The winter was bitter and hard. A thick skin of ice had sealed Mirrormere, and all Dimrill Dale lay buried beneath a shroud of white.
Around the valley, as far as the eye could reach, tents stood like a forest of canvas, almost covering the earth itself.
This was the mightiest host to gather in Middle-earth since the days of the Third Age.
Its full strength was one hundred and twenty thousand.
The Dwarven contingent numbered one hundred thousand.
Forty thousand were Durin's Folk of Erebor and the Iron Hills.
Ten thousand Blacklock Dwarves.
Ten thousand Stiffbeards.
Ten thousand Stonefoots.
Ten thousand Ironfists.
Ten thousand Firebeards.
Ten thousand Broadbeams.
Durin's Folk were the most numerous of the dwarven clans and they had the largest armies too regardless.
Most of the Dwarven kings had brought few of their own epic troops, for those were the roots of their kingdoms, not lightly risked. Yet the presence of all seven Dwarven kings together showed clearly how grave they deemed this war.
On Kaen Eowenríel's side, their reinforcements had also arrived, the forces of Eowenría and the Elven realm of Taurëmírë were as follows:
Ten thousand legendary heavy infantry of Eowenría.
Three thousand of the King's Guard, the finest of the kingdom's legendary troops.
Seven thousand legendary Elven warriors of Taurëmírë.
There were four Legendary heroes: Reger, Andric, Yenagath, and Cathril.
There was one of top Legendary rank: Caden.
And above them all stood Kaen himself, a hero of mythic strength.
Thus the two sides together mustered a host of one hundred and twenty thousand warriors. They arrayed themselves at the eastern mouth of Dimrill Dale, waiting for the last and greatest battle before the gates of Moria.
...
In the great war-tent, several dozen leaders were gathered, planning the final deployment.
Before them lay a vast relief-map, showing in miniature the shape and falls of Dimrill Dale and the lands around. Whenever one of them spoke, they would step forward, point with a wooden rod at some part of the model, and lay out their thoughts and stratagems.
Now Thorin Oakenshield stood by the map, rod in hand, and spoke.
"Dimrill Dale lies between the main ridge of the Misty Mountains and their eastern spur. It is ringed about by three peaks: Redhorn, Silvertine, and Cloudyhead.
"The valley itself is long and narrow. At the north end, the Dimrill Falls plunge down a steep cliff, the waters pouring from a pass in Redhorn and thundering into Mirrormere in the northeast. From Mirrormere runs the Celebrant, which flows southeast and at last enters Lothlórien.
"The whole vale slopes from west to east. In battle, that means the enemy will hold the high ground while we must fight from below.
"Their numbers are much more than our own. Even if they are beaten, they can always fall back into Moria, and we will be left with no way to strike at them."
Many of the Dwarven kings had not known these details beforehand. Now they all frowned deeply.
"This will be like the last battle for Moria," Dáin said grimly. "If we charge uphill again and again, our losses will be dreadful. They have too many war-beasts and trolls. Even with troops to match them, we may never reach the heights."
"If we had great engines, we could make up for much of that weakness," one of the Dwarf kings muttered. "Siege towers, rams, throwers of stones. But we came in haste. We brought only what we could carry on our backs."
"Perhaps we can divide our forces," Yenagath said, stepping forward. He tapped the line of the Celebrant on the map. "If the main battle will be here in the eastern valley, might we not send a force up along the ridges above the Celebrant to cut off the enemy's retreat?"
The others looked toward the river and considered. After a moment several nodded. It was a sound idea.
But Thorin shook his head.
"No, Regent of the Caladhîn Elves," he said. "We had the same thought a hundred years ago, in the last war for Moria. It cannot be done in the way you know war. The path runs through steep slopes and wild ground. There are many falls and drops. There is no road fit for an army."
"Perhaps not for Dwarves," Yenagath answered, untroubled. "But for Elves, it is another matter. Each of us can move over deep snow as over level earth. Stripped of heavy armor we can run and leap on any kind of ground."
"That truly is a good plan," Kaen said from the high seat. He rose and came closer to the map. "We can send an Elven force along the slopes of Silvertine, to reach the rear of the battlefield. When the enemy host has poured fully out of Moria, they can shut the Dimrill Gate and cut off the retreat."
He looked around at them all.
"Yet once they close the gate, that force must hold it," he added quietly. "They will face the fury of the whole dark host. They must buy enough time for our main army to win in the valley."
"My lord."
Yenagath dropped to one knee. "I am willing to lead that force myself."
His gaze was steady. From the moment he had spoken, he had known where this road might end.
The faces of the Dwarf kings softened at that, and many looked at him with open respect.
Kaen drew a long breath and rose fully from the high seat. His eyes were complicated as he looked at Yenagath.
"In name you are my Elven regent," he said, "leader of the Elves of Taurëmírë. Yet beyond titles you are also my kin. Your sister is my wife.
"I would gladly forbid you this path, but it is yours to choose, not mine. I will respect your choice.
"I promise you this: when you call upon my name in true faith, my light will fall upon you, wherever you stand."
Dáin and Thorin rose as one.
"In the presence of our people," they said, "we swear by Durin that whatever comes, you and your descendants shall be named Friends of the Dwarves."
Then all those present, kings and captains alike, bowed to Yenagath. It was the honor given to those who walked without fear into shadow.
So it was that Yenagath left the allied camp with three thousand Caladhîn Elven warriors.
They went out lightly burdened. They cast off their heavy mail, carrying only the keenest spears and the sharpest arrows.
...
Three days later the war-horns sounded in Dimrill Dale
"Wooo... wooo... wooo..."
Their call rolled across the frozen valley as the Dimrill Gate began to open. From its black mouth poured rank upon rank of the dark host.
Nor was that all. From the slopes of the Misty Mountains above, more Orcs and trolls came down to join the marching tide.
So dense were their ranks that they seemed without end, and soon they filled more than half the width of the valley.
The great battle of Dimrill Dale had begun.
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