Pall hadn’t changed a bit in two years. His head was still mostly bald, but his beard was red, long and had those same two ponytails on both sides Hellrien remembered from the last time she had visited Gondamon. The laughter lines were the same, as were his eyes and smile. He literally rushed across the floor and began pounding air out of Hellrien’s lungs.
”By Durin’s beard!” Pall yelled. ”Is that really you, miss Hellrien? By Mahal it is you! Durin be damned, I never would have expected you to be still breathing, you bone-headed woman! Somebody hold on to me! Brandy!”
Hellrien smiled wider than in many years and shook Pall heartily.
”Bloody right it is me, Pall! I’m surprised you still remembered!”
”And you’re lucky to have found me here! In a few days there will be a new healer in Gondamon!”
Hellrien stared at him. ”Are you quitting?”
”In a manner of speaking, yes.” Pall seemed embarrassed. ”Remember Lóthinn, from Thorin’s Hall? His eyes are getting worse. He’s going blind. I’m taking his place as the resident healer in Thorin’s Hall.”
Hellrien’s thoughts raced back to those days when she had had a room in the back of Thorin’s Hall Inn – when The Sworn Brotherhood were still building their base withing the Blue Mountains. Lóthinn had been a regular visitor in Thorin’s Hall Inn at the time, and it had been a common joke with the regulars that one day Lóthinn’s love for strong spirits would make him blind.
”Congratulations, Pall!” Hellrien said warmly. ”You have truly earned it.”
”And what has become of you over the years, I wonder?” Pall muttered as he stood at a table. He reached his hand to grab a bottle and filled his mug to the brim. Some vendors in the main courtyard were still shouting out their ’attractions’. Hellrien filled her own mug and toasted with Pall.
”I have nothing to complain about”, said Hellrien. ”I’m doing fine. I joined a sellsword company a couple of years ago. The pay is good, and I’m good at it.”
Pall glanced at the direction of the main courtyard. The high buildings on the other side shone with the last light of the setting sun.
”I never thought I would ever say this, but I will miss this grubby little pile of stone”, Pall said heavily. ”Gondamon has been my home all my life. It has grown on me. But, but… life is change and eventually we all have to move on to better things, or be forever stuck where we are. I am 124 years old, miss Hellrien. It is time for me to move on.”
Hellrien looked into her half-empty mug. Deathy cold feeling prickled in her spine when she thought about her own future. What was the ’better thing’ she would move on to, when she became too old for a sellsword’s life? The only thing she would ever ’move on’ to was an early grave.
You’re still young. You don’t need to worry about the future. Not yet.
She straightened up and grinned across the table. ”Damn, Pall, you should be glad for it! Life in Thorin’s Hall will be much more rewarding for someone like you, don’t even imagine anything else!”
Pall nodded. ”Of course. I’m just being… nostalgic.” He filled his mug again. His eyes averted Hellrien’s gaze. Suddenly he seemed mournful.
”By Thorin’s beard!” he said. ”Please forgive me, miss Hellrien. You have not come here to offer a shoulder for a sentimental dwarf to cry against. I saw the little army of scary-looking cutthroats you rode in with! What’s going on?”
”We are hunting for someone who at the best of my knowledge is a Dourhand dwarf”, Hellrien replied lucidly. ”You would remember him had you ever seen him, as he’s described abnormally large, at least a foot taller than the average dwarf. He killed a hobbit in Oatbarton a few weeks ago and fled to Ered Luin. I believe he’s trying to reach a Dourhand dwarf called Glúmir. I have no idea about Glúmir’s whereabouts, but I’ve heard one single name that doesn’t say anything to me. Sárnur! That is all I have. I have heard that this Glúmir would reside somewhere in the Vale of Thrain region – but I have no idea where exactly. I had hoped you might be able to help me out with that.”
”Glúmir, Sárnur”, Pall repeated. ”Those are the names you have?”
”Yeap”, Hellrien replied dryly.
”I don’t know anything specific. But there is an old, desolate Dourhand city called Orodost there. The city has been deserted for six centuries, but since a few years ago an infestation of goblins have taken it over. I can draw a map, if you want to.”
”And you think there are Dourhands living there? With the goblins?”
”I don’t know. But it’s the only place I can think of. You should talk to people at Noglond. Talk to Rothgar in Noglond. He knows everything there is to know about the Vale of Thrain and it’s inhabitants. Tell him that he should help you, as a favor to me. Then he will talk.”
”I hope so. We really need to get this Dourhand dwarf. He’s the worst sort of fiend you can imagine. He beat a hobbit to death with his bare fists, apparently for no reason whatsoever. Makes me want to serve him a taste of his own medicine.”
Pall stared at Hellrien. Over two years had passed since he had met this peculiar woman before, but he couldn’t see any change in her. There was the same cold, arrogant expression in her eyes, the same coldly indifferent attitude towards death.
”I’m sure you will find what you’re looking for”, Pall said, almost ruthfully. ”But today it’s late and you can’t do anything before morning. So what would you think of some more brandy?”
”Maybe just a little. I promised to meet my companions at dawn, so best not to overdo it…”
”Overdo? Hah! I have heard of you mannish folk and your peculiar allergy towards alcohol you call ’hangover’. The scholar in me wants to study this weird phenomenon, to see what’s behind this fabled condition. My theory is that your kind is simply lazy, and the whole thing is invented so you can steal an extra day to lie in your beds doing nothing…”
