“Balrog!” In Sindarin, that name meant “demon of great power.” Círdan, who had lived through the First Age when the Elf-lords warred against the Dark Enemy Morgoth, knew at once from that terrible shriek that this was the voice of an ancient Balrog, and the face of the renowned Elf-hero fell.
“Let the Orcs flee,” he said.
“The Foe of Life is upon us.
My people, the doom of the Northern Elves draws near!” Círdan reined in his steed, and the blade in his hand gleamed with an indescribable beauty under the morning light.
The Elves likewise halted their swift horses, reformed their ranks, and turned to face the north.
The Grey Wizard also recognized the monster for what it was and cried out in horror, “Flame of Udûn!” Ignoring the scattered Orcs, he shouted to Thorin, who was still charging in fury toward Azog the Defiler, guarded far off by a pack of black Orc warg-riders out of Mordor: “Thorin, pursue no more!
The true enemy has come!
Rally your Dwarves into tight formation and flee for your lives!” But the Dwarf-prince, blinded by wrath, seemed deaf to all warnings.
He drove his chariot on, chasing the great foe of Durin’s Folk, the Pale Orc, Azog the Defiler, who had slain countless Dwarves and beheaded his grandfather, King Thrór.
At last, after a long chase and many skirmishes, Thorin caught up with his mortal enemy a league from the battlefield, just as Azog, who had fled after blowing that strange horn, turned to face him.
By now, both sides were reduced to a handful of followers; at Thorin’s side stood valiant Dwalin and Bifur.
“You witless Dwarf-scum,” sneered Azog, the pale face crisscrossed with scars.
“You abandoned your own people to face Durin’s Bane, the flame of death, alone…
and you came here to court your own doom!” Only then did Thorin grasp what was happening behind him.
He turned in astonishment and saw, upon the distant field, Orcs scattering like terrified beasts, fleeing madly and heedless of the Elves and Dwarves who had been hunting them, as if some terror pursued them.
The Elves had halted and were reforming their ranks, as though awaiting…
or welcoming their fate.
Only the Dwarves foolishly continued to chase the routed Orcs.
“Fíli!
Bofur!” the Grey Wizard shouted across the chaos to the second heir of Durin’s line and the captain of the ram-riders.
“Cease slaughtering these wretches!
Give the order!
Marshal the Dwarves and make for the Elven haven.
The coming battle is beyond your kind.
Do not linger here to await a needless death!” Fíli, still hot with battle-lust, reined in at last.
The young Dwarf’s face and beard were fouled with Orc-blood, his weapons and armour stained dark, showing that this heir of the royal house had not shamed his forebears in valour.
“What has happened?” he demanded, scanning the field and finding no sign of his uncle.
“Where is my uncle?” Gandalf answered in exasperation: “Forget your stiff-necked uncle who will not listen to reason, Fíli!
Gather the Dwarves and march toward the Elven harbour at once.
Time does not wait.
The great Enemy of life has come, a foe beyond your strength.
Fly, if you value your lives!” Fíli spun around and saw, far behind the Dwarf lines, a shape of utter terror advancing slowly amid black smoke and searing flame, beneath a mantle of shadow that blotted out the sun.
A monstrous evil radiated from it, tainting even the dawn, so that ominous clouds rolled in and threatened to thrust back the light of Arien.
One glance seized the young Dwarf’s heart with an icy dread.
“What…
what is that?” he stammered, pointing a trembling finger at the fiery, shadow-wreathed horror, his tongue refusing to form another word.
“Do not stand there gaping, Dwarf!
Swiftly, get the others into order, lest you all lose your lives!” Gandalf shouted, then left the stunned Dwarf where he stood and galloped toward the Elves on the far side of the field.
“Lord Círdan!” he cried, bowing low from the saddle.
The Lord of the Grey Havens, clad in bright battle-gear like a hero of old, returned the salute.
“Mithrandir,” he said, “you have not failed your errand, and brought us allies!
The Dwarves have come at a fortunate hour; the Northern Elves are in your debt.” “But now,” Círdan added, his grey eyes clouded with concern, “their coming may prove less fortunate for the Dwarves themselves.” Gandalf followed his gaze and beheld a sight that nearly made him choke with fury.
