In LOTR with Harry Potter system

Chapter 37: The Deal with Thorin (Bonus)



Inside Thorin's Hall

Sylas found himself once more standing before Thorin Oakenshield—only half a day since their last meeting.

"So it's you again, the black-robed wizard," Thorin said, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly with recognition. "I take it you're the one who commissioned Bondi to reforge the ancient sword?"

Sylas inclined his head respectfully, though his feelings toward Thorin remained complicated. He had no great affection for the proud Dwarf king, but if he wanted the ancient sword reforged properly, he had little choice but to appeal to the one who ruled over the furnace.

"We meet again, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, grandson of Thrór, King under the Mountain," Sylas said, echoing the formal tone Gandalf often used. "Some time ago, I claimed an ancient sword from a barrow-wight deep within the Barrow-downs. The blade, once noble, has been worn down by the passage of centuries and the corruption of dark power. I was told that Dwarves are unmatched in their forging. So I've come to ask: could your forge restore it?"

At the mention of the Barrow-downs and the wight, Thorin's expression subtly shifted. Even among the Dwarves, the haunted hills were spoken of in hushed voices. And Sylas's words confirmed what Gandalf had only hinted at, that this black-robed traveler had not only braved those cursed barrows, but returned bearing relics from the dead.

The king studied him anew, this time not with suspicion, but wary respect.

"You faced the dead and lived to tell of it," Thorin said, stepping down from the dais. "Then you are not one to be taken lightly. And forging…" A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Forging is to us as breathing."

He reached out. "Let me see this sword."

Sylas raised his hand, and the massive blade floated forward. Thorin grasped it with one arm, though it was nearly as long as he was tall, he held it as if it weighed no more than a smith's hammer.

As he turned it over in his hands, the king's air of royalty melted away, replaced by that of a craftsman completely absorbed in his art.

"The casting is intricate," Thorin murmured. "Diamond-edged blade, meant for both piercing and cleaving. The hilt… designed for a single hand, but balanced. The crossguard, bronze, crescent-shaped… and here…" His finger traced an insignia near the pommel, tarnished by time yet still faintly visible.

"The White Tree."

He looked up at Sylas, his eyes gleaming with realization. "This blade belonged to one of the Dúnedain. No, this is Númenórean craftsmanship. Possibly a royal heirloom."

Sylas nodded. "It once belonged to the last prince of Cardolan."

That made Thorin pause. Even Dwarven histories recorded the fall of Cardolan, one of the three kingdoms that had split from Arnor, and one of the few still resisting the Witch-king of Angmar before its ruin. For a blade from that age to resurface, even corrupted… it was no small matter.

"The Men of Númenor were trained by the Noldor in the arts of the forge," Thorin said at last, quietly. "They learned from the greatest of Elven smiths. Even we, the Dwarves, do not look down on such work."

/

Thorin studied the ancient sword in his hand for a long moment, his eyes burning with a smith's pride and resolve. Finally, he looked up at Sylas.

"I will reforge this sword myself," he said solemnly. "And I'll summon the finest craftsmen of my kin to assist. It will not only regain its original sharpness… it will be stronger than ever."

Sylas, however, showed no sign of joy. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and asked calmly, "What's the price?"

He knew well enough that Thorin Oakenshield wouldn't summon the full might of Dwarven smithing out of kindness alone.

Sure enough, Thorin didn't hesitate.

"I want you to join the expedition to reclaim Erebor. I want you to help us fight the dragon."

Sylas raised a brow, puzzled. "Did you forget? I already agreed to Gandalf's invitation. I'm part of your expedition."

Thorin shook his head, stepping forward.

"No. You don't understand. I'm not asking you to join Gandalf's expedition. I'm inviting you to join mine."

Sylas blinked. For a second, he wasn't sure he'd heard right. But then he stared at the Dwarf and realized.

The expedition hadn't even properly begun, and this prince was already scheming to take over. He was trying to wrest command from Gandalf before the journey had even started.

"Are you seriously trying to poach Gandalf's expedition right out from under him?" Sylas muttered, more amused than annoyed.

Still, he answered firmly, "I agreed to participate. I follow my own path. Whether the leader is you or Gandalf, I serve no master."

Thorin's expression darkened. Trust didn't come easily to him, too many years of exile, too many broken promises. He hadn't trusted Gandalf fully either.

But reclaiming Erebor wasn't just about pride. It was the last hope of restoring his people.

After a long silence, Thorin spoke again.

"Very well. The terms stand. As the heir of Durin's line, I formally invite you to the expedition. You won't be under my command. But I ask—no, I need—you to give your full aid in reclaiming the Lonely Mountain."

Sylas tilted his head slightly. He knew, of course, that even without him, the mountain would one day fall back into Dwarven hands.

Still, he gave a soft chuckle and shook his head. "That's quite a demand, for one reforged sword."

Thorin clenched his jaw.

"One-tenth," he said. "One-tenth of the treasure hoarded in Erebor. If you help me take back my homeland, that share is yours."

Now that made Sylas pause.

He had heard tales of Erebor's wealth. Gold piled like dunes, gems strewn like stars. One-tenth of that… was enough to rival a kingdom.

He smiled. "I'll accept."

"But we put it in writing."

After all, Sylas hadn't forgotten one important detail: Thorin's bloodline carried the shadow of dragon-sickness.

It was a madness passed down through the Durin line, an overwhelming greed and paranoia that awoke in the presence of great treasure, especially that hoarded in the halls of Erebor. When faced with gold and jewels beyond counting, even the proudest king might lose himself to obsession.

But at this moment, Thorin Oakenshield remained sound of mind. His ambition was still tempered by reason, and he agreed to Sylas's terms without hesitation.

In fact, Thorin believed that the formality of a contract would ensure Sylas's commitment, binding him not only with words, but with magic, honor, and law.

And so, beneath the vaulted stone ceiling of Thorin's hall, in front of Dwarven elders and master smiths, Sylas and Thorin signed the pact.

Its terms were clear:

Sylas would accompany the expedition to reclaim the Lonely Mountain and lend his strength in battle. In return, the Durin clan would employ the full force of their smithing legacy to reforge his ancient sword, and, should they succeed, one-tenth of the Lonely Mountain's hoard would be his.

After the that, Sylas remained in the Dwarven stronghold.

The reforging of the sword began the very next day.

It was no simple task. The forging wouldn't take place in the surface workshops, but deep within the ancient mine shafts of the Blue Mountains—thousands of meters underground. Only there could they harness the fury of the earth's molten core, hot enough to melt a Númenórean-forged blade tainted by dark magic.

Sylas was invited to witness the process.

Climbing into a rickety cable cart, he descended with the Dwarves into the belly of the mountain. The further they traveled, the more the air shimmered with heat, and the more the stone glowed with a deep red hue, like embers beneath the skin of the world.

At last, they reached the great forge.

It was built atop a basalt platform that jutted out over flowing magma. The air was stifling, and yet Sylas remained wrapped in his black cloak, enchanted with charms. To him, the forge's heat felt no more pressing than a summer breeze.

Before him, the work began.

Thorin, bare-armed and armored in thick leather, stood at the center of the platform. Flanking him were two master smiths, each as stout and scarred as their king. They worked in harmony, lifting heavy iron hammers and striking the glowing metal with an unspoken rhythm.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Each blow landed with thunderous force, and yet there was a strange beauty to it, a song of steel and fire, echoing through the caverns like a battle chant from ages past.

...

Stones PLZzzz


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