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On December 1st 2023, my next book, a parody and satire of J. R. R. Tolkien's The Hobbit, will be published on and as a . This is a book which I hadn't planned to write, but once I started I couldn't stop. I love The Hobbit but it has its shortcomings, both as a book and as a story; one thing that always grated with me was how meek a dwarvish warrior-king like Thorin was when captured by the hated Goblins. Tolkien clearly had a good sense of humour and he was never happy with the first half of The Hobbit - he wanted to rewrite it - so I hope he would have appreciated what I've done and why. I've also tried to give the whole thing a 1930s feel, reflecting the era in which it appeared. Here is the first chapter:

Chapter 1 � Destiny. And Revenge.

In a hole in the ground, there lived a dwarf.
The hole was a nasty, damp, foul-smelling pit hacked out of a pile of slag on a barren mountainside, but dwarves are not averse to roughing it, and to this particular dwarf the hole was Home.
To keep out the worst of the sleet that blew in across the peaks, the dwarf had propped up a thick slab of slate across the entrance, and it was upon this slab that someone was knocking. Knocking hard, with something even harder, made of metal.
The dwarf roused himself from his slumbers � he’d only come off shift down the mines a short time before � and he picked up a just-in-case pickaxe before thrusting aside the slab and taking a look at who was bothering him.
Grey boots, dusty and down at heel, reached to the knees. A long way to the knees; it was no dwarf beneath that cloak, also grey, which swaddled the tall thin figure like a thundercloud swaddles the heart of the storm. In one hand, the stout iron-shod staff that had done all the knocking. A long beard, as jagged as lightning, struck out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. In the shadow of the brim, the glint of eyes, fire-flicker fierce. And everything, from head to foot, as grey as the ash from a forgotten forge.
The dwarf peered up and stuck out his own beard. His whiskers were not so fine these days but his pride was there somewhere, buried deep, and even when they have lost everything else, dwarves can still dig.
“Eyup! What’s tha want? [1]�
“I seek,� said the tall grey figure, in half-decent dwarvish, “the King Inside the Mountain.�
The dwarf chuckled, and switched to his own tongue.
“That loser? This time of day you’ll find him in the Pick and Shovel.� He pointed a stubby finger down the cinder track which led to a straggle of ugly buildings. “Follow the smell.�
The tall figure followed the dwarf’s gaze, and nodded.
“Much obliged.�
He flicked a silver piece in the air with his thumb, sending the coin spinning.
The dwarf reached out and grabbed it, and watched the grey stranger go striding away towards the town.
“King Inside the Mountain,� he grunted. “What a waste of ale!�

The grey stranger found the Pick and Shovel easily enough without the need to follow the smell; a lucky thing too, since there were many smells to choose from, and none of them good.
The Pick and Shovel was no homely mountain tavern, but a long low structure built of splits of stone that were no use for anything else. Wood was in short supply in mining-country, and the fragrant forests which had once clad the mountainsides were all gone, hacked down and turned into pit-props. What remained of the trees held up the slopes where once they had thrown down deep, strong roots; not strong enough or deep enough to save them from the blow of the axe. Even the tables inside the tavern were hewn from blocks of stone. Only the vague rectangle of the stage was made of warped planks of wood that had been cut rough and worn smooth.
The stranger bought himself a mug of ale from the barkeep � human-breed, like most in the tavern � and settled himself to watch what passed for evening entertainments.
First up was a one-armed juggler, the victim of some mining accident who had tried to convert the heavy grey lead of his misfortune into gold. He threw and caught with his one hand, bouncing the balls in mid-air off one knee or the other, or his shoulders or his shiny bald head. He garnered a few shouts of appreciation, rather more of derision, and a mixture of thrown coins and bottle-tops (most of which he successfully caught) for his pains.
Next onto the warped stage came a magician, the usual bearded charlatan, wrapped in a star-stitched cloak and with a pointed black hat on his head.
“Ludicrous garb,� growled the grey stranger.
He watched with growing disdain as the magician removed his capacious hat and plucked from it fake flowers and floppy fish and playing cards. The crowd responded with some lazy clapping; seen it all before, and too drunk to care.
The grey stranger had seen it all before too, but even two sups into his ale his malice was brimming over. He muttered a few words, drew a discreet sigil in the air with two fingers on his left hand, and rubbed the same two fingers together. Almost at once a small fire kindled inside the fake magician’s hat, blazing up with a crackle.
“How’d ‘e do that?� drawled a bleary eyed pit-man at the neighbouring table, and he and the rest of the crowd reacted to this new aspect of the well-worn routine with furious applause. The surprised magician, meanwhile, had already dashed off the stage in search of water for his hat and something stronger for himself.
“And now,� bellowed the master of ceremonies, “the all singing, all dancing, King Inside the Mountain and His Coal Porters!�
With a drumroll, seven small shapes came spinning out from the wings. They went head-over-heels halfway across the stage, then leapt up, becoming a dwarf somewhere in mid-air. They landed in a semi-circle, each one with a different coloured beard � blue, yellow, red, green, orange, purple, and silver � all of them sparkling with tiny specks of stardust. Ground glass and metal shavings, but in the glare of the lights they glittered like Elven-kind.
Their cheeks were painted red and their eyes were rimmed with black, and they held musical instruments in their hands: a flute, two fiddles, a clarinet, two viols, and a harp. With a rhythmic stamp of their heavy feet, they started to sing:

