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[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Dwarves attacked the door with more energy than effect at first, driven nearly mad at the thought that finally, they might have found the treasure that they had endured so much to claim. The weeks of privation and trial, the agony of their journey, the terror of Kain’s death and the surreal horrors of their battle with the Man of the jungle – all of it seemed to spill over into this wild excess of activity as they tried in vain to open the stone door. It was Nerin who first fell back, gasping and breathless from their efforts. “This will never do!” he cried. “We cannot get through that door with our bare hands – and I’m not going to dull my axe on that rock!”

“The lad is right,” Hænir said. “We must come to some order in this!” The other Dwarves fell away and all of them joined the Man and the Elf, who had stood aloof during their bizarre attack on the stone. Hænir stepped forward and tapped on the door with the head of his axe. He had fought many a war in the deep places of the earth, against orcs, goblins and other nameless beings, but in all those encounters he had never seen such a door as this. He stepped away once more and looked up above his head and then down either side. “Look!” he cried, pointing to one side. They all hustled in close and saw a slight crack, straight as an arrow, lancing up from the floor. “We must have opened the door a bit right here,” Hænir said. “Come on lads! If we all push together right here, we might be able to open this door! It looks like it’s hinged on the other side of the hall!” Much as he tried to deny it, the thought of treasure had gone to his Dwarvish heart, and Hænir’s eyes burned for the sight of gold.

The party worked together and strained at the door. At first, it appeared they would never move it, but a sudden metallic clang followed by the sound of rending stone told them that they had shattered some locking mechanism, and the door slid open easily. They light from the hall fell into the room and onto the most pitiable sight Hænir had ever seen. A young Gondorian man cowered in the corner opposite them, his clothes in tatters and his skin laced with the red welts of a whip both cruelly and expertly wielded. One whiff of the air in the cell told them of weeks of imprisonment without the benefit of any fresh water or cleaning. Hænir had to breathe through his mouth as he stepped toward the Man, who averted his eyes and tried to crawl even further into his corner as the Dwarf approached. “There there, lad,” Hænir said as gently as he could, “we’re not the ones who’ve done this to you. Come” he said, holding out his hand, “we’re leaving this place. Give me your hand and come with us.”

“Hænir!” Bali called quietly. “Hurry up! I think that somebody is coming!” Hænir’s attention was suddenly diverted from the wan and terrified countenance of the Man, and like all the members of his party he heard coming toward them the sound of many people, rushing through the tunnels with the clang and clash of steel. They were trapped.

Gortek chuckled most unpleasantly. “Well,” he said, “at least we won’t be tempted to run away!”