Bragin and Farohir have at last entered the Mines of Moria. Together they arrive at the first camp of the Iron Garrison, just at the western edge of the Great Delving. Durin’s Threshold the Dwarves have named it, the last stop on the journey to the Mines and the starting point for the plunge into the deeps beneath the mountains. Here the two travelers find stables for goats, an open camp which serves as a hostel, and they can clearly hear the sounds of hammer on anvil echoing down the grand staircase that climbs before them.
Bragin is transported at the sight of the Threshold, but Farohir stares at his surroundings in utter disbelief. “This, is this just the entry to Moria!?” he says in a hushed voice. “What wonder lies beyond? If this just a doorstep, then all of Thorin’s Gate is a parlor compared to this!”
Bragin is also awed, but overjoyed, at the sight. “Aye, lad, this is but a tease of the sights to come. Khazad-dum is the mightiest of all the works of my people, and glad I am to have you see this, even if it is a work in progress. And who have we here?” he says to a Dwarf who approaches the pair.
“That is my question as well,” the Dwarf declares. “You have arrived in Khazad-dum, and I welcome you to the halls of the Iron Garrison. Ráthulf son of Rolf, at your service. You are sellswords, I wager, come to seek your fortunes amid the plunder of Khazad-dum? Then your hopes are in vain. No gold will you find here, but you will find blood in plenty.”
“Hail, Ráthulf son of Rolf,” Bragin says. “We are not sellswords, but volunteers, come to offer our services and our craft to the reclaiming of Khazad-dum! Bragin son of Borin at yours and your family’s – and here is my apprentice and companion, Farohir son of Halrohir. From Thorin’s Gate in the Blue Mountains we have traveled, and we crave the chance to be part of the saga of the Dwarves!”
“What is this name I hear?” calls a Dwarf from across the hall, walking towards the group. “Is that you, Bragin, you walking belly? A long road from the Blue Mountains and no mistake!”
“Althis! Well met indeed, you old goblin-kisser! Farohir, here we find Althis son of Altor, a master of the forge worthy of the craft! So, Althis, you got a march on me and joined the Iron Garrison first. We only just arrived, ourselves.”
“Well, follow me you two, there is a sight for both of you that must be seen,” Althis says smiling broadly. Bragin and Farohir, leaving their mounts with the stable-master, walk with him up the grand stairs and turn left into the northern wing where they are greeting with the sights and sounds of an active foundry. Three great forges blaze with light and noise, and Dwarves circle each one with anvil and tools, shaping and crafting with iron and copper and metals of every kind. Bragin’s face shows pure delight, while Farohir stands in amazement at the size of the hall.
“Welcome, lads, to the North-Forge,” Althis says beaming. “These are the first furnaces we restored upon our arrival. Once I got these up and running, we began making repairs and reforging tools and weapons and other gear for the Garrison’s use. As more and more traffic started coming into Hollin Gate, we kept mighty busy. Word got out that we started our labors, and sellswords from across the lands began arriving.”
“That explains the greeting we got,” Farohir says. “You’re seeing that many fortune-seekers arriving?”
“Aye, true,” Althis says. “Not that it’s a bad thing, mind you; we need all the swords and axes we can muster. The Orcs of the Misty Mountains have gained their numbers back since the rise of Erebor, and they are getting help from outside the Mines. So we will never turn away anyone who comes, for whatever their reasons – as long as they can wield a weapon, we send them on their way.”
“Weapons are fine, but what about crafters once the Mines are cleared?” Bragin asks. “Surely the roads and bridges need repair? The halls and chambers restored? You’ve done good work here, Althis, but what about the greater forges in the deep halls? Have they been recovered yet?”
“Have they! Yes, and then some,” Althis declares. “We found Katub-Zahar, the grand libraries with all the records of the craftsmen of old; and incredibly, we found Nar-Khelab, the Heart of Fire itself! Well, I say we did, but it was Khazush who really found it…”
“Who is this? A Dwarf-dame, here?” Bragin says, “Khazush means ‘sister’, Farohir, and as you know, Dwarf-women do not travel except in great need.”
“I didn’t say it was a Dwarf, Bragin,” Althis says. “But a woman has claimed – no, she earned that title: Khazush-Khazad, Sister of the Dwarves! Deeds of incredible valor and power! Half of our gains are to her credit, they say, and her name is sung in every hall throughout Khazad-dum. Imagine, an Elf-scholar hailed as Khazush!”
“What!? An Elf?” Farohir gasps, “a woman and a scholar? Her name, would her name be – Seregrían?”
“None other, lad,” Althis says, his eyes and face taking on a dreamy quality. “A tall, slender Elf-lass, all in red, pale skin and hair as black as the abyss. She came among us, fought at our side, but then left as swift as she came – but then she returned, even mightier than before! She has won the hearts of all the Garrison and we honor her as Khazush!”
Farohir is utterly confused. “Aunt Seregrían, popular? Among Dwarves!? It can’t be her, you must be mistaken –“
“Hold on, Aunt Seregrían, you say?” Althis cries. “You say you’re a kinsman of the Khazush!? You are Elvish, that is plain by the ears – but your eyes are nothing like to hers. Yours are green, whereas the eyes of the Khazush are fiery white, like the lightning from her staff, brighter than mithril beneath the Moon!”
“You’re talking about MY aunt??” Farohir shakes his head in total disbelief. “It makes no sense at all! I have to see and hear it for myself, where can we find her? Is she somewhere within Moria?”
“The last word I have is, she resides in the Twenty-First Hall, the new capital of Khazad-dum,” Althis says. “Have a word to Fith, the stable-keeper. He can get you a guide through the Great Delving, and on to Twenty-One with no delays.”
“Then that, my boy, is the next stage of our journey,” Bragin says. “Our thanks to you, Althis old friend. Glad I am to see your labors paying such good dividend. Come, Farohir, the halls of Durin await us – and perhaps, a reunion as well!” And they return to the stables where Farohir upon his goat, Bragin astride his beloved Chisel, and a dozen Dwarves depart in a convoy headed east up the stairs, and boldly into the long dark of Moria.
