"I am the flame."
"I am the ruin."
"I am death."
The roar of the Balrog rolled through Dimrill Dale, and its terrible presence swept out in an instant.
The giant wreathed in fire strode forward toward the allied host, great whip of living flame coiling in its hand. With every step the ground quaked and the mountains shuddered, and the hearts of those who watched trembled within them.
This was the ancient weight of darkness from the elder days.
"Durin's Bane."
Every Dwarf felt fear rise in his breast, for the terror the Balrog had laid upon their people was too deep and too old to forget.
"Reform the lines."
"Stand against the dark."
The shouts of the commanders rang out through the allied ranks, and the army answered at once, drawing back a little, closing gaps, and settling into new formations.
Then Thorin and Dáin stepped forward, and with them the other Dwarf-kings, eight in all. They took their place at the very front of the alliance, weapons in hand, every muscle tight with readiness.
Since receiving the royal tokens of the Dwarf-kings of Khazad-dûm, Thorin and Dáin had risen until their strength was near to mythic. They had been great warriors already. Now the will that burned from them could not be denied.
Looking up at the looming shadow of the Balrog, Dáin growled with anger, "This monstrosity ought to be chained in the Iron Hills and made to work the forges."
"Perhaps," Thorin said, drawing in a deep breath. "Though I would rather see him quenched in Mirrormere."
King Rorg of the Dwarves hefted his war-hammer. "If you do not begrudge it," he said, "let me take the first charge. I mean to crush that brute's skull flat with this hammer."
The Balrog, Tulukhastāz, gazed over the dark host before him, then pointed its fiery whip toward the alliance.
"Destroy them all," it thundered. "Leave none alive."
A roar went up from the monsters, and they began to charge. The coming of the Balrog had sent their spirits soaring, for among the Orcs and trolls of the Misty Mountains the Balrog was worshiped as a god.
With the descent of such a being the battle rose at once to another height, lifted from the field of epic heroes into the dread plane of gods at war.
The two hosts crashed together yet again, and the slaughter grew more terrible.
Celeborn, Caden, Reger, Andric, Legolas, and Aragorn drove straight for the six dark priests, and around them a fierce battle broke out.
Save for Lord Celeborn, none of the five others wielded magic in the Elven way.
Yet magic is not invincible, for where there is sorcery there is also resistance.
And by chance these six, were all warriors whose bodies and wills had been hardened against enchantment.
They pressed in under the rain of dark spells, shrugging off curses and shadow-fire, and laid into the priests with overwhelming force until the six were driven back in wild disorder.
At the front, the eight Dwarf-kings charged. In that moment they put fear beneath their heels and faced the Balrog's flames head-on.
"Pay for the destruction you have wrought!"
Dáin gave a great shout, ran forward, and leapt high, putting all his strength into a single blow as Durin's Axe came sweeping down toward the Balrog's burning form.
"Weak little Dwarf," Tulukhastāz roared. "You dare defy me."
The flame-whip lashed up to meet him.
There was a thunderous crack as axe-edge met the burning coil. First came the shriek of metal on metal, then a burst of blinding light and a wave of force that flung both dark beasts and allied warriors sprawling.
The Balrog staggered a step. Dáin was hurled backward, smashed into the ground, and spat a mouthful of blood.
He did not stay down. He forced himself upright, wiped blood from his mouth, and bellowed, "Durin's Bane, is it? If you were my height I would chop you into mince."
Gripping his axe, Dáin charged back at the Balrog.
Thorin and the other Dwarf-kings reached the monster's feet at the same time.
Before the towering body of Tulukhastāz they seemed no more than a ring of small dark dots, hacking and striking at his limbs and ankles.
Their weapons rang against his fiery form, casting sparks in showers, but did him no hurt.
The heat that poured from him, on the other hand, set their armor and weapons glowing red. It was as though they fought inside a forge, and every breath seared their lungs.
They were brave, but before the sweep of that flame-whip they were forced to dart and scramble for their lives.
They struck the Balrog a hundred times, yet he needed only one blow to slay them. Such was the gulf between their strength and his.
They could see it with their own eyes. Any ordinary warrior touched by the Balrog's dark fire was reduced in an instant to drifting ash.
At the rear of the field Kaen saw this and his eyes hardened. He spread his hands and began to chant. A wind of pure elemental power rose out of nothing at his call.
All around him stood the barrels of blue Sacred Tree dew he had prepared beforehand. The wind caught them and carried their contents in a shining cloud straight toward the Balrog.
The dew of Lúna Olonta held a deep power of cleansing. As it fell upon the monster it gnawed at the dark flames that wrapped his body.
Tulukhastāz roared.
His burning form began to grey in patches, stone showing through the fire. The petrified crust spread and thickened, crawling over limbs and chest and wings.
The Balrog's movements grew slower, stiffer, until at last... he stood still as a mountain, a colossal statue of blackened stone.
"Now," Thorin shouted.
The eight Dwarf-kings leapt as one, pouring all their strength and all their race's anger into their blows. From every side their mightiest strikes fell upon the petrified foe.
There was a booming crash.
Their weapons struck home on the Balrog's vast body, and the sound of it rolled through the valley like thunder. A shockwave burst out from the stone form, flinging snow and dust in a widening ring.
The Dwarf-kings dropped back to the ground and turned to look. The stone shell that held the Balrog was now covered in a web of cracks.
On the battlefield the dark army stared in horror.
Had their god died?
"Is... it over?" Thorin whispered.
"No. Not yet."
The grave voice came from behind them. They turned and saw Kaen walking slowly forward.
"This stone shell will not hold a being such as that," he said. "He will soon burst free, and then we will see the Balrog's true strength.
"From here on, leave this place to me. You must go and lead the army."
Dáin shook his head at once. "What are you saying? We mean to kill this monster at your side."
"Yes, we will fight with you."
"For our ancestors."
Not one of the Dwarf-kings flinched.
"Kaen," Thorin said quietly, "trust us. We will not drag you down."
But Kaen still shook his head. He drew out a flask and placed it in Thorin's hand.
"I know you do not fear death," he said to the eight kings, "but the strength of this foe is far beyond what you imagine. He has not yet used a tenth of his power. He has been waiting for me.
"The battle that comes now is between him and me.
"This is the last of the blue Sacred Tree's dew. It will mend your wounds. Go. The rest of the field is yours."
Silence held them for a moment. Then, one by one, they nodded.
At that very instant a sound like cracking stone came from the Balrog's statue-form.
From the lines of the fractures bright fire leapt, and waves of heat poured out into the night.
Kaen clapped Thorin and Dáin each on the shoulder.
"Go," he said softly. " This creature will fall by my hand."
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