"Form up, form up!"
"Spears and shields in the front!"
Outside Dimrill Dale the Dwarves and the host of Eowenría drew up their lines upon the snow-bound plain.
Snow fell thick from a darkened sky, and the cold wind came howling down the valley, snapping at a forest of banners.
One hundred and twenty thousand stood in the allied host, a sight to stir the heart of any who beheld it. Yet when they looked toward the mouth of the vale, where the black ranks of the enemy stretched back into endless shadow, they seemed still too few.
The two armies faced each other, the entrance of Dimrill Dale lying like a drawn line between them.
Kaen Eowenríel raised his sword. At once the light of the Star of Eowenríel above northern Tusgar and the radiance of the silver Sacred Tree upon the snow-crowned peak gathered to him. That mingled light poured out over Men and Dwarves and Elves alike, wrapping every warrior and strengthening both body and spirit.
Within Dimrill Dale the six dark priests stood in the midst of the black army, chanting. Rolling clouds of shadow boiled up out of Moria until the whole valley was drowned in a murk of black vapour. It was like the dark forest that once stood before Dol Guldur; no light could pierce it.
In that moment light and darkness took on shape and weight.
Thorin Oakenshield nodded to Kaen and to the gathered Dwarf-kings, then rode forward before the host. He drew his sword and cried in a ringing voice:
"Sons of Durin, my Dwarven kindred.
"Before you lies Dimrill Dale, where the Dimrill stair, Mirrormere, and Durin's Pillars stand.
"In those waters once the stars of Khazad-dûm were mirrored, the home our forefathers raised with hammer and oath, until Orc-claws tore the pillars asunder and the Balrog's fire blackened our halls.
"Look upon those writhing shadows. They sprawl in our forges, defile our tombs, and heap our forefathers' hoards as their plunder.
"To win back this lost home, the greatest of all Dwarven cities, we have spent the lives of many kin. All Dimrill Dale lies barren because we burned our dead here, and grass has not dared to grow since.
"Now we stand here, one hundred thousand strong, to avenge our ancestors and our fallen, and to go home.
"Though we must hew the darkness apart with our axes and lift our shields against the flames of demons, remember this: behind you lies the homeland we mean to reclaim; before you stands the evil we must grind to dust.
"Raise them high, your weapons and your faith. Let Dimrill remember today's battle-cry, and let the darkness remember the wrath of the Dwarves."
Kaen also rode forward upon his war-horse until he stood beside the Dwarven king. His voice carried clear over the ranks.
"This is the best of times, and it is the worst of times.
"The Free Peoples have risen from decline to stand face to face with the dark. We have taken back one lost home after another and raised new cities that shine with life.
"We once had nothing. Now we stand in strength. Our armor and our blades are not ornaments for treasure-halls. They are the truest answer we can give to the shadow.
"Dwarves, Elves, Men, let us fight for freedom, and for our alliance.
The whole army roared as one. Each shout rose higher than the last, a tide of sound that rolled down the valley and drove back the black vapours spilling from the gorge.
Thorin swept his sword down. "All ranks, advance!"
The Dwarven heavy infantry moved first, their boots striking the frozen ground in perfect time as they marched toward the mouth of Dimrill Dale Behind them came the heavy infantry of Eowenría and the Elven warriors of Taurëmírë.
Clad in light they knew no fear. Wherever they passed the darkness drew back.
"Loose!"
Within the vale an Orc commander flung out his arm. Tens of thousands of Orc archers loosed in a single volley.
Arrows filled the sky, a shadow falling over the advancing ranks, then came down like a storm upon the shields and helms of the allies. The shafts rang on heavy mail and plate with the sound of ten thousand hammers striking iron. Even the wind and snow at the mouth of Dimrill Dale seemed to shatter and fly apart amid the roar of steel and cries.
Some fell, but far more pressed on. The crude Orc-arrows could scarcely pierce such armor.
The shieldwall of the alliance moved forward over the frozen earth like a walking anvil. This was a true tide of iron, the combined might of Dwarven heavy infantry and the mailed foot of Eowenría.
In the light that bathed them each shield gleamed coldly. Snow piled up in ridges half a foot high as the wall pushed forward, then was churned into mire beneath countless boots and frozen hard again under trampling feet.
Kaen drew his sword, and the light around him flared so bright that none could look on him directly.
He swept the blade forward. "Loose!"
The Elven archers and Dwarven crossbowmen loosed together. Their shafts wove a rushing river of death through the air, bearing Kaen's own power. As they plunged into the black mist they burst into swarms of tiny sparks, like a fall of star-fire sinking into a pool of ink.
Orcs fell in ranks, yet for a host that seemed without end this loss scarcely mattered.
At last, when less than a hundred meters lay between the lines, the order to charge was given.
"Kill!"
"Sons of Durin, never yield!"
"Take back what is rightfully ours!"
The two great hosts collided, and fierce hand-to-hand battle erupted. Lives were spent for every yard of ground.
Out of the fog crashed several dozen vast, hulking shapes, the war-beasts of the enemy in a wedge of living thunder. Their heavy feet shattered the ice beneath them, and every step drove deep into the earth.
Armor was bolted straight into their thick hides. They smashed into the Dwarven shieldwall, tearing gaps in it, and swung huge weapons that hurled Dwarves aside like toys.
But waiting for them were the epic troops of the alliance. Long spears stepped forward, bright points flashing, and in a heartbeat several of the monsters were pierced through and toppled, thrashing, to the bloody snow.
The clash of light and darkness seemed almost solid in the air between the two hosts.
The glow within the allied ranks surged forward like the tide. With every advance the black mist drew back, and the frozen earth that had been stained by shadow took on a faint golden hue.
The six dark priests chanted unceasingly. From the black vapours rose six pillars of shadow, and at their crowns red sparks flared and burst, falling like bloody rain onto the warriors of the alliance and wringing cries of agony even from hardened champions.
Kaen's light never faded. He chanted spell after spell, and his radiance shaped itself into fiery steeds that galloped ahead, scattering the black vapours wherever they ran. Light and darkness hurled themselves at one another in a storm of sorcery.
The entrance of Dimrill Dale was being remade by the struggle. Snow had been trampled to slush, then to bloody mud, and now ran in thin streams, red and brown, down the slope of the valley floor.
Stones were shaken loose from the cliffs on either side and crashed into the melee, sowing fresh confusion and death wherever they fell.
The once-clear waters of the Dimrill were blackened by foul vapours. Broken blades and shattered armor floated on its darkling surface.
The rhythm of the charge grew faster and fiercer.
Under the courage and fury of the Free Peoples the shieldwall had driven half a mile into the valley. The circle of light widened steadily, forcing the black fog back toward the deeper throat of the gorge.
Yet the counterblows of the dark host grew wilder in turn. More and more Orcs poured out from the mist, a black sea breaking again and again against the bright ranks of the alliance.
The clash of metal on metal, the chanting of spells, the hoarse shouts of anger, and the last cries of the dying mingled with the storm and the darkness. Together they became the only language that Dimrill Dale knew that day.
This was the struggle between the Free Peoples and the servants of evil, wordless yet deafening.
The battle had reached its white-hot height. All fought with all the strength they had, save only Kaen, who, apart from trading sorcery with the dark priests from time to time, remained at the rear, calm amid the storm.
He was gathering his strength, waiting for the foe that was his and his alone: the Balrog.