The Second Hall of Moria was the great crossroads of the eastern mines, a knot of stone ways from which stairs climbed and fell to many different levels.
Here too the craft of the Dwarves had reached its highest splendor. Two long ranks of black pillars, each carved in the likeness of smooth-barked tree-trunks, held up the vaulted roof. From the ceiling hung crystal lamps, like captured stars in glass. Along the walls were graven statues of the kings of Moria and of the great master-smiths of Durin's Folk, their faces stern, their beards chiseled in curling stone.
Now all that beauty shook beneath the weight of war.
The wide hall roared with battle. Thousands fought there, the clash of steel upon armor and shield, the thunder of boots, the cries of the wounded and the shouts of captains echoing again and again in the hollow dark.
Thorin and Dáin, together with Reger and Andric, led the front. With them were the Dwarven Heavy-armored warriors, the King's Guard, and the heavy infantry of Eowenría. They hurled themselves into the fray and met the enemy head-on in a whirlwind of steel.
There was no room here for careful battle-lines or subtle maneuvers. There was only blood on every stroke and flesh beneath every blow.
From every side more foes surged in, pouring through the doors and tunnels, hoping to crush the Dwarves and Men beneath sheer numbers.
But against overwhelming strength, numbers alone were no more than moths flinging themselves into a furnace.
The might of the King's Guard could no longer be measured by simple count. Each golden warrior had the strength to face, alone, an Orcish war-band and live. Their fighting was swift and clean, with not a movement wasted, and their teamwork was seamless. Even the towering war-beasts fell quickly beneath their concerted strikes.
The heavy infantry of Eowenría were themselves of the highest rank of mortal soldiers. On this day they fought with the grim steadiness of an iron tide. Shield locked with shield and spear braced behind, they advanced like a moving wall, and the enemy found no way to pierce or break them.
Even the war-beasts, if surrounded by several of those armored Men, could expect only one end: to be hacked down and trampled underfoot.
Then there were the Dwarven Heavy-armored warriors, the pinnacle of Dwarven soldiery. Most of them had survived the bitter struggle for Moria a century before, the Battle of Five Armies nineteen years ago, and the war at Dol Guldur.
They were warriors tempered by many epic battles. Every plate of their armor, every inch of their weapons' edges, was the work of the finest smiths of Durin's line. Their bodies were like knotted oak. Their mail and plate were so strong that even when hurled aside by the charge of a war-beast they rose again, spitting blood, and returned to the fight until strength failed and breath left them.
...
Suddenly a golden light flared at the eastern side of the Second Hall.
Kaen Eowenríel strode onto the battlefield, clad in kingly armor of silver chased with gold. In his hands were his twin king-blades. Radiance poured from him. It flowed over every ally, closing wounds and steadying limbs, and burned every foe it touched.
He began to run. The war-kings and captains parted before him, opening a clear way.
"Drive out the darkness!" Kaen cried.
The warriors took up the shout and followed at his back, surging forward with renewed rage.
His light was poison to the servants of shadow. The moment he appeared, the courage of the dark things faltered. Their snarls became whimpers and their howls lost much of their strength.
Then the two hosts clashed again, and now Kaen carved a path through the enemy like a storm of sunfire. Hearts rose in every breast behind him.
The advantage of numbers vanished as if it had never been.
None of the creatures of shadow dared meet Kaen's gaze for long, let alone his blades. At last they broke, and the dark host was driven back.
The warriors of the Free Peoples harried them step by step, cutting them down through hall after hall and along passage after passage, climbing level by level until they reached the Seventh Level.
There the enemy made a stand. They drew back into a single great hall and barred the way.
The entrance was at the top of a wide stair, tens of meters high. Huge stone pillars supported the ceiling. The walls were of polished black stone, and from all four sides doors led into other passages. It was a place made to be held, easy to defend and hard to storm. This was the Twenty-first Hall, where the fellowship camped in the original tale.
At the top of the stair the monsters formed their line again, with war-beasts in a row, bellowing and beating the stone with their iron-shod limbs.
"Hold."
Kaen raised his hand, and the pursuing warriors halted at once.
"Reger," he said, "take five hundred of the King's Guard and hold this gate. No enemy is to pass. The rest will turn back along the road we came. From the First Hall to this place, every hall, every corridor is to be searched. Leave no hidden corner uncleansed."
"Yes, my lord."
...
"Oh, brother, your timing could not be better."
Back in the Second Hall, Dáin came forward and embraced Kaen in a Dwarf's rough fashion.
All of them were streaked and spattered with gore. The air was thick with the smell of blood, but none of them spared it a thought.
Thorin walked up as well and clasped Kaen in a fierce hug before speaking.
"The enemy has fallen back into the Twenty-first Hall." he said. "Once it was the great market of Moria, and beneath it lay the deepest vaults.
"That place is of the highest importance to us, for it is joined to the Chamber of Mazarbul. That is where Durin's Folk stored our lore and our records. The inheritance of our forefathers lies there.
"We must take it. Only with that ancient knowledge and culture can we grow mighty again.
"My Lord, we Dwarves are a close-handed people, but for you, we are ready to share what is kept there."
Thorin's words were earnest, and there was a keen light in his eyes. Yet that light held anxiety as well. He feared that if the monsters were left too long in that place, they would defile the Chamber of Mazarbul beyond repair.
"Do not be hasty, Thorin," Kaen answered, shaking his head. "We cannot rush headlong in."
He pointed to the passages around the Second Hall. "Our goal is the whole of Moria. We must advance step by careful step, and be sure that wherever we have passed, the enemy is truly destroyed.
"If we rush forward blindly, the foe may use these tunnels to slip around behind us. Then we would find ourselves attacked from both front and rear."
He gestured back the way they had come. "I have ordered a forward base raised in the First Hall, with stores of food and supplies. Here in the Second Hall we will build a second strongpoint and station troops and healers.
"The Twenty-first Hall will be ours in due time, but not yet. First we must make sure there are no hidden snares behind us."
At his words Thorin and Dáin slowly calmed.
The sight of their lost home had shaken them deeply.
A century before, in the last attempt to win back Moria, the Dwarves of Erebor had spent the last of their strength. Yet because of the threat of the enemy they had never entered the mines themselves.
Now, at last, they had come in. Hall after hall had fallen to them. How could they not be swept away by that victory?
Thorin drew a long breath. "You are right," he said quietly. "Forgive me. I let my heart run ahead of my wits."
"Your Majesties, there is something I think you should see," a voice broke in.
A member of the King's Guard had stepped forward. He pointed toward a side-chamber opening off the Second Hall.
At once they set aside further talk and, curiosity roused, went with him.
The side-chamber was cut in the old Dwarven style. Along its walls stood statues of the kings of Moria, each carved in high relief, each arrayed in a suit of exquisitely wrought mithril armor.
At the center of the chamber stood a single statue on a plinth. Below it were words in the ancient tongue of the Dwarves: DURIN THE DEATHLESS.
He was shown as a mighty king, crowned, clad in full war-gear, a great axe lifted in both hands.
At first Thorin and Dáin did no more than bow their heads to the image of their forefather.
But then they looked more closely at the armor upon the statue, at the crown upon its brow, and at the axe in its hands.
Suddenly their eyes widened. Their faces froze in astonishment, as if they could not trust their own sight.
"Durin's Axe!" Thorin whispered.