Chapter 7: The Siege of Khazad-dûm
The great gates of Khazad-dûm were little more than twisted wreckage now, half-buried under fallen rock and centuries of dust. But to Thurgrim Ironbeard they were still home. The Company slipped through the broken archway as storm clouds gathered overhead, the wind cutting through their cloaks like a knife. Eadric leaned hard on Elowyn, his face gray with exhaustion. Beneath his cloak, the Crown felt hot against his chest, like a coal that refused to cool.
"We can't stay long," Eadric muttered, breath coming short. "They're right behind us."
Thurgrim's jaw tightened. Pride and grief warred in his eyes. "Long enough to gather whoever's left. Khazad-dûm doesn't fall without a fight." He lifted his axe and bellowed into the darkness, voice echoing off the stone: "Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"
For a moment, only silence answered. Then came the shuffle of boots, the clink of battered mail, and hoarse voices calling back. Fewer than two hundred dwarves emerged—gaunt, hollow-cheeked, their beards unkempt and their armor held together with wire and hope. When they saw Thurgrim, something shifted in their faces. Not quite hope, but the stubborn refusal to give up.
"Thurgrim," an old warrior rasped, a deep scar pulling at his cheek. "You're alive."
"Barely," Thurgrim said, forcing a grim smile. "And I've brought trouble with me. Bar the gates. Set the traps. Vesper's lot won't be far behind."
They moved fast, the way people do when they know death is coming. Heavy stones were rolled against the broken doors. Archers climbed to cracked balconies. Cauldrons of oil were dragged into place, though many of the dwarves looked like they hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Elowyn helped Eadric into a small alcove off the main hall. A single torch flickered across ancient carvings of bearded kings and forgotten battles.
"I feel something down here," Eadric whispered, pressing a hand to his chest. "Old. Angry. Like it's been waiting."
Elowyn's brow furrowed. "Then we don't wake it. You need to rest. That Word you used before… it almost killed you."
He didn't argue. He was too tired.
Then the horns sounded—deep, ugly notes that rolled through the valley.
Vesper's army poured in like a black flood: orcs in ragged armor, human mercenaries with the red eye painted on their shields, and things that moved wrong in the smoke. Siege towers groaned forward. Catapults hurled flaming pitch that burst against the mountainside. The drums started, a heavy, relentless beat that vibrated in their bones.
Thurgrim took his place on what remained of the Bridge of Khazad-dûm—a narrow, broken tongue of stone over a bottomless chasm. His dwarves formed a ragged shield wall behind him. On the far side, the enemy surged closer.
A massive orc champion lumbered out ahead of the rest, nearly twice the height of a man, axes gripped in fists like hammers. It roared a challenge that shook dust from the ceiling.
Thurgrim spat on the stone. "Come on then, you bastard."
They met in the middle with a crash of metal. The orc fought like a storm—wild, brutal blows that chipped chunks from the bridge. Thurgrim was smaller but quicker, dodging low and striking at joints and tendons with the grim skill of his people. Arrows whistled past them both.
From the back, Eadric watched, heart hammering. Something stirred in the chasm below—flame and shadow twisting together. The Balrog. The violence above had woken it, and now it was rising. Its roar rattled the mountain itself.
"No," Eadric breathed. He pushed forward through the dwarves, legs shaking. The Crown burned hotter against his skin. Power rose in him whether he wanted it or not. He raised his hand and spoke words that felt torn from somewhere deeper than memory:
"Lúthien anor, nár ancalima!"
White light exploded outward. The Balrog shrieked, a sound like tearing stone. It lashed upward with a whip of flame, but the light drove it back. With one last howl, it fell into the abyss, its fire fading into nothing.
The bridge couldn't take it. Stone cracked beneath Thurgrim and the orc. Thurgrim buried his axe in the creature's chest and shoved with everything he had. The orc toppled screaming into the dark. Thurgrim threw himself backward just as the span collapsed entirely.
Elowyn was already moving. She grabbed his arm and hauled him to safety as the last pieces of the bridge vanished into the chasm.
For half a second, there was relief.
Then someone screamed from the eastern halls: "Betrayal!"
Glóin—Thurgrim's own cousin—had opened a hidden side gate. Vesper had promised him land and power, and the traitor had believed it. Enemy soldiers poured in. Loyal dwarves were cut down where they stood.
Thurgrim's roar was raw with pain. "Glóin! You gutless traitor!"
He charged into the chaos, axe swinging. Eadric and Elowyn fought beside him—Eadric's sword flashing, Elowyn's arrows finding gaps in armor. But the enemy was too many. Fires spread through the ancient halls. Smoke stung their eyes. The screams of dying dwarves echoed everywhere.
Thurgrim wept as he cut down his own blood. "For Durin," he snarled, voice cracking.
They fell back through secret passages only the dwarves knew—tight tunnels and forgotten stairs deep in the rock. Behind them, Khazad-dûm burned. The sounds of slaughter chased them long after the light of the fires had disappeared.
When they finally stumbled out into a sunlit valley on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains, the sweet smell of pine and wildflowers felt like a cruel joke. Thurgrim dropped to his knees among the stones, shoulders shaking. Only about eighty dwarves had made it out with them.
Eadric rested a hand on the dwarf's armored shoulder. His own voice was hoarse. "They won't be forgotten. Their stand got us this far."
Thurgrim looked up, eyes red-rimmed but fierce. "Aye. And Vesper will answer for every one of them. On to Mount Ashen. We finish this."
**Post-Credit Scene**
In the smoke-filled ruins, Lord Vesper stood among the bodies. His black cloak stirred in the hot wind rising from the chasm. Dwarves and orcs lay tangled together in death. Glóin's headless corpse rested near his boots.
A lieutenant approached and bowed. "The boy got away, my lord. And the Balrog… it's gone."
Vesper's smile was thin. "He escaped, but he's weakening. Every time he uses that Crown, it eats at him." He turned, eyes cold and bright. "Send word to the mountain. The Eye of Mordren is waking. The final hunt begins on the slopes of Ashen."
High above, in the ruined citadel's tallest chamber, a great stone eye carved with red flame slowly opened, pulsing with ugly life.