When we dig in the delvings,
It brings back the sound of mining so tender,
Of building such fi-i-i-ine subterranean splendour,
When we dig in the delvings.

I’m with you once more under the earth,
And down in the depths, we dwarves are all singing,
Forges are lit, and hammers are ringing,
When we dig in the delvings.

To mine so deep down is what we endeavour,
With picks in our hands we fill our minecarts,
To find gems and jewels, and wealth never-ending,
When we dig in the delvings.

The grey stranger watched the dwarves go through their set, a string of popular musical favourites. The crowd, by this point in the evening far too drunk to do more than roar along, had slipped into that narrow gap between good-natured complacency and sudden violence. One man staggered onto the stage, perhaps to partner one of the dwarves in a dance, or to discuss the finer points of musical taste with his fists, but the dwarf he singled out simply stepped aside, whipped the man’s legs out from under him, and rolled him into the sawdust and spittle on the floor.
The routine finished with no further incident, and as the dwarves bowed and made their way off the stage, the stranger pulled from his cloak a small piece of parchment, a writing quill, and a vial of ink. He scribbled a note and handed it to a passing bar-hand together with another piece of silver and a gesture towards the stage.
It did not take long for the note to bring results. The stranger had barely drunk two more sups from his flagon of ale when the dwarves reappeared in the wings, some still with painted faces and sparkling beards, and they made their way to the stranger’s table.
One of them stepped forwards, a dwarf with broad shoulders even for that race, and a nose like a pick. “You write decent dwarvish.�
The grey stranger gave him an angular shrug beneath his cloak.
“It comes in handy from time to time in my business.�
“Which is?�
The grey stranger seemed to smile beneath his beard.
“I seek the King Inside the Mountain.�
“That’s just my stage name. I’m not yet king. It’s my father you seek, Thrawn son of Thrifty, and he’s not here,� the dwarf replied. “The last time I saw him, he was –�
“� heading off to reclaim his ancient kingdom, fifty-three years, five months, two weeks, and three days ago last Thursday. And I know whom it is that I seek, Thorny Brokenshield. I seek you, the true and rightful King Inside the Mountain!�
“You mean my father –�
“I am afraid so. My condolences.�
The other six dwarves knelt before Thorny with looks of reverence and respect.
“Hail King Thorny!� they shouted in unison.
“Arise my kinfolk,� replied Thorny gravely. “We long suspected as much. Ogg had that twinge in his knees. Thrawn has returned to the Halls of Our Fathers, but as we dwarves believe, he shall walk again among us. Arise and be merry, as my father Thrawn would have wished.�
“Well said, Your Highness!� The dwarf with a hint of red in his beard slapped Thorny on the back. “Get a round in!�
“In good time. First, I will hear more from this grey stranger. Who are you, and how do you know of my father’s death?�
“My name is Grendelf the Beige.�
“Beige? Grey, surely?�
“Nay, such are my travails, and so many miles have I travelled upon the road, that my raiment is quite faded. I will have to get it dyed again sometime. As I was saying, I am Grendelf, and I am a wizard. These are your kinsfolk and trusted companions?�
“Aye. Grog, Flog, Blog, Nog, Ogg, and Zog. You don’t look much like a wizard.�
“And you do not look like a king. Not yet. But all that glitters is not go-�
“Goats!� said Grog sharply.
“Goalkeepers!� said Nog.
“Gossamer!� said Zog.
“Goshawks!� said Blog.
“Gonorrhoea!� said Flog.
“Go on,� Grog said, giving Thorny a nudge with one elbow. “Get a round in, then we’ll have a proper natter.�
Thorny gave a solemn nod, and stomped off in the direction of the bar.
The other dwarves hauled over a huge stone table and some extra chairs, and sat themselves down around it.
Grog scowled at Flog. “All that glitters is not gono-bloody-rrhoea?�
“Sorry. Been on my mind lately.�
“No doubt.� Grog turned to Grendelf, “It’s the ‘g� word. Sets Thorny off into a berserker rage. He’s never got over what the dragon did, and losing all that gold.�
