Let us turn back the clock a little.
Though the Dwarf-prince had resolved to fight the Pale Orc to the death, a pressing problem still lay before the Dwarves.
“Gandalf.” Thorin summoned the Grey Wizard, who had been murmuring incessantly at his ear.
Pointing at the River Lhûn before them, he said, “If we mean to assail the Orcs, this great river must be dealt with.
Dwarves carry tools, but to raise a bridge strong enough for a host to cross swiftly would take time, and the noise would surely alert Azog the Defiler, that beast.
The chance of battle is fleeting; we cannot squander it upon this water.
Wizard, I have heard your kind commands strange magics.
Tell me then, wise counsellor of kings, can you solve this riddle?” A troublesome task indeed.
Gandalf frowned, knowing this was the Dwarf-prince’s mistrust and a test.
Yet as he gazed toward the Grey Havens, where the battle grew ever more savage, he could not suppress a sigh.
He dismounted, leaning on his staff, and walked to the bank of the great river that flowed from the Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, through the Twilight Hills and by the bend of the Lhûn into the Western Sea of Belegaer.
There he crouched and set his hand in the chill water.
Closing his eyes, he murmured softly in a tongue most ancient and sacred.
Fíli watched the wizard curiously, wondering what trick he might employ.
Even Dwalin, a stubborn dwarf with little love for wizards, could not resist stealing a glance.
And then they all beheld a sight they would never forget.
The wizard seemed to grow taller than the highest peak of the Blue Mountains, filled with a holy radiance, and a brilliant beam of starlight fell upon him, making him appear like one of the Powers.
“Durin’s beard!” Fíli exclaimed in wonder, as though beholding a miracle.
Thorin’s expression darkened, for he feared the wizard’s display would alert the Orcs across the river.
Yet fortune favoured them: the battle between Elves and Orcs had reached its fiercest pitch, and nearly all the Orcs were chanting wildly.
“Grond!
Grond!” Their voices shook the field.
Not a soul noticed that behind their lines, a marvel was unfolding.
At that moment, a great will answered Gandalf’s summons.
The Dwarves seemed to hear the rivers sing and the seas surge.
It was the Lord of Waters, the King of the Sea.
They knew his name only from legend and song, and of his greatness; yet because the Dwarves held no love for rivers or the sea, indeed rather misliking them, the glory and compassion of the Lord of Waters had never been revealed among their kind.
Now the will of Ulmo seemed to speak with Gandalf in a tongue beyond mortal ken, or perhaps speech was but a form their power took.
Gandalf swiftly made his plea, gesturing toward the distant battle.
Then the Dwarves saw the waters of the Lhûn before them begin to freeze, the ice spreading swiftly to the far bank.
Thorin’s mouth fell open, too astounded to speak.
As for Fíli, words failed him entirely; he trembled, pointing from the wizard to the impossible miracle, on the verge of crying out.
“Wizard!” Thorin gazed at him, now restored to his normal stature, his eyes filled with awe.
The other Dwarves began to murmur among themselves.
“My beard!
What devilry is this?” “Durin above!
Somebody strike me!
My eyes must be playing tricks, I just saw a river freeze solid in an instant!” “Silence!” barked a grim-faced dwarf with dark hair and grey eyes.
This was Bifur, cousin to Bombur and Bofur, a dwarf of Khazad-dûm.
Together with Balin, Dwalin, Fíli, Kíli, Glóin, Óin, Dori, Nori, and Ori, he would one day be among the heroes of the Quest of Erebor, the great adventure that reclaimed the Dwarves’ homeland of Erebor.
But that is a tale for another time.
At that moment, Bifur was not yet the old dwarf with an axe in his head whose wits wandered; he was the captain of Durin’s Royal Ram Guard, commanding five hundred ram riders.
At his word, the bearded warriors grumbled and fell silent.
Yet none of them saw that when they quieted, their captain’s own eyes betrayed a flash of wonder.
Bifur stared wide‑eyed at the tall Man, and for the first time truly understood the wizard’s power.
The ice was thick, freezing the very bed of the Lhûn, and broad enough for eighteen rams to gallop abreast.
Gandalf bowed low to that will, addressing him in the sacred tongue, praising him until he departed well pleased.
“Well then,” said the Grey Wizard, returning to his usual aspect, though he seemed somewhat weary.
“My king, your request has been granted.
May we now cross?” Thorin caught the irony in his voice and felt a prick of embarrassment, but a stubborn dwarf does not humble himself easily.
He quickly seized on another matter to escape his discomfort.
Pointing at the patch of darkness behind Azog the Defiler’s main host, he said, “I must say, you handled the matter of the bridge admirably.
Now, another question!
Between us and Azog there seems to be some exceedingly evil power.
