I, Loryeras of Kel Alari, do set down this account in the reign of those born long after the waters rose, that the children of our houses may know the grief beneath the sea.
The dwarven writing preserved in this matter was ancient even to the counselors of King Ordrin. Oft did they dispute its first meaning, and in several places rhyme itself was taken as the surest guide to intent. Therefore have I preserved the inscriptions as closely as they have come down to me; and where the old letters were disputed, worn, or doubtful, I have marked them so.
In the golden age of Aurumveldor, word was brought unto King Ordrin of Bol Boldihr that a certain door had been uncovered in the depths. It was told him that this door might answer to the legend of King Thindor Firefist, the Third of Three. According to that legend, the place was not only a tomb, but the dwelling place also of the grandest treasure ever supposed to have been buried away by dwarves at the time of his death.
The discoverer was Thoradar. Near the door ran a beautiful stream of water, glistening faintly with the dust of gold and silver and certain gems. Thoradar confessed that during the uncovering of the door, which had been freed only enough to open from its massive hinges, he first had the sense that he was not alone. At times he felt that the stream whispered unto him from the deep. He was certain of the validity of unfathomable treasure within.
He was certain also that this treasure chamber served as a way in and out of a vast tunnel network.
A statue of King Thinrist Firefist stood before the archway. There was found the first great inscription.
The night is black, the sky is blotted out, we have left the holds of our fathers,
And Thinrist has returned to the Maker.
The light becomes dark, The night and again night, the day with sorrow tomorrow.
For Thinrist has returned to the Maker.
The Old Ones have passed away, their homes are the stones far off, below,
Their spirits are laboring free.
Where are their spirits laboring? Only the rocks know, or the passing wind.
And Thinrist has returned to the Maker.
Are they below, the Old Ones? Are they here?
Do they labor warm by his forge, do they see our offering?
Tomorrow is naked and empty, for Thinrist has gone.
He is no longer seated with us at our fire.
By decree of Thindor Firefist, the third of three, so is sealed the seventh of seven. [letters worn away] agony of false hope [partially worn away —“torment”?] swallow as the mountain weeps for her children.
At that time the counselors confirmed Thindor as successor to Thinrist after his death. Yet their confirmation brought no peace, for the final words bore more warning than honor.
The counselors bade pause, but the king and his men were eager to press forward. The door was hard to open, and proved bound not merely by age but by purpose. They freed mechanisms and broke seals of permanently bound molten metal.
This labor required several days of attack upon the door. The place was so deep that king and councilors made camp nearby, for the door itself lay a few days' journey into the dark from the king's palace. After those days, King Ordrin and Thoradar peered into the dusty hallway beyond. The cut and measure of it were unlike those halls to which the dwarves were accustomed.
Some later said there was something in the water, sweet and promising, which spoke of hope and riches from its own source. Some even said it enchanted the king and his advisors.
They came then unto a vaulted place, far larger than the passages before it, as if made for giants. There stood a greater bronze door, with ornate carvings over all its face. Every span seemed heavy with meaning.
One image showed a dwarven king bashing his axe against his shield in defiance of a drow warchief, surrounded by his followers in various states of melee. Beneath it appeared a song.
King under Mountain
King of Dwarves
From the depth of stone we call
Heed our song
Fill our hearts
In the name of Thinrist Firefist we call
Speed our hammers
Guide our axes
As from the dusty plains we call
For ahead is the test
Plentiful times are past
In the name of Thinrist Firefist we call.
In the midst of the door was a giant keyhole. Lacking the key, the company lost a few more days to the manipulation of its mechanism and opening. At last they succeeded.
Past this door, the walls bore images and writings. Sprawled along one wall was a grand image of a dwarven king in his glory, beholding his masterful workers as they built an underground city.
Life is short and flesh is weak
Ale and mettle to metal mail
We don our arms, though things be bleak
For someone somewhere, reads our tale.
We carve our flesh into stone
For earth outlasts even death
And when we die, we die alone
And live again in readers' breath
When we fall, our halls will stand
When we sleep, our walls awake.
We dig our tombs with happy hands
Made immortal by what we make.
At the end thereof, the stream crossed before the next door. The waters complemented the door's base, which was of the sea.
Upon the next door was another wondrous work of engraving: the dwarven king upon a ship, and a sparrow singing on a rock among the waves.
My travels led me far and wide
Searching for elusive prey
My axe was ever at my side
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
We all have something like this axe
Be it friend, or book, or dream
Perhaps a place where we relax
And ponder what things mean.
This axe, I cherish it beyond gold
Though its worth is slightly less
It will stay as such, though I be old
And in constant fear and distress.
Never will I leave my friend
And neither, I’m sure, shall he
Until the dark and grisly end
Intertwined shall our paths be.
And as I traveled in my ship
A songbird on a rock I see
Nothing at all quite like me
Forever mine must she be.
The tunnel narrowed and led unto a room which at first appeared empty. There the company was halted. At long last one perceived that the floor itself was an engraved stone. After a day or two brushing away the dust and dirt of time, they uncovered the image.
The sparrow was trapped in a watery pool or sea. The king's image was carved into each wall of the room, and he seemed to behold her in the floor from above.
Save me from this place
Let me far from here
I can’t look at my own face
But soon the end is near.
The mining never ends
I crave the clear waters
Alone, and these small men
Who prate about their fathers
I hate these cold old mines
I hate your dwarven beard
I think you're going blind
The end will soon be here.
