Into the Mines

There is no sign of Harvonir where the company rests; he has gone ahead to search out a rumoured settlement. Feeling unsavoury eyes upon them, Minnwen suggests they depart after Harvonir.

At the landing atop the great stairway, where the road branches, a figure soon appears in the shadows — Harvonir, returning with news of the Dolven View, a former outpost rediscovered by the recent expedition.

The path, however, turns rocky, dipping and winding as if some great destruction has blundered across, felling columns and smashing statues.

Even so, Harvonir is as good as his word. They reach the Dolven View safely, the only obstacle a group of goblins that they quickly put to the sword.

This chamber is larger and more spacious than any they have thus far encountered, and the dwarf miners direct them south towards a steep descent.

Crossing a stone bridge (the Stone Council) they gaze into an abyss on either side. From the walls, the stern countenances of dwarven fathers regard them sightlessly, the dim glow of crystals casting shadows beneath eye sockets and craggy beards. Minnwen can only guess that these reliefs pay homage to those who may have advised Durin, the ancient founder of Moria, or aided in the running of the kingdom. Plunging from a height into the abyss here, too, the cold springs called the Kibil-nâla in the dwarven tongue pass underground, source of the Celebrant, known in the tongue of Man as the Silverlode.

When at last they reach it, the mine (the Silvertine Lodes) is a wonder of dwarven engineering, with boardwalks spiralling into the depths and wooden scaffolding towering above their heads. A disused railway runs like a labyrinth through the area. Rusted mining equipment and machinery lies awaiting repair, and the small contingent of dwarven miners will have much labour cut out for them if the mine is ever to return to its previous glory.

The company presses deeper. A chill air seems to rise from beneath them, and once again the roar of a great waterfall fills their ears. Visible through the mist are the great bridges, towers, aqueducts and archways of a massive city half submerged!

When at last they reach the headquarters of this watery enterprise, charmingly named the Rotting Cellar, the dwarven carpenters and technicians can offer them little comfort except empty wooden barrels in which to curl up and mouldy sacks for pillows. But the company's spirits are lifted as Minnwen shares with the Men portions of lembas, the elven waybread, and miruvor, the bracing elven cordial from Imladris.

As they survey the wreckage of water-wheels that appear wrenched from their gears and shafts, wantonly strewn throughout the landing, Forvonir wonders aloud how such machinery could have been moved. Did the agent of such damage also destroy the other parts of Moria — and, if so, does it roam the cavernous deeps still?

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