The Search for Utumno - Chapter 1

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The Search for Utumno

Chapter 1: Trading in Knowledge

Once the ancient skies of Endor lay cloaked in eternal twilight; neither dawn nor dusk heralded their coming ere the breaking of Telperion and Laurelin. When the envious malice of Melkor did mar the blessed perfection of Aman, the lights of the trees were thrust into the sky, guarded forever by Maiar ancient and strong, but mere servants when compared to the omnipotence of their masters, the Valar, children of Eru, who is called Ilúvatar. The ancient sea of blue and violet,glittering with the lights of stars afar, now only emerges at dawn and dusk, for the evening sky is home to Isil, and morning belongs to Anar. Now, Anar had begun his ascent to his full fiery height, slowly creeping over the eastern sky, breaching the peaks of the Walls of the Sun and scorching the skies with reddish-orange fire.

Such a time was always one of contemplation for the young dwarf Râladul, son of the dwarf Râlad of the line of Dvalin, brother of Durin, second of the seven dwarf lords forged by the mighty Lord of the Earth Aulë, whom the Dwarves call Mahal. As he sat upon the lush, grassy knoll gazing ever eastward, his young eyes, grey and hard as the stone that he and his ancestors have delved in the deepened halls of Tumunzahar, called Nogrod by the Noldor, drank in the fires of Anar. Of a score of hearty dwarven traders that accompanied the dwarven smith he was the only one who could not continue to sleep.

In this time of contemplation Râladul imagined what he would be rewarded with this day for the diligence of his hands. Looking upon his tough, wrinkled, and calloused palms, he heard the echoes of the ringing of his hammer, sparks striking his sweaty, black-bearded face every time he struck the short sword. When finally it had been completed, acrid steam rising up from the cooling trough beside his rune-covered anvil, Râladul looked upon the mithril blade with wonder, the wide shoulder of the blade just above the tang narrowing slightly in an hourglass-like shape, widening at the flat before narrowing yet again to form the hard, thrusting tip. He focused in on his fingers which gripped the etchers that carved the intricate knotwork along the fuller of the blade - ancient elven runes taught to him by his great-grandfather who learned from the Noldor – that infused it with an ancient magic. When finally the tang was inserted into the oaken hilt, the guard of the blade forming a pair of eagle’s wings forged of silver and inlaid with diamonds in each feather, and the pommel – an eagle’s claw clutching a sapphire with the circumference of a dwarven thumb – had been set, Râladul bathed the blade in freezing waters melted from the ice of the Dor Daidelos, the Region of Everlasting Cold, for a fortnight. When the bathing had been concluded, the Elven sigils glowed a crystalline blue, and the waters had been drunk by the blade itself. He named the blade Maegheled – Piercing Ice – and that would be his gift to the elves.

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This sword remained one of a number of treasures – crowns and rings and gemstone-embedded carvings – that emerged from Râladul’s smithy in Nogrod, forged by his hands and with his heart, and every work born of his craft was born with a portion of the dwarf’s life. With each gift of his hands went forth a piece of his soul. Heavy was the dwarf’s heart, for he feared that as his works were made stronger and more vibrant, more of his soul would go with them, for with the blessing of beauty in his craft came the price of his life, until such prices could no longer be paid, and his works would no longer shine with the luster of his prowess. Thus would he fade from Middle Earth with the gift of death. With hope, he contemplated, his works would survive the Changing of the World, and that tales of his greatness would be told by dwarves, elves, and men alike. Ever would orcs flee from his blades, their last sight before death being the jewels of the crowns and rings, and studded pommels and cuirasses of his forge worn by brave and excellent warriors. Yes, Râladul knew he would die, but he hoped in his works his memory would endure.

Such were the fates of the mortals of Middle-earth.

Turning away from the rising sun and his thoughts of gift-trading with the Eldalië, Râladul looked upon his party to ensure their safety, for he was assigned the dawn watch. Nineteen dwarves slept soundly on the grassy fields of Arthórien, their heads resting on stone as contentedly as any human or elf head rests against a down-stuffed pillow of silk. Skilled miners and craftsmen all, they bore sacks and chests filled with gifts born of the skilled hands of the Naugrim. These were his people: forged from the earth, worshipful of its lord, and ever proud of their talents of molding the earth to their will. Clad in hard leather jerkins, tough breeches and hard boots with soft soles so as to feel every contour of the earth on which they trod, the dwarves clutched tightly their cloaks draped over their rotund bodies as they slept. Knowing that the dwarves still had some distance to go before they reached their destination, Râladul clambered down from the knoll to rouse his compatriots.