At last a portion of the floor image was revealed to be a trap door of stone. It was lifted, and into a small shaft they had to be let down, one by one, crawling down the tunnel. Much debate and consternation were felt there. Likely none other than dwarves would have suffered their king to follow Thoradar as he led the way, torch in hand; yet dwarves are less afraid than most of spelunking, enclosed passages, and the long descent of stone.
The tunnel led unto a rusted metal door. Upon the cage door was an engraving, revealed only after the rust had been cleansed away.
The image showed a regal dwarven king at a feast. Behind him stood a dwarf, with a sparrow on his shoulder, raising a dagger.
Thinrist!
Ostar Etar Thestar Gintar
Rimtar Oltar Kastar
?
Iklist Arist Anist Thinrist
Thinrist!
The buried king [with] the crimson girdle.
At the castle of gilded stone.
[What of] Thinrist?
?
(They) whisper of assault (on Thinrist) with an ignited dagger.
The door had a keyhole, and much difficulty was made over it. The company was grieved and grumbling on hands and knees, and only one could look upon the door at a time. At long last one of the counsel, by fortune, found that a key to this door had been built into the engravings of the previous door and seemed to be part of it. With joy they found it helped the lock, and with oil they opened the way.
The door opened into a room below, and they were grateful for standing room. There they discovered a pool with clean water entering from above and exiting by the rocks beneath. There they made camp.
In this place they found themselves stuck. They dug this way and that for days. Yet the water was sweet and delicious, and their dreams were of treasure and victory.
Their only clue was an image on the walls: dwarves bowing their knees all around in scattered array. On the ceiling was the most majestic carving—a skeletal sparrow flying overhead.
Upon finding this place, one of the guards jokingly muttered that he hoped they proceeded no further, for the room was pleasant. He was therefore cursed by the others for the better part of a week as they searched in vain.
Much ado was made of the placement of the bird on the ceiling. After discovering that it was directly beneath the original statue, the relationship was examined nearly to the point of seeking to break the statue, which fortunately they hesitated to do.
At long last the king himself noted that the kneeling dwarves were directed away from the bird's flight. Behind moss and dirt he found that a large stone must be a door. Indeed, upon removal they discovered a crypt. Unable to remove it cleanly, they spent a few days breaking it away, and found a raw jagged opening with the king's armor at rest, undoubtedly where at one point it had housed his bones.
Behold, Thinrist, immortalized by life here lies,
The Songbird, immortalized by death— no life in the eyes.
And so centuries just whistle by,
no need to haste when you don't have to die.
At long last one noted the slightest wind passing through cracks in the wall behind the tomb. They broke the crack. The wall was easily torn down, revealing a cavern.
Upon breaking through, they found that they had circumvented a hidden door in the tomb which led to this chamber. Its own obstruction and puzzle needed no further consideration, whatever it had been.
Several mossy skeletons, which appeared to have lain against the sixth door in their last moments, were found. The party here found themselves in a great cavern of multiple large rooms. A great battle had once been fought here, and the bodies seemed to be of many dwarven guards and warriors: guard against guard, guard against warrior, warrior against warrior.
In this room there was little mystery as to which door mattered: a door in the center of the furthest room, of ordinary bronze make. It was much faded, and yet readable.
Upon it a songbird picked at bones among ruins. The slot in the door appeared in the middle of the Songbird's chest.
Gems, metals and gold, earths's blood and marrow,
ideas, shapes and stories to be told, piercing my mind like finely crafted arrows.
Nothing remains, nothing stays still.
Nobody left here anymore, for life to scare and kill.
Layers of dust on the shelves, the chill of frozen marrow in my bones,
forgotten even by the elves, I've witnessed crumbling of the proudest thrones.
After some time attempting to pick or pry the lock, they searched the armor and found that the stone beneath the king's body covered a crevice with a jagged, unusual blade. The blade as key seemed evident. So eager were they to see whether it worked that hardly any stopped for a moment to consider opening the final door.
They oiled the lock and turned it with little difficulty. The blade made a cold ringing sound. The company took a step back as the door slowly opened, heavy mechanisms slamming slowly into place. The blade rang like a tuning fork, echoing from its own reverberation, and the ringing seemed only to build and grow greater as it carried through the tunnels beyond the door.
There was a dim, beautiful, blue light which flittered and reflected evasively around the walls. The sound now had a certain tone to it, almost in the form of a musical key, as the echoes became other echoes and built into the halls until at last they seemed to resolve into the form of a single but incredible voice.
Soon words began, ancient, soothing, and unknown. The party found themselves inexplicably drawn toward the water, which reflected the most beautiful light upon the walls of the entryway.
Beyond a wall sang a lone Singer, who gracefully ended her tune and greeted them. They heard her voice echo as they spotted her from afar in the pool. Each and every one of them was captivated by her refined presence at once, and immediately felt that shy admiration one naturally feels in the presence of someone one would hope would soon call him friend, hero, rescuer.
She told them she had fallen within, but they could not swim to her in her chains. They had to make use of what the author describes as a construct to free her from the deep.
Yet beneath her song the water showed another truth. Its face was fair, still, and silver-blue, but the light within it fell downward farther than courage could follow. What seemed a pool was a throat of the world, and the fair shining of it made the black beneath more terrible.
Then came the first cries, as the old accounts render them, not all at once but as far bells under stone: of Bol Boldihr undone, of the valley betrayed, and of the Deep loosed from Her bonds.