Dáin's Saga by bunn  

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Exile : Dragonfire and Slaughter

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It was in the days of Dáin of the Grey Mountains, now called First-Dáin, son of Náin the Careful, son of Óin the Delver, son of Glóin the Prosperous, son of Thorin the Wanderer, son of Thráin the Exile son of Náin the Doomed of the House of Durin, who was born to be Lord of Khazad-dûm, that Durin’s Folk were driven forth once again from their halls.

A great Cold-drake came into the Grey Mountains, and killed Dáin and his second-son Frór beside him.

Thrór, first-child of Dáin was strong in the arm, but he was filled with dreams of old peace and plenty. He went away to the Mountain of Erebor with all the people who would follow him, to set up his golden throne there.

But Grór, third-child of Dáin, said: “Ill-fate dogs the House of Durin. I will not make treasures for worms or men to steal. I will make hammers, mattocks, and axes of steel.” He went to the Iron Hills, and set up his seat there.

Grór Dáinson was ill-tempered and sometimes foul of tongue. But he was bushy in the beard and well-known to be a cunning one, and so some of Durin’s folk chose to follow him instead of his older brother.

And the Grey Mountains stood empty and lone.

In the great halls where the Longbeards had lived, and made treasures to match the works of lost Khazad-dûm, dragons brooded. In corridors too narrow for the drakes to pass, orcs crept from the ruins of Mount Gundabad, and began to breed.

The heathland where men had raised pigs and sheep and gathered sweet berries for the Longbeards were withered by ice and dragon-fire.

Men called it the Withered Heath, and they fled from it.

Years passed. All thought Thrór had made the wiser choice (though saying so in the Iron Hills would be brave to the point of foolhardiness). The Mountain was rich in gold and gems, and busy with craftsmen. Soon there was much profitable trade with the Men of Dale, some of whom were Men who had fled the dragons of the Withered Heath, and even with the Elves of the Wood.

In Erebor, it was said, there was no need to till the land, for food, ale and all good things could be bought with their skills and treasures. Thrór married a woman of high standing in the Mountain, for her family had been priests when Gundabad was a holy mountain, long ago.

Their child was called Thráin, after the last king born in Khazad-dûm before the fall.

In the Iron Hills, Grór and his folk made steel. The land was at peace. Few Men came up the river Carnen to sell grain and leather in the Iron Hills, when they could travel to Erebor, and Grór’s folk made shoes of iron for lack of leather, ate the oats they grew in the thin soil and herded sheep.

There, Náin, the heir of Grór was born, even bushier and angrier than his sire, to Helgisdaughter, who had married Grór not long before the coming of the Dragon to the Grey Mountains. She was cold and bitter, remembering the life that the Dragon had ended, and resenting the change.

But Náin did not inherit his mother’s gloom. He was a great fighter, but bore no malice: his anger was a fist and a great rush of sparks, but soon over, and he soon gained a reputation in his own country as a lucky one as well as trouble in a quarrel.

Náin married a woman who had come from Erebor, because she had fallen in love with Thráin Thrórsson, and he would not have her so she had resolved to live life alone.

But Náin saw the enamelwork of Ranndaughter, colours bright as flame, and he set himself to win her heart, even though that was against all the customs.

Náin was a very fine poet, and he was as determined as he was fierce. In time, Ranndaughter’s broken heart mended and she became as fierce as he was himself.

Together they strove mightily to make the Iron Hills prosperous, and there was a good deal of shouting spent on that, and later, on the making of an heir.

They called him Dáin, in memory of his grandfather First-Dáin, who was slain by the cold-drake. And his mother said: ‘His voice is loud enough that even the dragons will take fright at him!”

Dragonfire and slaughter

It is true that no Dragon ever came to the Iron Hills.

But when Dáin was only three years old, Smaug, the Worm of Dread, came to Erebor, where his grandfather’s brother had made his home.

When word of the disaster came to the Iron Hills, Grór took Dáin upon his knee to receive those who had escaped the dragonfire.

First came some Men who had been from Dale, and Grór stamped his iron-shod feet and gave them welcome to the lands along the Carnen: the more willingly since some of their cattle-herd had escaped the dragon. “These will make fine allies,” Grór told his grandson.