Whenever I turn my gaze that way, I feel a dread I can scarcely master.
Tell me, my advisor, what is it?” His tone was now earnest.
Plainly, the Dwarf‑prince had begun to treat the wizard with true seriousness, and he was deeply wary of that darkness deeper than darkness, a blot that let no light pass through.
Gandalf, however, was far more confident than Thorin.
“Have no fear,” he said.
“They will not trouble us.
They are not in league with the masters of the Orcs.
Indeed, since their kind first came into being, they have held no true alliance with any power.
They serve only themselves, as was ordained in their very blood.
The moment you cross the Lhûn, they will flee.
That I can promise.” “But what are they?” the Dwarf‑prince pressed.
Seeing him prattle on like a wavering woman, Gandalf grew vexed.
“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin!
Where is the courage you showed before?
Was it not you who demanded I conjure a bridge?
Was it not you who shouted that the hour of decision was at hand?
Who now hesitates and questions like a craven?” The wizard’s goad worked.
Stung, Thorin no longer hesitated.
He drove his chariot onto the ice‑bridge and crossed to the far bank.
Behind him, three thousand Dwarves crossed the ice‑bridge wrought by the Lord of Waters’ power.
Looking toward the fierce battle a league away, the Dwarf‑prince threw himself into the action with a great shout: “Form ranks!
Form ranks!
Rams to the fore!
Chariots behind!
Nori, Ori, Glóin, take command of the heavy foot!
Fíli, Bifur, lead the ram riders!
Dwalin, ride with me to smash their lines before they can regroup!” It seemed as if fate itself aided the Dwarves.
As they formed their ranks, a dark cloud drifted across the sky, hiding the moon, dimming the stars, and shrouding the land in near‑total darkness.
It was the darkest hour before dawn, the very eve of hope.
Thorin cried aloud, “Durin’s beard!
See, even the heavens pity us, pity us Dwarves who seek vengeance!
The darkness grants us the best cover.
While Azog the Defiler, that foul beast, remains unaware, move swiftly!
Vengeance is now!” Only the Grey Wizard knew that none of this was chance.
The eyes of the Valar were upon this battle, and upon the Dragonborn who would soon arise.
His gaze pierced the darkness to the tall figure wreaking slaughter before the city gates.
At last the Dwarven ranks were set.
Fíli and Bifur, as vanguard, raised their lances eagerly, while their rams pawed the ground with restless hooves.
Behind them came fifty Dwarven chariots, their wheels fitted with scything blades so fearsome that even the hardiest dwarf would shudder.
In the rear, the heavy infantry led by Dori, Ori, and Glóin: three thousand Dwarven royal guards.
To roll over the weary Orc‑host before them would be no great feat.
“Be that as it may!” The Grey Wizard drew his sword, a glint of satisfaction in his wise eyes.
“My part is done; the rest lies with fate.” So he thought.
“Now, sons of Durin!
Sound the horns!
Charge!
Victory lies ahead!” Thorin Oakenshield, as though scenting iron and blood, grew exultant, his hate‑filled eyes fixed upon the Pale Orc, mocking him for his ignorance of looming death.
The deep bellow of Dwarven horns rang out: “Ruuu, ruuu, ruuu…” Five hundred ram riders surged forth as if let loose for joy, the dwarf knights whooping with fierce glee.
Thorin’s chariots charged next, and the heavy infantry followed close behind.
At once, the darkness that had so troubled Thorin sensed the approach of death.
Unsettled hissing and chittering arose from it.
Then, to the Dwarves’ amazement, the creatures revealed themselves: many‑legged, with vile jaws and huge swollen sacs dragging behind them.
Hissing and cringing, they abandoned Azog the Defiler and his host, fleeing headlong toward the Twilight Hills.
The hidden monsters were giant spiders!
Durin’s beard!
Thorin watched with a chill as these dreadful spawn of Ungoliant, the first great spider of the Years of the Trees, who with the Dark Enemy Morgoth destroyed the Two Trees, scuttled away in retreat.
He was deeply thankful they would not have to fight such horrors.
“Azog!” Now with the path clear, the Dwarf‑prince’s eagerness redoubled.
He lashed his chariot‑rams and drove straight for his foe.
Only then did the Orcs realize that a ruinous host had appeared behind them.
The Pale Orc roared in fury and cursed, ordering the Warg‑riders from Mordor to meet the Dwarven vanguard, while he himself mounted a great wolf and strove to rally more Orcs into line.
But at that very moment, the Elven horns of counterattack also sang.
Eight hundred heavy Elven horse, led by Círdan, Lord of the Grey Havens, rode forth beneath the last starlight before dawn, like the final stroke of an epic painting, so beautiful it stole the breath, charging out from the white halls of Mithlond.