Grendelf nodded.
“Understandable. He still has his pride then, and his honour? Even dancing and singing in an ale-house?�
The dwarves, their faces painted and beards dyed, each gave an uncomfortable shuffle.
“There’s honour, and there’s honour. We tried digging coal for a while, but humans have no style. Dig it out any way they can, quick and dirty. We were carting out ten times as much stone as coal and the mine-owners didn’t like it, but the galleries we made... A palace, every one.�
“I can imagine that did not go down well here.�
“Unprofitable, apparently. But we’ve stuck with Thorny, and we’ll stick yet,� Grog said, eyes flashing. “I warn you, wizard. If you’ve come to trick him –�
“Trick him? Nothing could be further from my mind, I assure you. I have only his best interests at heart.�
“A wizard? Doing someone a favour? First I’ve bloody heard!�
With a clink and a curse, Thorny reappeared, thick arms cradling a bevvy of beakers, all foaming full of ale. He slopped his burden down onto the table, and with a cheer of thanks, the dwarves and Grendelf helped themselves.
“A good start to your reign, Thorny lad,� Nog said, wiping the foam from his beard with his forearm. “You get my vote!�
“You daft beggar! That’s not how it works,� Ogg hissed.
“N´Ç?â€�
“No. It’s the more in the way of absolute power and a complete lack of accountability.�
“Sounds good to me! Just keep the ale coming!�
“So,� Thorny said, scowling across the table at Grendelf. “Tell me: how do you come to know about the death of my father?�
Grendelf put down his flagon of ale, and gave his head a solemn shake. “Ah, a sorry, sorry tale it is, indeed.�
“A²Ô»å?â€�
“Well, you will recall how after you and your folk were driven from the Only Mountain by the evil dragon Smog –�
“Curse his name!�
� � that your grandfather, Thrifty the Careful, was killed by a Bogrol in the dark depths of Khazi Dunny eighty-six years, two hundred and thirteen days ago last Monday afternoon at four.�
“Aye! Curse the Bogrols! It is past time we flushed their kind for ever from the porcelain tunnels of Khazi Dunny!�
“Indeed. And thereafter you and your father and your dwindling number of allies wandered lost between the Murky Mountains and the wilds of Bellenderland.�
“Obviously. We were there. Get on with it. How did my father meet his end? And how do you come to know of it?�
“Your father, Thrawn, left you and went in search � �
“Yes. Yes. Out with it, wizard.�
“I found your father, broken from torture, a prisoner in the dungeons of the Fancyshmancer.�
The dwarves all shared a baleful look, and a shudder that left no lap free of ale.
“The Fancyshmancer?� Thorny said. “What the chuffin� ‘eck was my father doing there?�
“I know not,� Grendelf replied. “But there he was.�
“Odd. I don’t remember him saying owt about going off anywhere near the Fancyshmancer. He did say how he might try to find a helpful wizard, maybe persuade him to broker an alliance with some well-disposed elvish lord to try to take back the Kingdom Inside The Mountain.�
“Ah.� Grendelf’s ale stopped just short of his lips. “He... er... he did?�
“Aye. ‘Surely,� he said, ‘they’ll be interested in helping us out. I mean, if the Fancyshmancer finally reveals himself and marches out to cover the lands with darkness, having a dragon on your back’s not going to help much, is it? And they’re going to need the power of the Kingdom Inside the Mountain to throw down that dark lord.� His exact words.�
“Right.� Grendelf looked thoughtful for a moment. But only for a moment. “Anyway, enough of all that boring geopolitical nonsense. You yourself have not felt the urge to return to the Only Mountain?�
“Fate has not yet decreed it. We keep casting the runes, but they’re useless.�
“They did predict that business with the chickens,� said Flog.
“Aye, that they did. But nothing about the kingdom.�
“Hmmm,� said Grendelf, stroking his beard. “It may be you have a faulty set. Try mine.�
He produced a set of runes, carved from a substance so black they seemed to suck all the light into them.
