With a wet crunch, Reger's spear struck home. The point drove forward faster than a thunderclap, pierced straight through the skull of a war-beast, and with a brutal shove of his shield he hurled the creature's massive carcass aside.
The Dwarven Heavy-armored warriors stood like blocks of black cast iron, forming a wall of steel. Shoulder to shoulder they locked themselves together and stopped the foremost enemies as if ramming into a cliff, letting not one step pass.
"Advance!"
"Advance!"
"Drive these filthy things back into the pit!"
"ForEowenría, strike!"
"Sons of Durin, never retreat!"
The captains shouted their orders. The warriors answered with roars full of fury.
Trolls, war-beasts, hulking and wild... yet in front of the King's Guard they had no chance at all. The golden-clad riders moved across the battlefield like a spear of light, thrusting ever deeper into the enemy mass.
Reger's spear, lodged in the bone of a fallen war-beast, wrenched from his hand. He did not hesitate. He left it where it stood, drew the longsword at his side, and with a single blow split an Orc that barred his way cleanly in two.
Driving forward with the King's Guard at his back, Reger cried out over the din,
"We are the spear-point ofEowenría! The edge that cleaves the night!"
"The keenest of blades!"
"Warriors of the Host! The Golden Armored! We shall hew this shadow from the depths of Arda!"
"In the name of our King, charge, and let the light prevail!"
To either side of the golden wedge, Thorin and Dáin led their troops, struggling to keep pace with the furious advance of the Guard.
As they watched that irresistible golden host carve a channel through the enemy, blood flared hot in their hearts.
Dáin swung his war-hammer high and shouted, "Sons of Durin, show your mettle, let us smite our foes!"
As they pushed into Dimrill Dale, the battle-line stretched wider and wider. The King's Guard and the Dwarven Heavy-armored troops alone could no longer drive the whole front forward.
So Andric and Yenagath did not hesitate. With a cry they led the heavy infantry ofEowenría from the City of Tusgar, and the Caladhîn warriors from Taurëmírë, rushing to the foremost line to join the slaughter.
Andric was like a butcher at his grim work. His battle-axe whirled and rose and fell, cutting down troll after troll.
The Elves under Yenagath moved with deadly grace. Every one of them was a master of the sword, their bodies swift and fluid, ringed about with a subtle glow of elemental light. Working together, they unleashed a strength that far surpassed that of ordinary troops.
"Fight! Fight!"
These monsters were frightening. On any other day, they might have torn a kingdom to pieces with ease.
But today they were unfortunate. Today they had met the strongest hosts that walked the lands of Middle-earth.
Every King's Guard who fell had already taken scores of enemies with him into the dust.
Their coordination was flawless. Formations shifted and flowed. After a brief spell in the front line, those who had fought hard fell back, and fresh warriors stepped forward to take their place, so that strength would not be wasted.
The dark creatures, wild with madness at the start, slowly felt that rage fade. In its place fear began to creep into their hearts as they saw rank upon rank cut down.
They began to withdraw, to break and run.
Because Dimrill Dale's slopes were bare and stony, there was nowhere to hide and no ground fit for ambush, so the allied captains gave the order without delay.
"Pursue!"
The King's Guard whistled, and their horses came at their call. In a heartbeat they were mounted and thundering after the fleeing rear of the enemy.
Trolls, war-beasts, and Orcs all together fled in panic toward the Dimrill Gate of Moria.
Yet they were so many that they choked the way, piling up between Mirrormere and the mouth of the Dimrill itself.
Behind them the armies of the Free Peoples closed in, pressing their line toward the great gate.
When the Dwarves saw the doors their forefathers had wrought, their spirits soared. Thorin and Dáin's faces were lit with fierce excitement as they fought at the head of their warriors, driving hard, desperate to break into the halls beyond.
Yet at that very moment...
A roaring cry burst forth from within the gate, a sound like thunder in a stone tomb.
The war-steeds of the King's Guard, horses of Rohan that did not fear even wolves, reared and screamed. Terror seized them. They tore free of the reins and bolted for the mouth of the valley as if some primeval horror had brushed their flanks.
The allied warriors halted at once, the pursuit faltering.
From within the doors a breath of ancient evil flowed outward. It poured through the cracks and gaps in the stone, washing over the host, and every hair on every neck stood upright.
Thorin and Dáin's faces hardened. They knew well whose presence this was.
It was the fallen spirit whom they named Durin's Bane, the Balrog, the very foe they had come all this way to face.
In every Dwarven heart there now seethed a storm of fear, fury, and battle-lust.
This was the demon who, in Moria's darkness, had slaughtered their ancestors.
This was the horror that had cast Durin's sacred city into shadow and left their holiest place crawling with evil things.
Their blood boiled. They longed to charge, to fling their lives against that terror, to shatter the dread in their hearts and show their forefathers that their descendants were no less brave.
"Your Majesties."
Reger, captain of the King's Guard Regiment, stepped forward. His golden helm was wrought in the shape of a beast's face, hiding his features. Only his eyes were visible, calm and steady.
He bowed his head slightly toward Thorin and Dáin. "Until my lord returns," he said, "I do not believe this is the best moment to strike. I counsel that we fall back."
"We will not retreat, valiant warrior of gold," Dáin answered at once, before Thorin could speak. He pointed to the Dimrill Gate a few hundred paces away. "The moment we set eyes upon that door, the fire in our blood was kindled. It cannot be quenched or called back. We have no other choice."
Thorin nodded. "Khazad-dûm is to us what Elarothiel is to you," he said quietly. "It is our honor and our heart. Here we would rather die in reckless valor than retreat a single step."
He turned then to Andric and Yenagath, who had just come up, and gave them a free, almost cheerful smile. "Tell Kaen that we are grateful for all he has done. But today, in this battle, the Dwarves must be the ones to hurl themselves into Khazad-dûm."
With that said, Thorin turned away without another word. He strode to the front of the Dwarven host, lifted his sword high, and roared,
"Sons of Durin!"
"Before us stand the halls of our forefathers, now befouled and held by evil. That is something we cannot endure. We have carried this expedition to its end, laying life and death aside to reach this place."
"Today I will lead you through the Dimrill Gate. In those halls and galleries, in the tunnels and the great ways, in the places of our ancestors' glory, we will fight and we will fall if need be."
"We will let our forefathers know that their heirs are still brave and unafraid. We will let our descendants know that their forefathers stood once more in battle for Khazad-dûm."
Dáin swung his war-axe and cried, "By Durin above, reclaim Khazad-dûm!"
"Reclaim Khazad-dûm!"
The Dwarven army of the Longbeards roared as one. Their spirits blazed, their faith unshaken.
"Forward!"
Under their two kings of Durin's line, the Dwarven host charged toward the Dimrill Gate of Moria.
"They will need help."
Andric spoke softly, meeting the eyes of Reger and Yenagath.
For a time the three said nothing. Then, one by one, they nodded, ready to lead their own forces after the Dwarves.
Yet in that very instant...
There was a wet thud, then a crashing roar of water.
Mirrormere rose up in a tower of spray many fathoms high. From its depths vast tentacles, each hundreds of meters long, burst forth from the black water and whipped down toward the armies ofEowenría, launching an attack from the deep.
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