Behind them flew the glorious banners of the Northern Elves, spanning ten thousand years.
With a thunderous crash, Dwarves and Elves struck the Orcs almost as one.
Swathes of grey, stunted Orcs were hurled into the air like spume from a wave, then dashed down hard.
Círdan’s riders cut through the dense Orc ranks like a hot knife through butter.
Their long lance‑blades skewered three or four terrified, ugly Orcs apiece.
Casting aside their lances, the Elves drew their swords and hewed on.
At the sight, the craven creatures flung down their weapons and shields and fled, which broke the Orc lines entirely.
No matter how Azog cursed and beat them, his terror‑stricken kindred refused to turn and fight.
With the Elven heavy horse sweeping down like a relentless tide, their sole thought was to escape the Elves’ deadly blades, their commander utterly forsaken.
Meanwhile, the Grey Wizard rode ahead of all the Dwarves, staff raised high, his horse galloping at the fore.
Suddenly, the gem atop his staff blazed with a piercing white light, a light infused with hope.
It made the Orcs quail and their limbs go weak, while it kindled the hearts of Elves and Dwarves with fierce valour.
With a crash, Fíli and Bifur’s ram riders slammed into the tall, swift Warg‑riders, spearing Orcs far larger than themselves from their wolves.
Next, the Dwarven chariots dealt further misery, loosing volleys of steel crossbow bolts that toppled the great black Uruks from their mounts.
Those who fell were ground into pulp beneath the rolling wheels.
And should any survive those first two onslaughts, the dense, disciplined ranks of the royal guard would show them what heavy infantry could do to light cavalry.
“Hu‑ha!
Hu‑ha!” Chanting, the Dwarves under Dori, Ori, and Glóin levelled their spears, nearly three metres long, and thrust.
Scores of black Orcs were pierced and unhorsed all at once by the forest of Dwarven guards.
“No, you fools!
Hold the line!
Stand and fight!” “Level your spears, level your spears!
Spit those cursed dwarf‑spawn!
No running!” But no matter how Azog bellowed, the Orcs beneath the walls of the Grey Havens fled in blind panic, paying their chieftain no heed.
The first to sense disaster was the cunning and cowardly Grishnákh.
The moment he spied the Dwarven host materialising behind the Orcs, he skulked away, sneaking off like a great terror‑struck rat, never looking back.
At last, Azog himself grew desperate.
The Dwarves and Elves, as if by design, had charged his host simultaneously.
The pincer attack shattered the once‑coherent Orc formations.
They knew not whether to face the Dwarven cavalry and chariots or to turn against the fewer but deadlier Elven heavy horse.
Azog could only watch helplessly as his army, like headless flies, was smashed from both sides, cut into ever smaller pockets and devoured.
By then, the darkest hour before dawn had passed.
In the sky, the light of Eärendil, the Star of High Hope, blazed splendidly, outshining the Valacirca, the seven stars of blood and fire.
It seemed to proclaim that the combined host of Elves and Dwarves had won the day.
And in the deepest darkness, the light of Arien glimmered faintly.
Dragonborn smashed the last ugly little Orc‑whelp with a single hammer‑blow and lifted his gaze to the battlefield, now pushed far afield by the Elven riders.
Along the banks of the Lhûn, under dimming stars and the first hint of dawn, countless terrified, twitchy, foul little Orcs scattered like headless flies, shrieking as they fled.
The Elves and Dwarves were far fewer in number.
Indeed, before Círdan’s Elves and Thorin’s Dwarves could even close upon them, the Orcs had already thrown themselves into panicked rout.
As his host crumbled, Azog the Defiler glared hatefully at the Lord of the Grey Havens and the Dwarf‑prince who had undone his plans.
Then, after a moment, he drew forth a black horn, adorned with silver and gems.
A deep, drum‑like note rang out: Dooom… Every heart lurched.
A fell foreboding seized them.
Gandalf the Grey, who fought with a direct and brutal simplicity, blade and staff whirling, halted in alarm and turned to gaze at the distant sky.
There, a lurid red glow stabbed through the pre‑dawn darkness.
A terrible roar followed, filled with hatred and envy of all living things, and Elves, Dwarves, and even the Dragonborn shuddered as one.
“What is that?” Fena asked, slinging her empty bow over her shoulder and coming to stand beside the gore‑spattered Dragonborn, who stood tall and grim.
“A fearsome monster,” Dragonborn answered.
He did not yet know the Sindarin word for Balrog, so after a thought, he gravely used the word “monster.” ———————— Thank you all for reading and supporting this story, also do leave your comments, reviews, stones, especially paragraph comments, they are fun to read.
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