“These runes were carved from a lump of bog oak that had lain for five hundred years in the dark and haunted waters of the Swamp of Slaughtered Souls, the drowned battlefield of Bellenderland. They are soaked full of arcane knowledge gleaned from the tortured spirits who remain there.�
“Nice one!� Thorny clapped his hands together. “Let’s give it a go!�
He cast the runes. The dwarves all leant forwards, peering at the scatter of carven shapes.
“Stranger... Grey cloak.... A sign or token... Kingdom... Vengeance... Fire and glory!�
The dwarves glanced around at each other, then as one they looked at Grendelf.
“Bloody Norah!�
Thorny hunched forwards eagerly. “And, grey-cloaked stranger, you’ve not got a sign or a token about you, by any chance?�
“Will this do?� Grendelf reached under his cloak and drew forth a scroll of parchment which he unrolled upon the table.
The dwarves surged forwards, leaning over it. “A map of the Only Mountain!�
“Indeed it is. It shows a secret entrance here,� Grendelf pointed with one long finger, “which you might use to gain access and have your revenge upon Smog!�
“But where did you get it?�
“From your father, before he died. He long resisted the torture of the Fancyshmancer, and where he hid this on his person I cannot say, but at the last it was all he could remember, and eventually I managed to force... er, to prevail upon him to give it to me. So that I might seek you out and pass it on to you, his heir! Not that he told me who you were or where to find you. I pressed him quite warmly, quite warmly indeed, but he outright refused to tell me.�
“He refused?�
“Did I say that? I meant he was confused. It’s taken me years to track you down.�
Thorny and the others studied the map for a while, eyes glittering with hope. At the last, the dwarf king gave his head a shake and clicked his tongue.
“It’s tempting, but... Nobody knows better than a dwarf how hopeless it is to confront a dragon in a fair fight with a frontal assault.� He touched the map with rueful fingers. “Even with the benefit of a surprise sneak attack from the side... If we had a hundred dwarves, maybe. But we’re seven. I don’t see how this really changes anything.�
“Ah, my dear Thorny. But it does. I have someone in mind who may be able to help you out.�
“Must be a very special someone.�
“Oh, indeed. Indeed he is.�
“What kind of someone?�
“A holbit.�
“What the flaming fandango is a ‘holbit�?�
Grendelf drew back into his stoney seat and steepled his fingers, trying for sagacious, and managing more than adequately.
“The name ‘holbit� derives from the phrase ‘hole-biter� in the Standard Speech, since in ages past it was believed � and it may well once have been true � that the ancestors of the holbits used their rather prominent front incisors to gnaw the communities of burrows in which they live.�
“Prominent front teeth?�
“Yes. And small round eyes, and soft pink skin. They tend to be a little on the roly-poly side –�
“They sound like mole-rats. Are you sure you don’t mean mole-rats?�
“No, no, I assure you. Holbits are most distinct from mole-rats. Well. Not entirely distinct, admittedly, and there may be some connection far back in the dim and distant primordial past... But these days holbits are sentient. Or profess to be. They are shorter than dwarves, and clean shaven, with tousled mops of curly hair upon their bumpkinish heads. You did not encounter any on your travels from the Only Mountain?�
“Maybe. They sound familiar. But I’m still seeing mole-rats. I still fail to see how one single holbit can make a difference to our plight.�
“That we shall see,� said Grendelf. “But harken, Thorny: this is no chance meeting between us. This is fate, for with this map and my help, you are sure to get your revenge upon Smog. This is your destiny!�
“Aye!� shouted the dwarves with a single voice, and they leapt to their feet, mugs in hands, and drank down their ale in one gulp. “Destiny! Revenge!�
“Destiny, indeed,� Grendelf echoed softly. “And revenge.�

[1] Dwarvish speech is rendered throughout by the accent of Sheffield in Yorkshire, England, famed as ‘the City of Steel� and a place of forges and furnaces. Literally ‘Hey there! What dost thou want?�, which may be translated more politely as ‘Good day! Who breaks my peace?