Dáin's Saga by bunn  

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Azanulbizar

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“Azanulbizar,” the Raven croaked, from the back of Grór’s high chair where he had landed. “Thráin marches up Silverlode towards the Eastgate.”

It was early in the day, but late in the year: the sun rose late, her dim face rarely seen through grey clouds. The cunningly-wrought steel mirrors set high in the hills brought little light and grey into the hall of Grór.

“How many does Thráin have with him?” Grór demanded of the Raven.

“How many of them are left?” Náin said almost at the same time. It was the same question.

“They march through the woods,” the Raven answered. “I cannot say. Fewer than marched on Gundabad. Many fewer.”

The wind wailed with a cold voice in the chimney-vent above the fire, and the flames leaped.

“The year wanes to its end,” Grór said in a low voice. “The winds are dark, the sun is almost asleep. And Thráin’s army is full of children, motherless, stirred up with hot words.”

He stood up, looking around the hall where his family were breaking their fast. “Could he not wait?” he cried. “The sky itself will fight against them: there will be no sunlight to turn back Azog’s legions!”

Náin stood up, and his face behind his great beard was full of anger. “Thráin will lead them all to their deaths,” he said. “Father, I want to take a force to Azanulbizar. If I go, I might be able to turn the tide of battle.”

Grór glared at him. “Or you might add to the tally of the fallen.”

Náin glared back at him. “If I go, I could help them! Glóin is a child, he’s only seen sixteen summers! Who knows how many other children are with them?”

Grór huffed into his beard. “You have a young child of your own to think of,” he said.

“And that’s why I’m not happy in my mind about Glóin!”

“Some would say that Glóin is his father’s responsibility. And his king’s,”

“And if neither of them has the common sense of a three-day piglet?” Helgisdaughter asked him cuttingly.

Grór threw up his hands in despair. “Very well then! Go! But... take Dáin with you.”

Náin puffed up his beard angrily. “Dáin is not of age.”

“He’s near twice young Glóin’s age, and he gets on with his cousins, unlike you,” Grór told his son firmly. “He won’t get into a fight with Thráin. If he’s with you, then you might think twice about it too. Take him!”

*******

The Iron Hills were well supplied with weapons. Food supplies, and all that people might need if ever they had to leave in a hurry, were kept ever packed and stored near all the doors.

So it was not long before Dáin and his father marched out, at the head of a strong, well-armed company.

They crossed the River Running at the old bridge, and passed through Mirkwood on the old trade-route, south of the Elven-lands. The forest was dark and grim, and they rested only twice, marching at top speed.

They had no trouble, for they were many and well-armed, and though the Anduin was full, it being winter, they floated their arms across on rafts easily enough.

They came at last to the Vale of Azanulbizar, late in the day. The sky was iron-grey, and the mountains loomed dark around them. Náin had urged them on to make great speed that day, around the long reaching arm of the foothills of Bundushathûr.

They found bodies beside the trail: orcs at first, with wounds from axe and warhammer. After a while there were dwarves, and many spent arrows with dark feathers lying like autumn leaves around them.

Náin would not delay to help the wounded, nor to attend to the dead.

With him were Alfr and Bildr, Buri and Bruni. Grer was there and Grimr his brother. Vili stood by Dáin, though both were young. Móin and Thóin were not shy of the fray, they were there with their hammers. Bufur left his dinner behind, so great was his speed to the war.

Tóki led his five brothers: all were dressed in fine mail with helms cunningly wrought: it was their first battle and their last. All would weep for them.

And with them also was Dis, for she was of the line of Durin himself, and would not be gainsaid.

Now they could hear the cries of battle ahead of them over the voice of the cold river Celebrant. The great peaks were lost in dark cloud as if the mountains turned their face away.

The land was wet, gloomy and comfortless in the wide valley, Azanulbizar, of which many songs are sung. 

  On that day, the host of Thráin had twice advanced up the long slopes towards the Eastgate of Khazad-dûm.

Each time they had been beaten back with great losses.

And not the first losses, for this was the fifth day of the battle.

When Náin found Thráin, his host had been forced back to the cover of a wood of twisted oaks beside the Mirrormere.

There were many wounded and dead among them. It was no longer clear who was Blacklock and who was Longbeard: Stonefoot stood beside Iron Fist, equally mired with blood and sweat.

Thráin One-eye was wounded in the leg. His son Frerin lay dead beside him. Thorin’s armour was rent and torn, and he had snatched up a fallen branch to use as a shield, for his own had shattered.

Balin and Dwalin, blood in their short beards, still stood to defend their king, but Orcs were carrying off prisoners bound, towards the open mouth of Moria above them.

