Thorin Oakenshield and the other seven Dwarf-kings turned and withdrew.
They drank of the blue dew of the Sacred Tree, their wounds knitting and strength returning, then plunged once more into the great battle raging across the field.
...
Crack... boom.
The stone shell that had encased the Balrog, Durin's Bane, whose true name was Tulukhastāz, shattered inch by inch in the firelight, bursting apart and tumbling down in smoking fragments. Beneath it was revealed a body of molten flame, a form of living lava over which wild fire roared higher than before, hotter, more dreadful, more perilous.
"Roar!"
Tulukhastāz's eyes, twin furnaces burning with the fire of the abyss, locked upon Kaen Eowenríel. From its throat, like bubbles in a lake of magma, rolled a low growl.
"Petty Man," it said, "did you think such feeble cleansing could bind a god? Now it is your turn to be turned to ash."
Kaen planted his boots firmly on the charred earth and slowly drew his two blades, the Sword of Courage and Glory and the ancient Elven-king's sword Glamdring.
Around him his power rose like a storm breaking its bonds. He did not hide his might. The aura of a mythic hero burst forth unrestrained, and gold, silver, and white light flickered about him, standing face to face with the Balrog's black, devouring fire.
"From the first moment you spilled the blood of Children of Ilúvatar" Kaen said, "you lost the right to call yourself divine."
Before the last word left his lips, golden brilliance flared along the Sword of Courage and Glory. It leapt from the blade as a shining arc of sword-light and hurled itself at the Balrog, Kaen took the initiative in attack.
"Futile," the Balrog roared. It swung its flaming whip; in the air the lash writhed like a serpent of living fire, its heat enough to melt steel. It smashed through the sword and came whipping on toward Kaen with terrible force.
Kaen did not flinch or dodge. Glamdring blazed suddenly with silver radiance as he brought it down in a mighty cut against the onrushing fire-whip.
There was a great concussion.
Two powers collided and burst in a flash of searing light. The shock of it drove Kaen skidding backward, but the Balrog too was forced to stumble and give ground.
Tulukhastāz recovered first. It threw back its head and bellowed, a roar that shook the snow from the cliffs. The flames along its body surged higher in answer, swelling into a tidal wave of fire that swept out toward Kaen.
"The flame of the Maiar is not for mortals to withstand," it thundered. "Turn to ash, little insect."
The blaze swallowed Kaen. The malign power in it clawed at his flesh and spirit alike, flinging him like a rag into the ground. He crashed down hard, rolled several times, and only just managed to halt himself.
His lips were wet with blood. The wound was no light one. His armor burned against his skin like hot irons left too long in the coals.
He drew in harsh breaths, one after another, wiped the blood from his mouth, and lifted his gaze, sharp and cold, to the Balrog.
So this is a god, he thought. Truly, its might is immeasurable. From only those first few exchanges Kaen knew that, as he was now, he could not overcome such a foe.
Yet this too he had foreseen.
For a Balrog was a Maia of fire, twisted by the Dark Lord into a demon of war, stronger than Gandalf or Saruman, who were of the lore and the counsels of power rather than its naked edge.
Tulukhastāz came on, step by step. "You are a strong ant," it rumbled, "but an ant nonetheless. You will be hewn down."
Kaen snorted softly and rose once more. The light around him flared again, burning brighter. In his hands the twin divine blades shone with piercing brilliance.
"You think yourself mighty?" he said, with a voice as cold as the Caradhras, "You are but a remnant of Morgoth's defeat, a cowering survivor. A rat in the deep earth, styling itself as a divine god?"
"Come then. Fight."
With a shout that rang like a trumpet across the valley, Kaen called the elements of Arda to him. The powers of the world rushed to gather at his side, and without a trace of fear he charged straight at Tulukhastāz.
"I shall grant you death," the Balrog uttered calmly, and met him.
...
They clashed again, this time with no restraint on either side.
The flaming whip and the twin swords struck and struck, every impact releasing a shock that shook heaven and earth. Any living thing too close to their struggle died where it stood, shattered by the waves of force rolling outward.
There was no doubt Kaen was at a disadvantage. His long hair caught fire and burned away in scorched strands. His armor began to soften and run in places, metal half-melted on his frame. But he took no heed of such things. If anything, he grew fiercer as the battle raged on.
Though his own flesh was riven and burnt, he did not fall back a single step. Instead he hurled himself forward like one who no longer counted the cost, driving even the Balrog backward beneath his blows.
Light and dark flame crashed together again and again, thunder rolling along the length of the valley. Each meeting of those forces loosed wild gales in all directions, gusts so violent that they hurled nearby warriors of the alliance into the air like leaves.
