EXP +300.
Level: 7 (302 / 800).
The Balrog was dead, slain beneath Kaen's blades, it's physical form destroyed. It's spirit left to wander the void endlessly.
Moreover, it had died beneath the will of Gondolin, its form ground to nothing by the ancient resolve of the High Elves.
A blaze of radiance burst forth. A ring of force rolled out across the battlefield, sweeping in every direction. It was the last wild shock of the Balrog's body coming apart, its power scattering into the air.
Across the field every warrior struck by that wave was hurled to the ground. Their minds rang blank and hollow for a long moment before slowly returning to themselves.
When at last the soldiers of the alliance could see clearly again, they beheld Kaen Eowenríel alone upon the torn earth, light still shining all about him. Of the Balrog there was no sign at all.
They understood then.
The ancient demon from the elder days had been slain.
A roar went up, so loud it seemed to shake the very mountains. The allied host burst into wild cheering, every throat shouting Kaen's name.
The Dwarven warriors felt, in that instant, as though a shadow that had lain over their souls for a thousand years at last tore and blew away. The weight that had pressed upon their hearts was suddenly gone.
The warriors of Eowenría and the Elves of Taurëmírë were filled with reverence, for their High King had just struck down one of the godlike powers.
They watched as Kaen lifted his sword and cried aloud,
"For the Alliance!"
"Vanquish them!"
With the death of the Balrog, the alliance seized the battle's reins completely.
In the blaze of Kaen's light the warriors surged forward like a breaking tide. Orcs, trolls, war-beasts, all the spawn of darkness were driven back step by step. The six black priests of the enemy were brought down one after another beneath the blows of heroes, and at last the enemy ranks cracked.
Those who could still run, turned to flee, seeking to throw themselves back into Moria.
Yet when they turned toward the Dimrill Gate on the high ground, they saw there, upon the height before the door, three thousand Elven warriors ranked in shining order.
They were the flanking host of the Caladhîn, led by Yenagath, Regent of East Taurëmírë. In the first chaos of the great assault they had slipped away, climbing the cruel slopes and icy falls, and now they stood behind the host of darkness.
Yenagath stood at the foremost edge of that line, sword in hand, and called,
"Fight freely, all of you. So long as one of us yet draws breath, the dark shall not set foot in Moria again."
The Orcs did not need to think to understand. Their retreat was cut off.
Of the creatures of darkness that had first mustered in the Dimrill Dale and the surrounding mountains, more than half already lay dead. Little more than a hundred thousand still stood.
They had meant to flee and save themselves. Seeing that the way was closed, they fell into madness.
In a frenzy they stormed the high ground, hurling themselves against the Caladhîn lines. Their assault was fierce, every monster striving to tear down the Elven shield-wall, to butcher the last of the archers and spears and force a path back into Moria.
But it was no more than vain struggling.
Upon that height the three thousand Caladhîn held the ground like a white cliff in a storm. Led by Yenagath, they made full use of the slope beneath their feet, and locked the enemy advance as if with iron. For the allied host to the east, they were buying time with their lives.
Not one of them had any fear of death.
Every Caladhîn warrior, Yenagath among them, fought with a calm, clear fury, blades and spears cutting in bright arcs. In their hearts each of them was quietly calling upon Kaen's name.
And a golden radiance descended upon them.
Each felt strength pouring into weary limbs, a warmth that burned away fatigue and numbed the pain of wounds. They knew then that Kaen had heard their prayer and was answering them across the field.
"For Eowenría!"
Their battle-cry rolled over the vale.
...
When dawn came at last, Dimrill Dale was piled high with the carcasses of the dark host.Where their strength had broken and leaked away, it congealed as blackened slag and twisted weapons, spreading like a stain across the ground.
The clear waters of Mirrormere were turned black as ink. The Dimrill stair ran red and foul with blood. Snow fell from the hard winter sky, but it could not hide what had been done on the earth below.
