Chapter 15: At Your Service

Outside the smithy, the cheerful laughter of several Dwarf children broke the heavy silence within. As they passed, their curious eyes fixed on Tarnes. Thorin and Dwalin's stern faces softened into warm smiles, and Tarnes, in turn, offered a gentle wave. The children glanced at one another, then burst into a fit of giggles before scurrying away.

Thorin's gaze lingered on them for a moment before returning to Tarnes, the warmth in his eyes replaced by a familiar shadow. "The Blue Mountains are a home for these children," he said, his voice low. "But not for those of us of Dwalin's age, or mine. Our home is far to the east, beyond the Misty Mountains and the darkness of Mirkwood. North of the Long Lake lies Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. That is my home. When I was but a lad of twenty-four, an evil dragon descended from the north and fell upon my people. It has been over a hundred years since we were driven from our halls."

Tarnes held up a hand. "Wait," he said cautiously. "I must ask… how old are you and Dwalin now?"

Dwalin looked momentarily confused but answered truthfully. "I am 167 this year. Thorin is 193."

"So you Dwarves are also a long-lived race," Tarnes said, a note of realization in his voice. He looked at Thorin with new understanding. "I had assumed you were in your twenties, yet you are older even than Dwalin." He paused. "Gandalf spoke to me of the Lonely Mountain and the dragon, but I did not know it was your own home he described."

At the mention of the wizard, Thorin's brow furrowed. "Gandalf? The Grey Wizard? Why did he speak of the mountain?"

"He said he was worried the dragon might ally with some growing darkness," Tarnes recalled. "He was traveling north to investigate."

Thorin's expression grew even more solemn. He did not comment on the wizard's fears but simply nodded. "Thank you for telling me this. I have wished to speak with that grey-robed wizard. If I see him, I will discuss the matter of the mountain with him. My heart tells me that meeting Gandalf is a matter of fate."

He then called Dwalin over and asked him to prepare the supplies Tarnes needed. With a swift nod, Dwalin was gone.

"You will not be able to carry these provisions back alone," Thorin said to Tarnes, "especially not living creatures like cattle and sheep. I will have Dwalin find a few Dwarves skilled in animal husbandry and farming to accompany you. They will teach your people the ways of this land."

"I will not refuse such a kindness," Tarnes said gratefully. "Thank you." He had not considered the practicalities. Nepheli was a hunter, not a farmer. Rogier was a scholar. And Godrick's soldiers were warriors, not shepherds. The flora and fauna of this world were different; without expert guidance, they would surely falter. Thorin's offer was crucial.

"Thorin," he said, his voice sincere, "you have given me supplies to rebuild my homeland and experts to teach us. I cannot thank you enough. I must give you something in return, or my conscience will not let me rest."

As Thorin opened his mouth to refuse, Tarnes quickly added, "Please, do not. You said you long to return to the Lonely Mountain. The dragon is your greatest obstacle. Perhaps the gift I offer can give you an edge in that fight."

The words of refusal died on Thorin's lips. He watched, his gaze intense, as two objects materialized in Tarnes's hands. One was a shield-shaped amulet bearing the crest of a crimson dragon. The other was a hand-axe forged from the scales of some great beast, its edge coated in a shell of ice that radiated a palpable chill.

"This is the Flamedrake Talisman," Tarnes explained, presenting the amulet. "This particular one is of the highest quality; it will greatly diminish the damage from any fire. And this…" He held up the axe. "This is the Icerind Hatchet. It was a tribute from the northernmost city in my homeland, forged from the scales of a frost-breathing dragon."

He had given the hatchet to Hewg the blacksmith, who had reinforced it to its absolute limit with Somber Smithing Stones. It was Hewg who had told him of its origins and the power locked within it.

"Gandalf mentioned the dragon of your homeland breathes a terrifying flame. I thought these might be of use." Tarnes bent slightly and placed both items into Thorin's hands.

Thorin took them with a solemn reverence. As a master smith, his attention went straight to the Icerind Hatchet. The moment his fingers closed around the handle, he felt the deep, unyielding cold of it, a chill that did not warm to his touch. He turned and, without a word, laid the axe's blade against a bar of glowing-hot iron on the forge—a sword that he and Dwalin had been shaping.

Sssss—CRACK!

Two sharp sounds echoed in the smithy. A great plume of mist billowed from the point of contact. Thorin braced for scalding steam, but the mist that washed over his face was shockingly cold. The sweltering heat of the forge was instantly banished, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees.

When the mist cleared, the iron sword-bar lay in two pieces, a clean break right down the middle. It had shattered, unable to withstand the instantaneous, violent cooling. The two broken ends, and a large portion of the forge itself, were now coated in a thick layer of frost.

Thorin stared, speechless. "With this axe alone," he said finally, his voice full of awe, "you could buy a hundred cattle in the Blue Mountains. In a kingdom of Men, offering such a weapon would earn you a noble title. And you give it to me as if it were a piece of fruit…"

"I am glad you like it," Tarnes said with a smile. "The axe also harbors a power from my homeland we call a 'Battle Skill.' Would you care to test it in a more open space?" He had several Icerind Hatchets, a benefit of his many cycles.

