Disclaimer: The following piece features graphic and violent content. It is meant to describe the horrors Dalbran witnessed during the battle. That being said, read on at your own discretion.
The world bemoans the lifeless hands
The Dwarfs who died to keep their lands
The valiant souls of Durin’s Folk
Shall echo in eternal sleep
“Break, break apart! Break forma-”
Gurrni’s word died in his throat.
“Get away, lads!”
Something was stirring. Something was wrong. The Orcs upon the left flank drew back, reforming their line, even though they had the chance to overwhelm the Dwarves.
First, there came the phials. Small, crudely-wrought, belching thick tar. They clattered, covering the Five Hundred in blotches of black. Then, came the fire. Torches thrown from every side. The stench of burning flesh filled the air.
Quickly, as if carried by some fell wind, the flames began whipping at the Dwarves, catching cloth, skin, and plate. The world became naught but smoking flesh, and screams. Dalbran drew back, quick to ditch his tar-covered shield, quicker still to get lost in the chaos. Around him, he saw his kin, his brethren, Dwarfs he had trained with for months, burning alive in their armour. Some would try and take off their blazing gauntlets or helms, only to pull charred skin along with them.
“Get away from the fire, lads!” A voice rang out in the hellfire, yet Dalbran could not place from whence it came. “Father! Father, where are you!” He cried back, his breath ragged, plagued by the smoke. In that whirling cacophony, something stirred within him, some boiling, some fire, some wrathful ire, akin to the forges of his people. With a roar, he threw off his helm and shield, the vestments diving into the boot-trodden mud. Another wordless roar, primal, beast-like, escaped him as he dove into the nearest Orc. “Die! Die! Die!” The curse was all he could mutter, before he lept up at the beast, and brought his axe straight down the thing’s skull. Steel split bone, making way for black blood to flow fort. “Aaaaah! Die! Die!” Dalbran continued to chop at the dying thing, tackling it down as it collapsed into the mud.
“Bastards! Die, just die, damn you!” His breathing quickened, frantic, wrathful, spitting every insult he could muster, all to drown out the unceasing screaming of Dwarfs he had come to know during his service. The smell became overbearding, filling his nostrils, dulling his senses. All around, the world became a blur of smoke, fire, and black howls. Gundabad’s bloodthrist knew no end.
Lifting his gaze from the now-mauleld Orc corpse, Dalbran watched the chaos unfold once more. Forms of burning Dwarfs, running around the field, screaming, pleading for respite from the flame’s hunger, some of them throwing themselves into the mud to douse the burn, only to be met by Orcish blades. Many burned to death, and many more were slain, gutted, but the ravenous horde. The Fallen’s numbers grew beyond grief.
Slowly, the world came to a halt. Dalbran’s breathing lessened, his lungs shallow, his throat ragged from the smoke. Everything pressed around him, like a cold hand wrapped around his neck. All around him, Orcs grew in number, circling like craven, poised to rip flesh from his bones, and feast in the name of their wicked master. Dalbran had not the strength to lift his axe. Gasping for air, his beard and mane crusted in mud and blood, sticking to his charred face, he began to fade, and the beasts descended on their prize. Swallowed he was, in that unfathomable sea of black iron, never to wake again.
He had left Erebor behind.
In truth, he found himself, a child one more, upon a snowy peak. Tall trees of pine rose around him, looming, casting vast shadows in which nameless things dwelled.
“Ma?” Dalbran called out, wandering between the shade.
“Hazkal? Hazkal, where are you? Where are you, son?” A mother’s voice rang clear, like dawn.
“I’m here, Ma! I’m scared!” A son’s reply, light and quiet as mist.
“Where are you, son? Where? Where is he? Where is my son?” Valaya called out again, appearing out of the distant brush. Her mane as bright and shimmering as mithril, in a long gown of deep blue and white, she gleamed like the very Heart of The Mountain.
The Heart of The Mountain.
The Arkenstone.
Erebor.
He did not leave Erebor.
“Where is he? Where is my son? Dalbran!” A stern voice, that of his father. Dalbran ran forward, paying no heed to the shadowed hands that reached from the looming trees, and he ran straight towards his mother. Yet she grew ever more distant. Firstly, a few paces, then a dozen more, then five hundred more. The noise began to pick back up again, clattering of steel against steel, painful cries, the sound of steel breaking bone and hewing flesh.
“Where is my son!” Gurrni demanded once more, his voice as great and terrible as thunder upon the mountainside. Like a hammer striking the anvil. “Where is my son! Dalbran!” He called out once more, and Dalbran ran still. Suddenly, something clung to his collar. Something pulled him away from the mountain, and down, down below, to the stone.
“Wake up! Son, wake up!”
His body caught fire. All around him, the flames raged, yet he found not the cruel faces of his enemy. Where he expected to see bared teeth and blackened lips, he saw deep eyes of green, of blue and brown, shining underneath heavy helms. Mighty beards flew beneath the visors, all adorned in beads and rings, wrought of gold and iron. And one, face he knew well. Gurrni had come once more, and he pulled him from the depths of the sea.
“Dalbran! Are you hurt, son?”
Battle raged still, yet distant, quieter.
“Dalbran! Can you hear me, are you hurt, my son? Dalbran!”
The young Dwarf mustered all his strength, and shook his head. Where once was a voice, now stood barely a croak.
“No, no, I am fine, Pa.”
Gurrni heaved him up. As his feet found muddied ground once more, Dalbran watched the raging battle around them. Dwarves had surrounded him, their shields broad and platned low, their spears held aloft in a porcupine. The bodies of the fallen were littered all around, charred forms of Dwarfs he knew well, of Dwarfs he would have gladly laid his life down for, now laid gutted and burned. Dozens of them.
Gurrni dropped the heft of his axe, embracing the Dwarf in an embrace. His arms bloodied, the mail on torn and shattered from the day’s fighting, and yet he still looked more like a smith than a soldier.
“Do not leave my side, son. I beg you, do not leave my side again.” The father voiced , a bare, unmilled plea. “Please, do not leave my side ever again.”
“I’m sorry, Pa, the battle, I got lo-”
His words were cut short once more, by a single, heavy bellow of a battle horn.
And then, like thunder breaking upon the mountainside, like a hammer hot iron, there came a voice.
“To the King! To the King! Baruk Khazâd! “Khazâd ai-mênu!”
Lord Dain called, and the words he spoke stirred something within Dalbran. Some fire, some bravery he had not found yet.
In his mind, one thing drowned out all the rest.
Words of as song he heard as a child.
Under the Mountain dark and tall The King has come unto his hall! His foe is dead, the Worm of Dread, And ever so his foes shall fall!