Then the Balrog lifted one colossal foot and brought it down.
The ground split like broken glass. From the riven crust a dozen fountains of magma burst forth, jetting into the air and then pouring together, flowing toward Kaen in an incandescent river.
There was a deafening crash.
Kaen was struck and flung away. In the very instant he was hurled backward, he spun and hurled the Sword of Courage and Glory toward the mass of the dark host.
"Die," Tulukhastāz bellowed, and threw a wave of fire that crashed over Kaen and wrapped him in burning shadow.
"Kaen!"
"My lord!"
"High King!"
From far across the field, warriors still locked in bitter combat looked up with horror on their faces.
Hundreds of the King's Guard spurred forward without regard for life or death, striving to reach Kaen.
"Insects," Tulukhastāz snarled. With a contemptuous flick of its arm it lashed out its great whip once more. Had that blow landed among them, every one of those riders would have been slain.
But in that moment something changed.
A clear ringing note sounded, like a sword singing from its sheath.
A blade flashed out of the fire, struck the flaming whip with unerring accuracy, and drove it back.
"What is that?"
For the first time the Balrog showed true surprise. The fire that had swallowed Kaen was being pushed back, replaced by a light that words could not easily hold.
At a glance it seemed golden. But anyone who looked close would see other hues flowing within, the familiar gold, silver, and white that had surrounded Kaen before, now woven together into a single radiance.
The holy power in that light made Tulukhastāz's spirit quail. Deep within, something older than memory warned him that this was the doom of his kind, a power set against his darkness from the making of the world.
All eyes watched as a tall, steadfast figure stepped out from the heart of the light.
Kaen Eowenríel.
His wounds were gone as though they had never been. The hair that fire had burned away had grown again, falling bright and fair. His melted armor was whole once more, shining as if newly forged. The golden light that cloaked him was so intense that many could not bear to look on it, and he seemed like a god descending from the heights.
Level: 7 (2 / 700).
In the instant he had been hurled aside, the Sword of Courage and Glory had flown on into the Orcish ranks and felled a great orc. The death of that foe had given him the last breath of experience he needed.
Now Kaen stood reborn, like a new-kindled star. Power pulsed from him in waves. The dark might and shadow-flame of the Balrog withered around him, torn apart and scattered as snow before a summer wind.
The majesty of a top-tier mythic hero, joined with a holy light that was the very bane of darkness, crushed Tulukhastāz's strength and pushed it down on every side.
Kaen stretched out his hand. The Sword of Courage and Glory and the Elven king's sword Glamdring leapt through the air like faithful hounds and settled back into his grasp.
He looked upon the Balrog. In his eyes, bright with divine fire, there was no longer any flicker of mortal feeling.
At that moment, his godhead outweighed his manhood.
He wasted no breath on words. He hurled himself forward again and met the Balrog in combat.
This time his courage had not dimmed, yet his strength had grown so greatly that Tulukhastāz could no longer strike back as it had. Blow after blow fell; the Balrog staggered and reeled, driven purely on the defensive.
In Kaen's hands Glamdring shone brighter than ever before.
From the blade he felt a surge of will, a drive toward death and through death, a fierce resolve from elder days that locked itself to his own spirit.
Visions rose in his mind.
Dragons wheeled above a burning city, countless Balrogs strode through rivers of flame, bronze beasts spewed fire, trolls and Orcs roared in endless ranks, a black sea of foes. In the midst of the blaze the elves stood and fought, grim and unyielding. Mighty heroes fell one by one. A king stood upon a high tower with the House of the King about him, choosing to live or die with his realm.
This was Gondolin's last stand, the fall of the hidden city in the First Age, now carried to Kaen through the memory bound in the sword of the Elven king, Turgon.
He understood then, dimly but truly, why Glorfindel had told him that he bore the will of Gondolin.
"So that is it," he murmured.
For a heartbeat his human heart rose up over the cold of his godlike state, and with it came an unquenchable wrath against the darkness.
Moved by that feeling, and guided by Glamdring, Kaen began to chant in the midst of battle, speaking the ancient words of a forgotten spell, a lost incantation of Gondolin.
Power gathered, fierce and pure, pouring into Glamdring until the blade blazed with a light so terrible that even the Balrog could not endure to look upon it. For the first time fear showed in Tulukhastāz's burning eyes.
He knew that sword. It had been Turgon's blade, and he had seen that power once before, long ago, as the wrath of Turgon and the rage of Gondolin's last warriors flared before they fell.
Kaen leapt high, and behind him there appeared the great, shimmering figure of an Elven king. The phantom's hands reached forward and closed over Kaen's, sharing the hilt with him.
Together they brought the sword sweeping down toward the Balrog.
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