“Will my cousins come?” young Dáin asked his father, in excitement. For he was too young to fear dragons, or to understand the wailing in the halls.

Dáin had heard much of his cousin Thorin, who was twenty-one years older, and already making a name for himself as both a smith and a fine player on the harp. Thorin also had both a brother and a sister, for which the young Dáin envied him mightily.

“They will not come here to work iron,” Helgisdaughter said, bitterly, and she turned away.

But Grór shook his head. “Wait and see, lad.” For there was no word yet of Thrór, nor of any of the House of Durin. Grór feared in his heart that his brother had met a fate like that of their father, and though they rarely agreed on any matter, he loved his brother still.

But he knew too that Thrór was proud, and much in love with the old glory of his house. Thrór would find it hard to come to his brother’s house as a beggar.

Only after months of doubt did word come to the Iron Hills that Thrór, Thráin and Thorin too had escaped the Dragon and fled. But instead of heading east to the Iron Hills, they had made a great journey westward, to Dunland, and there they lived with a few of their folk, among Men, just a little way south of the old limits of Khazad-dûm.

Now Náin and Grór took council together in Hill Hall, at the heart of the Iron Hills.

If that hall was not as tall as the halls of Erebor, nor as busy and rich as the halls of the Grey Mountains, it was warm and bright and well stored enough, while the wind howled wild over the heather hilltops, chasing away the smoke that came from chimneys buried deep in the rock. Dáin and his friend Vili played by the fireside with many-coloured stone blocks.

“It’s a pity that my brother didn’t come to stay with us,” Grór said, for now that Thrór had lost almost everything, he was inclined to feel more warmly about him.

“Why would you say that?” Náin replied. “Did you forget that my uncle’s the older of you two? If he came here with his son and grandson, who are older than me and Dáin, they would soon be taking over everything we’ve worked so hard for! Besides, have you not forgotten that I won my wife from cousin Thráin?”

“You’d do better not to boast about that,” Helgisdaughter reproved him. “That’s not the custom, and you know it!”

But Grór, Náin’s father, said: “It’s good news that they are making their own way in Dunland. I’m sure they’ll do very well there once they have had a chance to get established.”

And he sent a messenger to Dunland the next day, with gifts for Thorin, Frerin and Dís, a small amount of money, and a letter offering an invitation to stay in such polite unpressing terms that he knew Thrór would never accept it.

To Thorin, he sent a new board game that Grór had invented and of which he was very proud, with coloured stone counters representing each of the Seven Houses of the Dwarves.

To Frerin, he sent a book of verses written by Náin, and to Dís, he sent a very fine steel dagger, of a size suitable for a child of her age.

In time, a reply came back with the messenger that had travelled all the way to Dunland, full of thanks and gracious language that said nothing very much at all. And with it, was a gift for Dáin: a small, lightweight pendant made of pure gold, marked with the anvil and hammer surmounted by seven stars of the House of Durin.

It said, without words, and more clearly than anything in the letter: we need no charity from you.

“A kingly gift,” Ranndaughter said, looking at it in wonder hanging around her child’s neck.

“I wonder what they had to melt down, to make it,” Helgisdaughter said, cynically.

******

Dáin makes a name at wrestling

Twenty years passed, and Dáin had grown nearly to his full height, though his beard was short and scruffy, and his shoulders still narrow. He was known in those days as a miner more enthusiastic than skilled, with a way of wielding his hammer in a manner that sent shards of rock flying.

But he was less angry than his father or his mother, and already had a name as a welcome guest and generous host.

Not only among his own folk. The Ravens of Erebor had fled the Dragon to the lands around about, and they still visited the Iron Hills on occasion, and they came most willingly to Dáin, bringing news.

Dáin still had never met in person his three cousins exiled from Erebor by dragonfire and ruin, nor his uncle Thráin, nor his great-uncle Thrór. But from time to time, young Dís, only six years older than Dáin, sent him a letter with some traveller who was going eastward.

Dáin’s replies were always brief and occasional, not least because not many folk travelled often to Dunland. Even the Ravens found the flight too far for their black wings.

From Dís’s letters, when they came, they learned that life among Men in Dunland was hard.

