[Koobdooga]

‘The Iron Hills, you say? Now that’s where Fror here is from.’ Ibun sensed a chance to make a trading contact, hearing the man had already had dealings with those of his kind. Though, he thought to himself, best he size up the man a bit more before making the invitation.

He ran the name Arnor about in his mind. The High King in Gondor, he recalled, had laid claim to being the ruler of the reunited kingdom. Arnor was the northern part of it, he thought. Ibun eyed Ciro through the smoke he’d just exhaled. Arnor . . . hmmm . . . and wasn’t that where that witch-king had been from? Him and his foul cronies.

Ibun chewed on the stem of his pipe, thinking. No – not Arnor that was Angmar, the Iron Land, further north, where the winged shadows had lived. Dunedain, like the High King, those were who had lived in Arnor.

‘Never been to the Horse-master’s land,’ he spoke aloud. He shook his head at the thought of the great beasts said to have come from there. ‘Give me a good, sturdy pony, or a nice little donkey. To pull my wagon that is, or pack my goods. Silly to ride astride those big brutes they have there. Don’t look too trustworthy to me.’ He leaned back in his chair and considered the thought of horses and who would ride them. ‘Course, you men have your own odd ways of doing things.’ He patted the side of his leg with his free hand. ‘Legs’re good enough for us Dwarves. Keeps us closer to the ground.’

‘Tell us about that waylaying you mentioned if you will,’ Ibun went on. ‘We met a man here, come from Gondor on a business trip. His party was set on, too. By ruffians he thought, though he was n’t sure it wasn’t Orc.’