarf guards motioning them in quickly through the gate as others stood ready to defend against attack. The six Dwarves took no time to make themselves more presentable before they went to wake the King.
Alerted by his guards, he sat yawning in his chair as they entered his chambers. He’d had a skin of ale brought and cups and bade his serving man pour drinks all around. ‘Sit, sit,’ he urged the companions, pulling his robe closer about him in the chilly night air.
‘There’s been an embassy of some sort to the Elves,’ began the group’s leader. ‘We couldn’t get too close but we could see it wasn’t Sauron. Some big fellow, tall, was the leader. All dressed in black from head to toe, even his hair was dark as a starless night. Wore a great sword. And another man, shorter, rougher looking rode with him. It was just them and a few troops that came before the Elven gates.’
Riv spoke up, then saying, that even at a distance, there fell a dark pall of arrogant malice from the riders. ‘No, not both the riders,’ he reconsidered, ‘but the one dressed in black seemed like those old ones they tell about, in the old stories . . . the ones from the West who fought alongside the Dark One, Bauglir.’ Riv shook off a chill that had crept between his shoulders at the thought of such a one. ‘Large as he was, his body seemed barely able to contain the malevolence that issued from him. The Elves let the dark one and the other who followed him into the city. Then the two left unscathed, a short while later. We dared not follow them.’
It was late into the night, almost morning, in fact, before the King finished speaking with the six Dwarves. He had had his captains roused from their beds to hear the story repeated. Many questions were asked and re-asked. And accounts from other Dwarven parties who’d been out patrolling in other areas were considered in light of this most recent report.
Weary and still bearing the mud and dust with which he’d disguised himself, Riv made his way at last to the Stonecut hall. A kettle had been left on the hob, and he made himself a stout cup of tea. There would be little time for sleep this day, he thought to himself. War would soon be upon the Elves and the King would be wanting to lend what aid he might against the coming darkness.
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