The family had not turned to farming, as Grór had done in his own early days in the Iron Hills — or at least, if such indignity had ever been considered, Dís never said so — but there was little more dignity in working as a blacksmith or tinsmith for hire in the poor wood-built villages of Men.

Thrór’s family could not afford the materials to set up in business working with gems or gold or even the fine stonework and polished steels now produced by the Iron Hills.

*******

It happened that one day Dain and his father made a journey down the Red River in a ship that Náin had made for trading. It had fourteen oars, a shallow keel to pass the river shoals, and could carry a deal of goods as well as passengers. With them went Vili, who was a good friend of Dáin’s and a year or so younger.

Grór did not go with them, for his eyes had long been weak, and now they saw almost nothing. Náin went out to do business for his father, while Gror ruled from his chair in his hall.

They travelled south for many days and across the Sea of Rhûn. On the eastern side of that sea they left their ship and went on, all the way to the Red Mountain halls of the Ironfist folk.

They arrived just as the horns were being blown to declare the summer festival, and since the place was bustling and there was no time for introductions, Dáin went straight away to take part in the wrestling-competition all alone, leaving even Vili with Náin.

There Dáin met with an old person called Sigtrygge, who was arranging the bouts. He was a white-beard, but he had never travelled into the West, and he did not recognise Dáin, or know who Dáin’s family were, for Dáin in his eagerness had not said he was a Longbeard, or mentioned the name of Durin.

Sigtrygge took a good long look at Dáin and said: “There’s no point matching you with anyone of note, stripling! There’s no more to you yet than a peg!”

“None the less,” Dáin said, “I am a peg that wants to wrestle.”

So Sigtrygge grumbled, and he matched Dáin with a young Ironfist dwarf, called Narfi, and Dáin won the match. Narfi was not pleased, and he sneered at Dáin, pointing to his iron shoes, and calling him Ironfoot.

“None the less, I won,” Dáin said smiling, and went back to Sigtrygge to ask for another match. This time he fought an old dwarf who was called Hepti. He was one of the Stiffbeards from the distant north-east, and had been a great wrestler in his youth. Dáin won again.

Sigtrygge muttered into his white beard, and he matched Dáin with Jari Longarm, who was well known in those parts as a fine wrestler at the height of his powers, and was also renowned as a great poet.

Then Vili who was Dáin’s friend came, and counselled Dáin to leave the match, for he had heard Jari was a hard man to beat.

But Dáin said “None the less, I have matched with him, so I shall wrestle.”

So they wrestled, Dáin and Jari, and at first they were well-matched, though Jari was the older.

That match Dáin lost, but he was thrawn and nimble, and it was far harder for Jari to beat him than anyone had expected.

When Náin came to find out where his son had got to, he found that he and Jari had become good friends, and that Jari had composed a lausavísa in Dáin's praise.

Náin said angrily that Dáin was too young for such matters, and waved his fists.

But everyone could see that Náin was very proud indeed that Dáin had won so many bouts and had a lausavísa* made for him without even his family being known.

Even though he could not find the words to say so. 

(*A lausavisa is a single stanza composition, usually introduced into a saga with the words 'then said'. Sadly the words of this particular composition have been lost.)

*******

Azog

Not long after they returned to the Iron Hills that autumn, a messenger came from Dunland. Grór received him at once in Hill Hall before the bright council-fire.

“I come from Thráin, son of Thrór,” the messenger said. His coat was worn and his boots patched, but his voice was urgent. “Your brother Thrór is dead.”

“That’s sudden news, and dark,” Grór said to him. “We had not heard that he was sick.”

But the messenger shook his head. “He was not sick, except in heart. He went away with only one companion, his old friend Nár, to Khazad-dûm. There he died, slain by the orc Azog.”

Grór wept. Náin put his hands on his hips. “That’s bitter news. Thrór my kinsman was of full age, but that is a bad death at any age.”

Helgisdaughter demanded: “But how is this known? Did Nár survive?”

“Nár is old and weak,” the messenger said defensively. “There was nothing he could do. He watched Thrór walk into the open East-gate, heading for the Bridge, saying that he was the heir of Khazad-dûm, and would see his inheritance. Then, some days later Azog came and... and threw his head at him. Thrór’s head. He had branded the word ‘Azog’ across Thrór’s forehead, so we would not forget who did it.”