Náin was overcome with rage and shame. He had seen the trap that Azog had set, and he thought, had come too late. He could not see all the way to the doors, for Grór ‘s blindness was approaching him too, but he could see his enemies.

Overcome with fury, Nain rushed into the battle.

Dáin was behind him, every step, though the numbers of the orcs and goblins were uncountable, and this was his first great battle.

The orcs turned, and with a shout they drove down into the valley. So many of them there were, pouring out from the old East-gate, that they filled half the valley.

But Náin’s anger blazed bright within him and he wielded his great mattock like Mahal himself in the wars of the dawn of the world, when even the Elves slept.

None could stand against them. Up the stony slopes they leaped. The orcs abandoned their prisoners, as Náin and Dáin charged up to the shores of Mirrormere.

Past the twisted trees where their cousins had taken refuge.

“ Azog! Azog! Azog !" Thorin began the cry, as he saw the orcs waver and begin to turn before Náin’s assault, and the whole host took it up, as Náin led them onward and upward.

Up, past the stone of Durin. Alfr died there, proud was his ending.

Up the ancient road above the lake that their ancestors had made.

Buri and Bruni fell there: long will they be remembered.

Náin rushed up the last slope to the Gate. Dáin and Dís, Grer and Grimr were behind him in a point like a spear. None could withstand the axes of Dáin and Dís. Vili was at their heels, guarding their backs.

Náin reached the gate, and he was winded. He stood near the gate, breathing hard, and then he cried out: “Azog! If you are in, come out! Or is the play in the valley too rough?”

There were few who stood with Náin by the Gate, when Azog came forth, and with him were many great orcs clad in iron.

Azog said: “What? Yet another beggar at my doors? Must I brand you, too?”

And with that he threw himself at Náin with all his might. His goblin-guard followed him, and Dáin and Dís were hard put to it.

Vili broke the spear thrown at Dis. Grer and Grimr slew many. Tóki and his five brothers came to their aid: hard fighting was there beside the dark threshold of Moria.

Náin was worn with the effort of his great charge up the mountain, overcome with rage, and his eyes were weak. He dealt Azog great blows with his mattock, but Azog was fresh, and he was faster too, and full of guile. He darted aside.

Náin’s blows did not land on Azog. Azog’s guard kept back Dáin and Dís, Grer and Grimr and Vili. There, Tóki was slain, and his brothers beside him. Bufur was there: he carved through the orcs, but could not save Tóki.

At last, Náin lifted his mattock, and gave one great blow with all his last strength. But Azog leaped aside, and as he jumped, he kicked Náin’s leg, so that he stumbled forward.

Náin’s mattock hit the stone and splintered, and Azog’s blade came down upon his neck.

Now, so strong was the mail of the Iron Hills that it withstood even such a blow. But Náin’s neck was broken and he fell.

Dáin cried out, as he saw his father fall. Azog yelled in triumph.

But even as he yelled, Azog looked around at the battle, and Dáin saw his face change.

He could see the darkling dusk that the orcs were fleeing across Azanulbizar. Thráin’s host had burst from the woods beside Mirrormere to hunt them here and there across the vale.

And on the road to the Gate, his guards lay dead, and Dáin stood over them, his bloody axe in his hand.

Azog shrieked and turned to flee.

But Dáin was after him, following him up the steps, and right upon the threshold he caught Azog.

With one blow, Dain took Azog’s head, and it rolled away back down the steps, and away over the icy rocks towards Mirrormere.

But Dáin stood with his bloody axe upon the threshold of Moria. He looked down into the dark: into the First Hall, where the last afterlight of the dusk through the high windows lingered, and into the dark that lay beyond.

The dark that hid the stair that Thrór had taken, down to the slender bridge. All know of that bridge. Since the days of Náin the Doomed, none of the House of Durin had crossed that bridge by choice.

And far off in the dark beyond sight he knew it: Durin’s Bane, the doom of his ancestors. Shadow wrapped around a dark flame, waiting.

Dáin knew the darkness of the mines, but the breath of Moria was beyond him.

He turned away and went down the steps to his father’s body, where Dis was waiting, wide-eyed and pale, her mattock red with blood.

There Dáin wept. His father had fallen before the great gate of his fathers that none could enter, and he was not alone.

They had won the day. But the dead were beyond the count of grief, and of those that lived, barely half could stand or had hope of healing.

Azog’s head was brought to Thráin, and set upon a stake.

That night was dark, and filled with weeping. The survivors gathered near the Mirrormere, in the shelter of the oakwoods, and they made fires to hold back the night, while all around the dead slept, unburied.

Above them, the gate gaped dark, and behind it was a shadow and a flame.