“All up and greet the morn,� Râladul cried. “The Enemy has troubled us not, and Isil sleeps. This day we approach the Girdle of Melian.� The dwarves rose from their slumber more quickly than Râladul imagined they would. With little reticence or reluctance, the dwarves gathered their sleeping gear, stowed it, and prepared a hearty breakfast of wild boar leftover from the previous evening’s dinner.

“How went the watch in the morn, brother?� asked Inzhâl, brother of Râladul.

Râladul smiled as his brother ambled over to him, a pork shank held tightly in his grip. Most mornings after his contemplations, Râladul could always rely on his brother to bend his ear to his thoughts. “I have thought long about this journey,� Râladul answered after swallowing a mouthful of roast, “for it is the sixth we have taken since the Siege of Angband began. The treasures of my hands go hither into the hands of our friends of old: the elves, kin to us by blood of the brothers and sisters of Mahal, and I think, ‘would they not better serve the Naugrim, for they are Naugrim weapons and treasures, and verily would they cast a greater light in the treasuries of Nogrod rather than in the halls of the covetous Eldar which we have delved for them?’ Hast thou of late had these thoughts as well, my brother?�

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Inzhâl shook his head. “Nay, for the treasures of the Noldor are great indeed, and great is their generosity, for their treasures have seen places we of the Naugrim may yet only dream about. Our lives are shortened through the haste of Mahal in his forging of our ancestors, so it is written, and though we outlive the span of the Followers, we have not the immortality of our brethren the Eldar. Hasty will be our works, though never less valuable, for much of what the Eldar know of their craftsmanship was come from the Naugrim. And yet, there are works even older than we, for there were Eldar forging treasures hither and anon in those lands they call the Blessed Realms. Were we to covet such treasures in trades, we would be all the better and richer by far!�

Râladul cocked an eyebrow curiously at his brother. “Five times have we been to the Thousand Caves, and yet we have not seen many of such great works. Could it be that these Eldar have never been to the Blessed Realms?�

Inzhâl nodded curtly. “Aye, brother, they have not. I have heard that they name themselves among the ‘Moriquendi,’ the ‘dark elves,’ those who have never seen the lights of the land they call Valinor. Even their tongues have been severed into separate scripts and languages. However, they had some contact and trade with those elves who returned from Valinor ere the first battles with the Dark Lord. Therefore, I believe that in their treasuries they have many-a-treasure that they would be willing to part with for even a paltry few of Nogrod’s best works.�

Râladul smiled. “True are thy words, my brother. Thou hast assuaged my fears; Maegheled shall find a good home in the hands of an elf of Menegroth, and Elu Thingol shall bequeath unto us a generous portion of his treasures of old, for twas he who rose from that ancient lake which we dwarves have never seen. And yet, I feel of works and treasures we have many, and knowledge is of great worth in itself. Think you this as well, brother?�

“Aye, and with good reason, for with knowledge, all Naugrim may be richer by the longer and farther, for with the farsightedness of the elves, we too have the gift of foresight, and I see many great things in our future if but we wield the best and brightest of all knowledge rewarded unto us by the elves for our gifts.�

“Look lively, then, O taskmaster of the Naugrim,� bellowed a ginger-bearded dwarf, Akhzâr, son of Gundir as he hefted a mithril-bladed battleaxe over his shoulder. “Daylight lasts not long in these autumn months.� With that, the dwarves departed across the fields of Arthórien and resumed their journey to the forests of Doriath.

It was nearing dusk on that day when the caravan reached the walls of Doriath, and there they beheld a brilliance unseen in the depths of Nogrod – a line of trees clad in garland of silver and starlight, drinking in the waning rays of the Sun and the coming starlight in the depths of the void. Tall and high were the aging crowns of the trees of Doriath, their wide leaves drained of their lush emerald hue and taking on the autumnal colors of the Sun – golden yellows, fiery oranges, and bloody crimsons – but never did the leaves fall, for the grasses and shrubs ever retained their forested luster, and the crowns were forever intact.

Rising on the cart that he drove with his draught horses purchased in trade long ago from Men of the eastern land, Râladul pointed high to the forest towards which the caravan drew nigh. “Behold,� he said, “the Girdle of Melian. Doriath is nigh. Be on thy guard, brothers; though they know us well, ever are the Elves of Doriath protective of their land.