The great battle of Dimrill Dale was ended.
Despite all the blood and the names that would be carved in stone, it was, for such a war, a victory beyond hope.
By the crushing might of their champions, by the presence of myth and legend in their ranks, the alliance had used a smaller host to destroy a far greater.
Roughly fifty thousand of the enemy's weaker creatures had never fully joined the assault, slinking away instead into the Misty Mountains. The alliance made no attempt to pursue them.
The mountain range was ringed now by the realms of free folk, and its mines and caverns could no longer feed and arm a host large enough to threaten the world at once. For half a century at least, no dark army of that size would rise again from those peaks.
Of the three thousand Elves who had held the Dimrill Gate, only four hundred yet lived, and every one of them bore wounds. Yenagath himself lay in a swoon from his hurts, and they were borne away to Lothlórien for healing.
Of the remaining eighty thousand of the alliance, once the grievously wounded were counted and withdrawn, some fifty thousand still had strength to bear arms.
Kaen called the kings and captains together. After counsel they resolved to strike the final blow and cleanse Moria itself.
He sent word to the five thousand heavy infantry he had stationed in advance before the western Gate of Khazad-dûm, bidding them assault from the west.
And he himself took fifty thousand from the host, and from the east, through the Dimrill Gate, they marched once more into Moria.
...
The siege and cleansing of Moria lasted a long time, many months of hard, grinding war beneath the mountains.
Kaen wielded his holy light again and again. His purification spells swept through the darked halls in wave after wave, washing away the foul power that had steeped into stone and shadow over a thousand years. He would not allow even one hidden nest of evil to remain in that ancient kingdom.
At last, slowly and with great cost, the work was done.
Khazad-dûm, mightiest of all Dwarf strongholds in Middle-earth, returned to the hands of Durin's folk.
...
In gratitude to all the realms that had come to their aid, Thorin and Dáin, joint rulers of Khazad-dûm, made a great decree.
Every force that had taken part in the war would receive a share of reward: mithril worth a million in gold, and a portion of the lore preserved in the Chamber of Mazarbul. It was a gift beyond price, more than enough to repay their allies for the lives and treasure spent here.
As for Kaen, who had felled the Balrog and on whose help they had pledged themselves beforehand, he would be granted full access to the wisdom of the Chamber of Mazarbul, to all the knowledge the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm still possessed.
So the war of Moria came to its true end.
The hosts of Elves, Men, and Dwarves departed in turn to their own lands. Kaen remained for a time in Khazad-dûm, delving deep into Dwarven lore.
He met Thorin and Dáin as kings to set their seals to a long list of accords, treaties of trade and friendship to bind their realms more closely together.
In the years to come, many of Durin's folk from Erebor and the Iron Hills would move to Moria. The halls would once more ring with hammers and laughter..
That terrible war of gods and heroes would be written into the chronicles of Durin's people, and Kaen Eowenríel would be remembered as the most revered King of Men in all their history.
...
Age of the Sacred Trees, since the Golden Tree's sowing, year 16, which in the reckoning of the Third Age was 2961.
When the first warmth of spring sunlight came slanting in through the Dimrill Gate and fell upon the pillars of the First Hall, Kaen prepared at last to depart, leading his companions upon the road back to his own realm.
All the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm turned out to see him off.
Thorin stepped forward and said, "My friend, we thank you for all that you have done for the Dwarves. Many among our folk now worship you as a god. Your statue will stand beside mine and Dáin's by Mirrormere, beside the Stone of Durin."
Dáin said, "You are the teacher of the Dwarves, and the guide of Thorin and of mine. We swear that Durin's folk will for ever, without condition, give you and your descendants whatever aid you ask of us, even if the price be the death of kings."
Kaen's smile was gentle as he answered,
"May the free peoples grow in strength. May the First Kingdom of Durin rise again in prosperity. I will sit the throne of the North and watch, guarding all that is good in this world."