Grór put his head in his hands in grief, remembering the brother of his youth. “We will not forget.”

“A bitter end,” Náin said. All around the hall, Longbeards were shaking their heads at the tragedy. A few, who had come from Erebor, began rocking from side to side, keening.

Helgisdaughter muttered darkly under her breath.

Náin said: “To walk alone into Khazad-dûm! That’s brave, but I can’t call it wise. Our folk left the place for good reason.”

“Thráin has declared war on Azog,” the messenger said, raising his voice and making it ring across the room. “He says: we have endured too much. This insult cannot stand. He calls on all seven Houses to avenge his father’s death, and make war on the orcs until Azog is dead. We will march on Gundabad, on the orc-strongholds of the Misty Mountains, and at last on Khazad-dûm itself.”

Hearing this, Dáin leaped up in excitement. He was a young dwarf and had never been to war. “We will prepare at once!” he cried.

Náin looked at his father, hunched miserable in his chair, and around the room. “I say we won’t. Thrór chose his death. We all know that Khazad-dûm is a place of death. Durin died there, long ago, and Náin, my namesake, after him. Thrór was mad to go there at all, and madder still to walk in alone!”

“Yes, but...” Dáin said.

Náin raised his mighty voice. “All of us here have lost enough. We have fled from home to home, and now, here, we have a place where we can raise our families and go about our own business in safety. Why should we gamble what little we have, all that we have, on this war?”

“Durin’s heir calls on you...” the messenger began, raising his own voice in answer.

“Durin’s heir by accident of birth,” Náin shouted, his great shoulders coming up about his ears and his thick eyebrows bristling. “My father Grór is as much First-Dáin’s son as Thrór, and clearly he’s the wiser of the two.”

“But...” Dáin said.

“Quiet, lad,” Náin told him. “You’re far too young for this business. I won’t have you involved.”

The messenger turned to Grór. “Surely you won’t allow your son to speak for you in this?”

Grór looked at Náin, and Dáin, and Ranndaughter, who had come to stand beside her son, looking troubled.

“You know what I think,” Helgisdaughter said bitterly. “Nothing has gone right since the Dragon came to the Grey Mountains.”

Ranndaughter reminded Grór : “You’ve said to us many times that Thrór wished he lived in some old tale of heroes, where the heir of Durin is deathless, beloved, and always right.”

Gror scowled, but did not deny it.

Náin grabbed his wife in a fierce approving grip and held her close. “Didn’t you tell me, father, many times, that to have bread and ale and good roast pork, we have to grow it, or find a way to buy from those that do? We live in the world as it is. We can’t go mooning after kings.”

He glared at the messenger, who took a step backward. “What right does Thráin have, to call us out to die for him?” Náin demanded.

Slowly, Grór nodded. “Náin is right. My brother always looked backwards, wanting to be the gracious heir of Durin in times of peace and plenty. He died as he lived. But these aren’t times of peace, and neither orcs nor dragons can be wished away. A war for vengeance is exactly what this Azog wants.”

He looked around the hall, where the leaders of all the main families of the Iron Hills by now had gathered, listening. “What do you say, O folk of the Iron Hills? Do you want to answer Thráin’s call?”

Most of the people there looked away, but one or two were bold enough to call out ‘No!’

Even Dáin said nothing.

“Are you sure?” Grór said to them again, raising his voice so that even the people at the back could hear him. “I’ll hear from anyone who wants to speak.”

“It’s bound to go badly,” Helgisdaughter said. But she always said that.

At last, Dáin stood up, and he said, slowly and reluctantly: “I agree with my father. Azog is trying to bait us. He must have a reason. Strike too fast and you will only hit your own foot, the saying goes. If we take Azog’s bait, we will regret it.”

Grór turned to the messenger. “You have our answer.”

The messenger’s mouth twisted as if he had a bad taste in it. “My lord thought you might refuse. I must go on. Thráin is rallying all of our folk, even to the uttermost east. You can refuse to join us, but the Iron Fists, the Stiff Beards, and the Blacklocks have a keener sense of honour. They will avenge this insult to the Eldest House.”

“Maybe they will,” Náin said. “And maybe they won’t. They don’t know him as we do. You can have a bed for the night, and supplies for your journey. But we won’t go out to die in Thráin’s war.”