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Barely a league did the dwarves travel into the forest when they were waylaid by darkly-clad elves bearing bows of ash and beech, their slender arrows knocked. “Halt and stand, Naugrim, for thy path is blocked! State thy business!�
“Peace to thee, Eldar of Doriath, for I am Râladul, son of Râlad, and my kin come bearing trade to thy lord and forefather, Elu Thingol. Let us pass, and guide us to the Gates of Menegroth, which my forefathers carved from the rocks on which thou standeth!� The elves lowered their bows and escorted the caravan without further incident to The Gates of the Thousand Caves.
Marble statues of two women stood draped with long rows of ivy, their gowns flowing in ancient winds captured by the hands of the sculptor. Their beauty, even in stone, marveled that of the Eldar themselves, perhaps even the immortal Vanyar who forsook the land of Endor and dwell even now in Valinor for all eternity. In their eyes, as the dwarves passed between them, there lingered an immortality and a life all their own, their faces ever forged with smiles. These were the most favored of the Aratar – Yavanna Kementari and Varda, the heavenly spouses of Aulë and Manwë. Continuing through the path to the Gates of Menegroth, the Dwarves were stopped by a row of armor-clad elves wielding great iron spears with silver blades forged to appear as silver leaves of the tree Telperion. Again, the dwarves pleaded their case before the guards, and they allowed them to pass. Dismounting, the dwarves sheathed their weapons and slung their shields upon their backs; and covering their hands, they took up the oaken chests in which they had laid their gifts to the King of the Teleri, and, thus, began the long and slow walk southeast through the marbled halls of Menegroth. They walked past carvings of the many animals and beasts that were the children of Kementari ere the rising of the Eldar, and reliefs of birds taking flight into lands unfamiliar to Dwarven eyes, for none have yet beheld the magnificence of Valinor. The columns lining the hall were in the likeness of great stone beech trees carved of green marble and streaked with silver. These were images of the forests of Oromë as Thingol’s wife saw them before the counting of days. There were also hanging crystal chandeliers dripping with diamonds and pearls of the Trackless Sea, each one bearing a single crystal taken from the shores of Valinor, and in said crystal was sealed the light of Valinor. Their light was pleasant to look upon, even for the eyes of the Dwarves, which are accustomed only to the lights of their forges.
Finally, turning the corner of the hall, the Naugrim party came upon twin stone trees, each carved in the likeness of the ancient Trees of Valinor – Laurelin and Telperion – the first and greatest works of Yavanna Kementari. Cut down by the wrath of Morgoth in jealous, evil rage in ages ere the changing of Arda, they exist now in the memory of those elves who gazed upon them, in the eyes of the Maiar. Râladul ever smiled at these works, for they were wrought by the hands of Râladul’s own father and his kin. Passing beneath the marble and limestone boughs of the blossomless trees, their leaves of true and molded silver and gold and their fruits of ruby and diamond, the dwarves paused for a brief moment, muttering thanks and praise to Mahal, before passing into the Great Hall of Thingol.