Dáin and Dis, Grer and Grimr and Bufur shared their fire with Thorin Oakenshield, and with that Jari Longarm of the Iron Fist, who long ago had wrestled with Dáin, and had written a lausavísa in his honour. He was Longarm no longer, for he had lost his left arm to the shoulder to a goblin-blade, and he would wrestle no more.

Together those heroes shared bread and wept for Frerin, brother of Thorin and Dis, and for Náin son of Grór, and for Tóki the beloved, and many others.

When morning came, the winter sun reached long red beams under the lid of grey-blue cloud that sat above the mountains, dying the snowy peaks as with blood.

A red light lay on the doors of Moria and on the silent steps where the dead still lay thick, while in the valley-shadow, dark blood froze on the stones.

And Thráin, heir of Durin, stood before the host, halt in one leg and blind in one eye, with his son Thorin beside him, and he said: “Good! We have the victory! Khazad-dûm is ours!”

But the host was silent, until Dáin stepped forward, and beside him was Dis, who was Thráin’s own daughter, and Jari Longarm.

And Dáin said: “Durin’s Heir you may be, but even with one eye you should see clearer.”

And Dis said: “We fought this war for vengeance, Father, and vengeance we have taken for my grandfather, Durin’s Heir, and rightful Lord of Moria. But this vengeance is not sweet. If this is victory, then our hands are too small to hold it.”

Then Jari said : “We of the Iron Fists, and all the other Houses, we have fought for you and we have paid a great price. But Khazad-dûm was not our father’s House. What is it to us who are not of Durin’s House, unless a hope of treasure?”

“Well then,” Thráin said, pointing to the Gate. “The wealth of my house lies thither. Come with me and take it!”

But Jari held out his remaining hand, indicating the fallen who lay covered in hoar-frost across the valley, and he spoke this verse:

“Sindri is fallen.

The prince steel-handed

We followed to far lands.

He slew many, ere his song ended.

Now his sharp sword, his shield and byrnie

Lie in the valley. Ice lies over him.

Who shall pay the price of his death?”

Thráin could not answer.

Jari said: “If we must go without the rewards and the weregilds that are owed to us, the sooner we return to our own lands, the better pleased we shall be.”

Then Thráin turned at last to Dáin, and he said “But surely my own folk will not desert me?”

For the host that Náin had led to battle from the Iron Hills was now the greatest part of the host of the House of Durin.

“No” Dáin said, and his voice was strong and confident, despite his youth. “You are the Father of our folk, and we have bled for you, and will again. But we will not enter Khazad-dûm. You will not enter Khazad-dûm. Only I have looked through the shadow of the Gate. Beyond the shadow, it waits for you still: Durin’s Bane.”

Thráin looked with regret and longing up at the dark shadow of the gate, but there was fear in his face.

“So be it,” he said. “But if we are not to enter Khazad-dûm, what shall we do with our dead? We cannot bury them all, here in the open valley. There are too many, and we may soon come under attack again.”

“We must burn them,” Dáin said, and his voice was steady, though he was speaking of burning his own father, who should by every custom have slept quiet in the rock.

“Sindri was Prince of the Iron Fist,” Jari said. “I alone remain of all his hirð, for all his other guards died around him. I live, and I will not see him burned, not unless the Longbeards too will give their lords to the fire.”

Then Thráin One-eye quailed, for he loved his children dearly, and he had dearly hoped that the body of his younger son Frerin might lie beside the tombs of his forefathers in Khazad-dûm.

Then Thorin Oakenshield stood beside Dáin, and he said to his father: “We cannot carry away even a tenth part of all the fallen. It would be shameful to burn some and not all. We must burn the bodies, even Frerin my own brother, though he be of Durin’s line. The names of the Burned Dwarves shall be remembered as long as our houses stand. Their names will be held in honour among our people.”

And Dis said : “We’d best take their arms and armour safe away with us. If we don’t, we’ll soon see orcs coming against us in stolen armour, wielding our own steel.”

To this, after some argument, all agreed. So it was done.

All the woods around the Mirrormere were felled for the burning, and the smoke of the dead rose high, even to the peaks of the mountains that still stand tall in our dreams.

Baraz, Zirak, Shathûr.

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Chapter End Notes

At the time of the Hobbit, 2941 TA, the Old Forest Road is reported by Beorn to be overgrown and disused at the eastern end and led to impassable marshes near the River Running where the paths had long been lost. Beorn instead recommended they use the Elf-path, a secret path made by the Elves of Mirkwood.

However, the battle of Azanulbizar is 150 years earlier, only 20 years after the fall of Erebor and Dale, so I think it’s reasonable to assume that there could still be a bridge in use on the 'Old Road' which would later fall into ruin. The old forest road was perhaps used by Dale for trade with the Woodmen of as well as still in use by the Iron Hills to take goods to the Anduin for trade down to Gondor.