Thorin caressed the cold weapon, a broad, uncharacteristic grin spreading across his face. "Of course! Dwalin will take some time preparing the supplies. Follow me, Tarnes!"

He grabbed Tarnes by the sleeve and eagerly pulled him out to the courtyard behind the smithy. The yard was cluttered with slag, ore, and discarded anvils.

"I have always wondered," Tarnes said, looking around. "I can feel the respect the other Dwarves have for you. Your status must be noble. I did not expect you to live in such a place."

"I do not live here," Thorin said, an odd look on his face. "This is merely my forge. Even our royalty does not mind getting their hands dirty. It is a custom you would not be expected to know."

Tarnes shrugged. "Do you need me to teach you how to use the axe's Battle Skill, Thorin?"

Thorin smiled and shook his head. "Thank you for the offer, Tarnes. But this weapon is truly miraculous. The moment I grasped it, the knowledge of how to wield it bloomed in my mind."

Tarnes stepped back, giving him space.

Thorin stood in the center of the yard, his breathing steady. He gripped the Icerind Hatchet tightly and stomped his left foot hard upon the ground. A wave of bone-chilling cold erupted from the point of impact, a tidal wave of frost that instantly covered half the courtyard. A mist of ice crystals, sharp and eerie in the sunlight, hung in the air. Ten meters out, the frost began to recede, but then a series of sharp explosions echoed across the ground as the lingering cold detonated.

When the last echo faded, a gentle breeze scattered the mist, but the thick frost remained on the ground.

Thorin's eyes blazed with excitement. He carefully fastened the Icerind Hatchet to his belt, then turned, spread his arms wide, and enveloped Tarnes in a warm, powerful hug. Though he was one of the taller Dwarves, he could only reach Tarnes's waist, but he didn't seem to care.

"You have given me a wondrous and powerful weapon, Tarnes!" he exclaimed, patting the axe at his side. "With this, I have more confidence than ever that I will reclaim Erebor! And when I do, a share of its gold will be reserved for you!"

"When you used the skill, did you feel any discomfort?" Tarnes asked. "Although the skill is powerful, the true strength of that axe is its own sharpness and durability."

Thorin calmed himself and thought back. "When the frost spread from my feet, I felt a drain on my stamina, more so than for a normal exertion. But nothing else."

He used a Battle Skill with only stamina? Not focus? Tarnes was genuinely surprised. He had seen Gandalf infuse a weapon with magic to use its skill. He scratched the back of his head, a rare gesture of confusion for him. Unable to solve the puzzle, he let it go. He trusted that Ilúvatar, the Creator from his dream, would have a reason for it.

Just then, Dwalin returned. He stared at the frosted ground in confusion before addressing Thorin. "The supplies are ready, and the farming experts have been chosen."

"And the guards?" Thorin asked.

A wry smile touched Dwalin's rugged face. "That is the problem. When the lads heard they would be guarding a wizard who saved your life, they all clamored to be chosen."

Thorin caressed the Icerind Hatchet at his hip. He glanced at Tarnes, then leaned in and whispered two names in Dwalin's ear.

Dwalin's eyes widened. "Thorin, are you sure? Both of them? What if there is danger?"

Hesitation flickered across Thorin's face, but it was quickly replaced by resolve. "They have grown into fine warriors, but they have never seen the world. Following a human wizard will be good for them."

Dwalin nodded, then rushed off again with his usual efficiency.

By the time he returned, the sun was at its zenith. Thorin had insisted Tarnes join him for a hearty Dwarven lunch—a dizzying array of smoked meats, sausages, and hams, washed down with ten tankards of ale.

After lunch, Tarnes and Thorin bid each other a solemn farewell. Then, led by Dwalin, Tarnes arrived at the waiting convoy. He saw Dwalin greet two of the Dwarves with a familiar warmth, pulling them into hearty embraces.

The two were young, their beards not yet long, their faces handsome. Their clothes were more finely made than Dwalin's, but they were armed for a journey. The blond-haired Dwarf wore a short sword, and Tarnes could see the bulge of daggers or throwing knives hidden beneath his tunic. The dark-haired one carried a bow and quiver and a short sword also at his hip. Tarnes could sense they were capable warriors. He met their eyes and gave them a gentle nod.

He watched as their bodies stiffened, their expressions growing visibly tense.

Dwalin noticed. He clapped them on the shoulders. "Relax, lads. Mr. Tarnes is a very gentle person."

The yellow-haired Dwarf leaned in and whispered, "So he won't just… turn us into frogs?" The dark-haired one nodded frantically in agreement.

Dwalin raised an eyebrow. "Not as long as you show him the proper courtesy. Now, gather your courage and greet him." He gave them a firm push forward.

The two stumbled a step, looking at each other. Finally, they drew themselves up, bowed deeply to Tarnes, and their voices rang out in turn:

"Fili."

"Kíli."

"At your service!"

(End of Chapter)

***

(End of Chapter)

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