Five years earlier, because of Beorn's warning, Kaen Eowenríel had turned his gaze upon Moria.
His original intent had been to wait until the time marked in the original tale, when Balin of the Dwarves would lead his expedition, and then meet the Balrog of Moria in a battle to the death.
Yet the tale had changed. The threads of fate he had already altered had dragged the Dwarven expedition nineteen years ahead of its destined hour.
It was not that some great calamity had arisen from this, but Kaen found that as he reshaped more and more of destiny, the advantage of his foreknowledge was slipping away.
He felt a faint regret at that, yet did not brood over it.
For now he was strong enough that he no longer needed that seer's edge. He had the power to search his own path by deed and steel, and to write a new chapter of the world with his own hands.
Outside the Vale, the Dwarves of Durin, the warriors ofEowenría, and the Caladhîn host camped side by side.
Thorin and Dáin knew that once Kaen had placed his hand upon this matter, he must surely have a better design than a headlong charge. Therefore they did not rashly assault Moria.
They chose instead to wait for Kaen's return from Lothlórien.
...
Dimrill Dale
At the foot of the Misty Mountains lay a valley woven deep into the legend of Durin's Folk, its fate tightly bound to the rise and fall of Khazad-dûm.
It lay between the main ridge and a great spur of the Misty Mountains, cradled by three peaks: Redhorn, Silvertooth, and Cloudyhead. All the year round it lay under shadow.
At the northern end of the vale, a racing torrent leapt down in a waterfall, beside which wound the perilous path of the Dimrill Stair. The waters plunged into a lake whose surface shone like glass. This was Mirrormere, and high above its still waters was set the eastern gate of Moria, the Dimrill Gate.
In the elder Age, Durin the First, forefather of Durin's Folk, had awakened upon Mount Gundabad in the North. At length he journeyed south and came to Dimrill Dale
There, looking into Mirrormere, he saw the stars reflected above his head as though they were set in a crown upon his brow, and he knew that heaven had given him a sign. So in that place he founded the kingdom of Khazad-dûm.
From then on it became the greatest city in Dwarven memory, an age of bright prosperity, and the holiest of places in the hearts of Durin's sons.
Until, in the year 1980 of the Third Age, the Balrog in the depths of Khazad-dûm awoke and slew Durin VI and his son Náin.
Unable to withstand that primeval demon, the Dwarves of Durin were forced to abandon their home. Thereafter Dimrill Dale was overrun by dark creatures and became a nest of evil.
The city was renamed Moria, the Black Pit, the place of deep-hidden darkness.
In the year 2799 of the Third Age, the Dwarves of Erebor, driven from their home by a dragon, gathered the hosts of the Seven Houses to reclaim Khazad-dûm.
In the end the dwarves were victorious but their strength was broken. To burn their dead with honor, they felled almost every tree in the vale. Many stretches of ground, laid bare in fire and ash, still lay barren to this very day.They knew they cannot yet face the demon of fire lurking inside the bounds of Khazad-dûm.Hence, they chose not to enter the gates of Moria and claim it.
Now, if one lifted his eyes, he saw black vapors seeping up from naked rock, and a desolation that stank of malice. The whole valley looked like the very antechamber of death.
Once it had swarmed with dark things, but since the armies had camped outside Dimrill Dale, the creatures that lurked along its edges had all fled deeper within.
So the valley seemed quiet.
Until, on this day, the silence was broken.
A roar, like the bellow of some vast dragon and the thunder of a furnace mixed together, rolled out from the depths of the mountains.
Other cries rose with it, a cacophony of monstrous voices echoing from within the vale.
"Woooo…"
The sentries in the camp were the first to mark the change. At once they put horns to their lips and sounded the alarm.
"Form up the host!"
"To arms, to the lines!"
Andric, commander of the troops from Tusgar, led three thousandEowenrían warriors to the entrance at the valley floor and drew them up in battle array.
Five thousand Caladhîn Elves fell in behind them, some with shield and spear at the ready, others with bows bent and strings drawn, waiting only the order to loose.
A thousand of the King's Guard stood in reserve at the rear, mounted on their war-steeds, prepared at any moment to launch a thunderous charge.
"What is happening? What in the world is going on?"
Dáin and Thorin, with their three thousand Dwarven Heavy-armor troops, came at a run.
Yenagath's face was grave. "Our presence has uneased them," he said. "So they have erupted sooner than they meant."
As if to prove his words, in the next instant an endless tide of monsters poured into view.
"Something is wrong," Andric muttered. "Why are there so many trolls? And those Orcs are strange. Their eyes are all black, and they are larger, stronger than common Orcs."
Yenagath's expression darkened. "It is the power of Morgoth," he said, "a wicked force that lies buried deep in the roots of the earth. It seems the Orc realms of the Misty Mountains have learned to draw upon that power."
Thorin and Dáin felt their hearts sink. The enemy's numbers far exceeded anything they had imagined. There were at least fifty thousand foes, and among them several thousand trolls.
This was beyond all expectation.
Trolls were, in most hosts of darkness, the very highest of ordinary troops, while war-beasts counted as legendary-grade monstrosities.
In the great wars of former years, there might at most appear a few hundred trolls, and at most a few thousand war-beasts.
Yet now, at a single glance, one could reckon nearly a thousand of those hulking war-beasts, and no fewer than five thousand trolls.
A sharp hiss of breath passed through the ranks of the Free Peoples.
There was no time to think further. Before such a mass of enemies, three thousand heavy infantry alone would never hold the line.
Thorin did not hesitate. "Sons of Durin," he roared, "to the front, form the shieldwall!"
"Ha!"
Three thousand Dwarf warriors, every one an epic warrior, surged forward. Clad in thick rune-wrought mail and plate, broad and burly, they showed the full might of Dwarven blood.
Moving with surprising swiftness, they strode ahead of the main host and raised a wall of shields.
At the same moment the thousand King's Guard moved. With swift precision they advanced into the center of the Dwarven line and formed a triangular defensive wedge, like a golden spearhead set into the front of the allied host.
Long bathed in the radiance of the Golden Sacred Tree, Auricálen, the King's Guard seemed to shine faintly with golden light. Their armor gleamed even amid the black ranks of the enemy.
The commander of this Regiment of the King's Guard was named Reger, a figure already half-legendary.
He had been one of the first hundred Guards whom Kaen had gathered in the early days, and he had survived the Battle of the Lonely Mountain. From that time onward Kaen had placed greater and greater burdens in his hands.
Though he had not been born of the Dúnedain, Kaen had made him a son of the house of Tarbêlûn in truth. Now Reger was the most favored of all the captains of the Guard, a legendary warrior, and the man most likely to become the second commander of the King's Guard.
He stood at the very point of the triangular formation, with only one shield and one spear.He towered even among the King's Guard, whose average height was already near two meters.
Facing the oncoming horde, Reger's expression did not change. Only his battle-spirit rose around him like a storm. Then he let out a thunderous shout.
"Eowenría shall endure!"
"Range, one hundred paces…. eighty paces… fifty paces," Yenagath called. "Three volleys, prepare!"
The Elven archers raised their bows. At his cry of "Rapid fire, Loose!", bowstrings thrummed, and a black storm of arrows arced through the air in graceful curves, plunging down into the foremost ranks of the charging enemy.
Volley followed volley. The first waves of fodder were scythed down, bodies tumbling and piling upon one another.
Then the lines crashed together, and the battle was joined in hand-to-hand slaughter.
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