“Where is Thorin?
Where is our King?” cried Glóin, father of Gimli, along with Ori and Nori, who commanded the three thousand Dwarf guards.
Their faces were taut with dread, yet resolute.
“Stand firm, Dwarves!” rang out a cry that could be called foolish yet worthy of honour, rising against the tide of fleeing souls.
“Durin’s eye is upon us!
For the glory of our forefathers!” Swallowing hard, the Dwarves held their ground, their stubborn nature refusing retreat.
With a roar, a monstrous shape approached them, vast and man-like in outline, with burning yellow eyes, great horns, and a gaping maw.
Its long arms ended in steely claws, its thick hands were massive, its knees bent backward, and instead of breath it exhaled searing flame.
It had a form, but within was a living fire: a fallen Maia, once a holy spirit.
Shadow was its armour, flame its weapon; it burned and destroyed all things.
This was the ancient demon, a Balrog.
Glóin and his companions swallowed convulsively, fear flickering across their grim faces.
They knew well the name Durin’s Bane, for Khazad-dûm, the ancient mansions of their kin, had been ruined by a Balrog from the depths.
Yet the heavy-armoured Dwarves tightened their grips on their spears and locked their shields, foolishly but steadfastly standing their ground.
Although not yet crowned, Thorin already wore kingship in the eyes of Durin’s Folk, and these stubborn Dwarves would not abandon their lord to flee.
Thus tragedy unfolded.
The Balrog, arisen from unknown deeps, was enraged by their defiance.
In its eyes, all living things fled before it, yet these little wretches, ignorant of death, dared stand in the path of the Flame of Udûn.
Did they mean to show it contempt?
Its burning yellow eyes blazed hotter.
In one hand it kindled a blade of pure flame, and in the other a whip whose lashes split into many thongs.
Then, before the terrified gaze of the obstinate Dwarves, the Balrog brought its sword down.
A great swath of Dwarves were hurled into the air, the dense shield-wall shattered in an instant.
A sweeping stroke followed, and dozens more were flung aside.
The faces of the guard-captains, Glóin among them, went pale.
In that moment, Dwarven stubbornness exacted a bitter price.
In a single exchange, the losses of the three thousand Dwarf guards far exceeded all they had suffered in the long skirmish with the Orcs.
Their weapons availed nothing against the towering Balrog wreathed in raging flames; spearheads of tempered steel melted to slag the moment they struck that fiery horror.
Watching his people being butchered by the dreadful creature, Thorin, who had been mad with vengeance, finally came to his senses.
With a tormented glance at the foe who stood so near, he ground his teeth until they seemed ready to crack, yet at last the Dwarf-prince chose to retreat.
But now Azog moved to stop him.
“Trying to flee now, Dwarf-scum?
Too late!
Thorin Oakenshield, your pride and arrogance are a poison that will bleed the House of Durin dry.
The sceptre of the Kingdom under the Mountain shall fall empty, even as when I hacked the head from your grandsire Thrór!” At those words from the foul, shameless beast who shared a blood-debt with all of Durin’s Folk, Thorin’s eyes reddened once more.
Shaking off Dwalin and Bifur, he turned and fell upon Azog in a fury.
Meanwhile, as the ancient demon Balrog slaughtered the Dwarves, Gandalf and Círdan arrived at last.
The old wizard raised his arms, and a dazzling radiance burst from his staff.
In that light, Gandalf seemed to grow immensely tall, and his voice rang out like thunder: “Flame of corruption, hear the command of the servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the Five Wizards’ staves, the Grey Wizard!
Get you gone, back to the abyss!
Beneath the holy light of Eärendil’s star there is no place for a shape so foul and evil!” “Fly, sons of Durin!” cried the Lord of the Grey Havens over the roar, his voice cutting through the glare.
“Escape while you still have the chance, and get far away.
The battle to come is beyond your strength!” At that moment, Fíli broke free from the dread of Durin’s Bane and rode up on his ram.
“All of you, follow me!” he called.
Because the young Dwarf was himself an heir of the royal line, Glóin and the other captains exchanged glances, then abandoned their resistance.
They gathered the wounded and fled in grim retreat.