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The ancient elf – among the first to rise from the waters of Cuiviénen – wore an azure tunic of silk bearing the mark of the Tree Upon Tuná, white silk sleeves protruding from beneath to cover his pale arms. On each of his delicate fingers he wore a ring – gold and silver alternating, each with a brilliant gem of different make and carving. His left hand he rested on his leg, which donned a pair of silk white breeches covering soft-soled silver shoes. His face was young and strong, a chiseled narrow chin and long cheeks with high bones beneath his crystalline blue-green eyes. His long golden locks hung down to his shoulders, and on his brow he wore a crown of mithril with sapphires and aquamarines. In its center was a great diamond – a jewel of Valinor. Young though he looked, he bore the age of his experience in his eyes, for they alone betrayed the ages uncounted that he beheld.
His right hand was gently clasped by that of a woman clad almost all in white, her glittering gossamer gown cut wide across her chest to expose her silk-skinned shoulders. Her arms, flawless and smooth like fresh streams, rested upon the arms of a throne of pearl and silver, her legs long and thin, her bare feet decorated with silver anklets dripping with small, delicately-carved jewels. What the dwarves marveled at, just as they always do whenever they pass through the Hall of Thingol, was the face of that vision of beauty seated nigh to Elu Thingol. Round and soft was the face of the woman, sweet and gentle, her eyes the most perfect shade of blue, her hair a golden brown. As she gazed upon the approaching dwarves, her eyes seemed to shift to a subtle shade of blush-violet and then to pure lavender when on occasion she blinked. Never have any of the dwarves seen any creature so perfect – so near to godlike – and never would they again, for she was Melian the Maia, spawned of the bosom of Eru himself, born as a servant to the Ainur, the bringers of Song, and creators of the world Eä that is and always will be.
Râladul stepped forward, as leader and representative of this particular caravan, and genuflected before King Thingol and Queen Melian. He bowed his head, eyes turned respectfully down to face the rune-engraved marble floor of the hall, the diamond dust reflecting in his eyes as the Valinor-illuminated chandeliers glowed above him. “Hail mighty Elu Thingol,� he cried, “King and Overlord of the Teleri, First among the Eldar, Master of the Thousand Caves, and Ruler of Doriath. Hail to thee, fair and fell Melian, Maia of the Blessed Realm, Lady of Menegroth, Queen of Doriath! I, Râladul, son of Râlad, son of Azhân, son of Khâznil, son of Dvalinul, son of Dvalin, Second of the Lords of the Naugrim, bid thee fair love and honor and beg of thy leave to present thee and thine with these works of our hands, our sweat and blood, and the kindled flames of Endor, born of the fires of Nogrod, and loved by we the Naugrim of Mahal.�
“Rise, Râladul of Nogrod, and see me,� commanded Elu Thingol, “and let thy kin be welcome to see me as well, for thou art known well in these halls that thy kin did carve in the early days when the Sun and Moon did first appear in Endor’s skies. Pray, show us the gifts with which thou hast come bringing trade.�
Râladul rose to his feet, as did all of the dwarves that had genuflected along with him, and each one in turn presented their gifts – crowns and necklaces and rings, swords and mail shirts studded with gems and stones, shields embossed with ancient runes and images graven from the imaginations of centuries-old Dwarves, works of mithril, gold, silver, and the white metal known as platinum, which is found rarely in Beleriand, but is known to the dwarves. Finally, Maegheled, the short sword forged by Râladul, was presented, and this was a jewel that sparkled in the eyes of Melian. She personally rose from her throne and took the blade into her hands. Holding it aloft, she bade the runes come to life with their brilliant blue light, and all light was extinguished save for this. All eyes were upon her as she held Piercing Ice in her hands, and from her eyes flowed an azure light. The runes glittered on the stones of the Hall, and the twin trees at the entrance of the Great Hall flashed with lights blue and green, and the floor was as shining ice. Strong was her power, ancient her mind, and she was captivated by the magic of this sword she beheld.

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When the light returned to its original state, Melian sat down, still holding the blade in her hand. “This sword,� she said in dulcet tones gentle as wind’s susurration through trees at dawn, “has it a name?�
“Aye, Queen Melian,� Râladul replied. “It is called Megheled in the Quenya tongue.�
Melian nodded, her perpetual smile never leaving her lips. “This blade I shall bequeath to one who shall grant thee thy gift of knowledge which in thy heart thou longest for.� She then addressed all of the Naugrim. “Thy gifts are all of greatness, and they shall be repaid in full with our own works from the vaults of Elu Thingol, he who is Elwë, first of the Teleri.� Again, her eyes turned towards Râladul. “I sense that thy very soul hath been poured into this blade, and mighty is its magic. Thy hands are wonders at thy forge, Râladul of Dvalin’s kin. Thou shalt be rewarded well for thy efforts. Come, and take rest now, for thy journey hath been long and wearisome. Partake of our nourishment, and let thy cares be drowned in ewers of our finest vintage.� Many of the Dwarves chuckled at the subtle humor of the Maia; even Thingol, rarely prone to emotion as King, managed a slight smile at his godly wife’s wit.
So it was that the dwarves dined with the elves that night and for three nights after that. Ere the departure of the dwarves, they were shown to the Deep Smithies, and gleaned from them great works of elven craft – swords and axes and suits of armor. Also were they granted lustrous gems and magnificent jewels taken from the deep mines of Menegroth. When, at last, the visit had ended, the dwarves took their leave of Menegroth, vowing to return with additional gifts when the winter snows break, for Doriath was loathe to leave their stockpiles of weapons emptied what with the Siege of Angband continuing in the north before the very walls of Thangorodrim.
The dwarves returned to the halls of Tumunhazar without incident, and for the remnant of the autumn and winter, Râladul and his kin forged more and more works, and delved ever deeper into their mines of the Ered Luin. In his cavern in the Southeastern Warrens, Râladul toiled over his latest work with his kin – a great suit of linked chain wrought of iron for the Lord of Nogrod. Râlad lived still, and Râladul was his son. Strong was the burden upon Râladul as he wiped the grime from his brow, for this work was nigh to perfection itself, and ever was the pressure upon Râladul’s mind to forge works great for the lord of Tumunhazar. When, at last, the great suit of mail was complete, Râladul was prepared to heft it anon to the Chamber of Fire – the Holy Forge in which would be found the Black Throne of Tumunhazar upon which Râlad sat with a crown of finely-wrought copper upon his gray-haired brow.
“Thy work, yet again, has the bearing of thy very soul,� Râlad said unto his son. “Again, thy work is best and strong. Thou wilt make worthy a Lord of Tumunhazar when, in the coming years, my soul returns from whence it was forged by Mahal the Great Maker. Thou maketh pride swell in my bosom ever whence thou cometh to heap upon me gifts of thine own making. Proud am I to call thee ‘son.’�

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Râladul embraced his father, and the kin of Râladul departed to allow father and son to talk. Talk they did, about many things, especially about the light of Melian in the Halls of Menegroth when she held aloft Piercing Ice. “The power of the Lords of the West which we Naugrim shall not see is great indeed, my son,� Râlad said. “Thou wouldst be wise to be wary of it, for none can be trusted save for Mahal.�
“This I know well, King and Father,� Râladul replied, “and yet, of the treasures gleaned from the depths of the Thousand Caves, I found one that was greater than all which we brought from Menegroth. T’was a single scroll of vellum inlaid with silver and on which had been written in flowing silver script of the Noldor a passage from ancient works of the Eldar. I have yet to read it, for it lies amongst many-a-treasure paid by Doriath.�
“Then go and feed thy curiosity, my son,� Râlad replied, “and let an old man don his new armor in peace ere he feeds his belly.� Râladul again embraced his father and departed for the King’s Trove. Down a maze of halls and warrens, past steaming forges with the echoes of hammers ringing upon anvils and the hissing of metal in water rattling in Râladul’s head happily, he came upon the iron doors of the King’s Trove. The Naugrim guards stood straight, bearing great halberds wrought with shining iron axe heads and great silver spears. They bore iron breast plates and greaves, and on their pauldrons were carved images of dragons. Their faces appeared as demons forged of iron with tongues of flame and eyes of wrath. These were the Death Masks of the Naugrim, the grave images of war donned by the dwarves when perchance they met battle upon Beleriand or points east. The masked Naugrim guards turned aside, and the doors were opened.
Râladul walked slowly into the King’s Trove, beholding the ordered beauty of the great treasures of Tumunhazar. Rivers of gold and gems flowed amongst great weapons of beauty and suits of mail forged by the hands of the Noldor in Nargothrond. Chests overflowed with pearls gleaned from the Teleri of Doriath, passed unto them by CÃ*rdan in ages past. And set upon a golden dais wrought in the likeness of Mahal himself bearing high what would be the moon were it not sitting in the halls of Tumunhazar was a great pearl. Shining with its own light, the great white sphere gleamed brighter than any treasures that lay in the King’s Trove. Nimphelos it was called – the great Pearl of Valinor – and never shall there be a likeness unto it for all ages.
Not far from the Pillar of Nimphelos there sat a chest – one of many borne from Menegroth following Râladul’s return. Opening the chest, amid glittering gems and medallions of gold and silver, Râladul retrieved the case containing the scroll. It was carved from ivory lined with silver and inlaid with many brilliant gems. Within it laid the scroll, and pulling it out, he unfurled it and gazed upon the elven script which he had learned from the Noldor long ago. He read to himself in silence.
“Melkor met the onset of the Valar in the North-west of Middle-earth, and all that region was much broken. But the first victory of the hosts of the West was swift, and the servants of Melkor fled before them to Utumno. Then the Valar passed over Middle-earth, and there they set a guard over Cuiviénen, and thereafter the Quendi knew nothing of the great Battle of the Powers, save that the Earth shook and groaned beneath them, and the waters were moved, and in the north there were lights of mighty fighters.
“Long and grievous was the siege of Utumno, and many battles were fought before its gates of which naught but the rumour is known to the Elves. But at last the gates of Utumno were broken and the halls unroofed, and Melkor took refuge in the uttermost pit. Then Tulkas stood forth as champion of the Valar and wrestled with him, and cast him upon his face; and he was bound with the chain Angainor that Aulë had wrought, and led captive; and the world had peace for a long age.�
“Utumno,� Râladul said to himself, and he returned to his cavern to ponder this finding.