“Oh, no.”
“Peace be to you,” the Keeper said again.
“And to you and all your numerous family, honorable Keeper, and to you, Master Dwarf,
and all the cavern- carving folk of your acquaintance!” A dark -haired slender form came
bounding toward us. Its eyes sparkled like cheap fake gems; its ears rose like antennae above its
idiot head. “Vissarion Tulurieth, I. Urgent business calls me to the smoky realm of man and all
man’s sons. May I pass the Deepling Gate, good Keeper, friend of Elves?”
The burning sword lowered. “You shall pass together.”
“How pleasant, a new partnership!”
“. . . What?”
*
So drolly dour, these mountain folk! When I first met red-bearded Groth son of Grath,
he was a dove’ s feather away from matching his (no doubt weighty and worthy) hammer against
an angel ’ s blazing glaive, and as marvelous a tale as it might have made, I thank the Mightiness
that my scuffle with the Dark Frog of Malgothrond took not a moment longer than it did. But it
seemed the far-seeing Keeper knew my quest — nay, both our quests — and had been in wait of
my coming, for I no sooner came than he welcomed us both together.
I bowed to my new friend and ally, and said, “ Vissarion Tulurieth, son of Quistilith
Zelenorm, soldier of Favenheld Dale and bearer of a sacred trust. I greet you in the Name of the
Mightiness, good Master Dwarf, and welcome our new comradeship with greatest joy!”
He glared at me, then up at the K eeper, then back at me. “Groth.”
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