The Balrog was infuriated by the white light from the Grey Wizard’s hand.
That piercing brilliance stirred memories of things unbearably hateful.
It raised its flaming sword and struck down.
Gandalf’s face tightened; the searing light coalesced into a sphere that enclosed him.
With a great clang, the fiery sword shattered against the globe, scattering into a rain of embers.
Yet Gandalf found no cause for joy, for the enraged fallen spirit merely clenched its fist, and an identical blade of flame appeared once more.
Then the monster opened its vast maw and loosed a hideous roar.
Every Dwarf and Elf who heard it stiffened as an immeasurable darkness seized their hearts.
Each recalled his deepest terror: perhaps a witch from the ghastliest tale heard in childhood, or a nightmare that had startled one awake while dozing beneath a riverside willow, or, more often, the desolation of walking alone across a cold waste under an empty sky, utterly alone.
Gandalf knew it at once for the Balrog’s dark magic, a spell meant to strip hope of light and joy and plunge the soul into despair.
Setting his jaw, the wizard drew upon an ancient ring set with a ruby that blazed suddenly bright.
“In the name of the Eight, may light prevail over darkness!” he cried, and hope surged in that voice, borne on the power of Narya, the Ring of Fire, greatest of the Three Rings of the Elves and the most precious force in Middle-earth.
The spell was broken; the Balrog’s black enchantment lifted, and the Dwarves and Elves shuddered as though waking from a nightmare, drenched in cold sweat.
Only now did they understand the true horror before them: its monstrous shape was the least of its terrors; the real dread was its power to rob one of every good desire, leaving only an empty, hopeless shell.
“Servant of Morgoth, you shall not steal the hope of the good!
Your power is but a drop before the servant of the Secret Fire!” The Grey Wizard strode forward, and the light of Narya upon his finger outshone the stars.
In the east, Eärendil seemed to answer, shining with sudden brilliance.
The Eight whom he invoked were Manwë, Varda, Ulmo, Yavanna, Aulë, Mandos, Nienna, and Oromë, the mightiest of the Powers who shaped the world, and in calling upon them the wizard steeled his heart.
Morgoth, the name of the Dark Enemy, the Tyrant of the Noldor, was the master of all such demons; yet Gandalf did not believe the Shadow in the East could command an ancient Balrog.
A dark suspicion stirred deep within him.
The vile Balrog seemed astonished that this figure could dispel its dark magic, a feat beyond the Elves.
The ring on his finger held a power that both daunted it and kindled a fierce, instinctive hunger.
To possess it became a desire greater than any it had felt in ages.
The ancient evil’s flames roared higher, its shadow spreading like a storm-cloud.
With a shriek, it brought its flaming sword down once more, and this time the sphere of light could not withstand the blow.
It burst with a crack, and the sword shattered with it.
“Mithrandir!” Círdan lunged forward, his blade thrust deep into the creature’s right foot, wounding that body of shadow and fire.
Molten blood poured forth, and the ancient demon bellowed in pain and rage, staggering back.
It glared at the sword in the Grey Havens’ lord’s hand, recognizing it as a weapon forged in Gondolin of old, crafted to fight Balrogs and Orcs in that lost age.
This Elf was dangerous.
Yet the lust for the Ring of Power burned hotter, and the Balrog could not believe that any among the fading Children of the Light could truly defeat it.
The Elf had merely caught it unawares, a coward’s stroke.
Thus heartened, the Balrog surged forward once more.
The battle between the Grey Wizard and the Lord of the Grey Havens against the ancient Balrog shook the very earth, and those who beheld it outside Mithlond, the last and most sacred Elven haven in the North, in the summer of the year 2931, could only stare in awe.
But as the struggle wore on, the wizard and the Elf-lord slowly gave ground.
The demon of old exceeded all expectation; two against one, yet Gandalf and Círdan began to show weariness.
Far off, Dragonborn blinked his golden, slit-pupiled eyes and came to a decision.
“Stay here.
Do not wander,” he said to Fena, who stood gaping beside him.
Then the Dragonborn lifted his warhammer and strode toward the distant battle.
Fena reached out hastily to catch the giant’s arm, but her fingers closed on empty air.
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