Aglahad and the Dead City (In Tharbad: Volume Three)

1

Call me Siriondil. For that was the name my mother gave to me and the one by which I have been known these past countless years.

In the later years of the Third Age, I found myself in the service of the Princes of Dol Amroth. Being old even among the Eldar, I was, at that time, deemed wise and venerable by the Edain of Gondor and I was sent to Belfalas to serve the first Prince and his heirs. Indeed, I served Dol Amroth for nigh on seven hundred and fifty years.

But pay no mind to my history, for this tale is about the last Prince whom I served, the nineteenth of his line. I first met Aglahad on his thirteenth birthday when I was introduced to him as his new tutor. Not a very fine gift. I remember standing with the boy's father as he told me what would be expected of me. I listened intently as the boy chased his playmates around the green sward of the fortress, whipping a small, wooden sword around his head. All the boys wore padded armour and simple tin helms. Aglahad seemed to delight in bashing his mates over the head and shouting, "You're dead!"

But enough of Aglahad's youth. Suffice to say he was a difficult boy. And part of my duties, it would transpire, would be to make a man of him. This task is ongoing, which is why I found myself in the shadow of the walls of Moria on a cool, still summer's evening in the year 2850. Aglahad and I had made camp in the vale of the Sirannon, near the West-gate. He had an inkling to explore the ruins of the old city and perhaps plunder it. I felt like something of a bystander as Aglahad stared into the fire, ruminating on whether to enter by night or to wait until morning or whether to enter the mines at all.

We had secured passage at the docks in Dol Amroth twelve days before on the Langail, a merchant ship bound for Mithlond. The captain had agreed to set us down in Lond Dear, where in those days there was still a settlement of sorts. At the havens, we secured passage aboard a river barge to Tharbad. There I procured for myself a horse, Aglahad having brought his beloved steed, Bronweg with him. From Tharbad we took the road along the west bank of the Gwathló which, to my delight I learned was still called Healer's Way. And at Ereg Athrad, we rode along the Old Dwarf Road and thence to the West-gate of Moria.

Thus did I find myself caught up in the most recent of Aglahad's many ill-conceived ventures. To his credit, he was curious about the world, a thing that cannot be said about the greater part of the Men of his country. And any casual question he had that was satisfactorily answered would nevertheless be followed up with a flood of others until he could talk about little else. Then The Plan would be announced and we would go galloping off, usually ill-prepared and always with me as his reticent companion.

It was during one such venture, a few years before, that he first thought of plundering Moria of its riches. He had become obsessed with the notion that he would find Himling after I had explained to him that the Isle was one of the few parts of Beleriand that had survived the War of Wrath. I will not relate how this quest failed, suffice to say that we found ourselves horseless and unarmed, trekking south through Lindon. Much of our journey back to Mithlond was in the shadow of the glorious Blue Mountains. I was reminded of the ancient, ruined Dwarven cities hidden therein and I made the mistake of relating to Aglahad the history of Khazad-dûm.

And so, after our return to Dol Amroth, he made plans to break into the mines.

"Are you sure this password will work, Siriondil?" It was the first time Aglahad had spoken in a while. He had neglected to ask me about the Doors of Durin until now.

"Of course, Sire. It is an old Dwarven wordplay." I sipped my tea. "Quite simple, really."

He picked daintily at the last of the rabbit legs. "And what kind of welcome shall we receive?"

"The orcs generally occupy the east of the city and the deepest parts of the mines."

At that moment, the clouds drifted across the gibbous moon and the signs on the door faded. A crunching sound, as of gravel under a troll's foot soon turned to a sonorous rumble and the left door began to swing open. Aglahad jumped up and drew his sword. I too stood, taking up my short-staff. The dark line between the doors widened into a black rectangle and an arm appeared from the gloom. A matted, grey sleeve. As the owner of the arm emerged from the darkness, I stepped forward with a gladness that I had not felt in many years.