The great Doors of Durin creaked wide, and at last the company could enter.

The dwarves went first, their faces alight with awe and reverence. Yet Smaug, vast as he was, could not pass through the narrow gate. The endless tunnels of Khazad-dûm were too confined for his wings and bulk. So Sylas ordered him to circle eastward and wait by the East-gate of Moria.

The Fire-demon was said to haunt the Bridge of Khazad-dûm near that side, when the time came, dragon and wizards together would confront it.

Thorondor, the great eagle, was left to guard the West-gate. His sharp eyes would keep watch over the mountains, and no orc would slip away unseen.

Once inside, Gandalf's voice grew solemn, his staff glowing faintly in the gloom.

"Take care," he warned. "There is an ancient evil here, older even than the Watcher in the Water. It sleeps deep beneath the stone. Do not rouse it, unless we are prepared to face it."

At once, the dwarves' excitement dimmed. They all knew the tales of the Balrog, the terror of shadow and flame, and their hearts grew heavy. Hands tightened on axe and hammer, and every sound of dripping water or distant echo made them glance sharply about.

Moria was a labyrinth beyond imagining, corridors upon corridors, roads and mines that could swallow a host of armies. Without a guide, one could wander for weeks and never find the light of day again. Fortunately, Gandalf had passed through Khazad-dûm long ago, in search of Thráin II, father of Thorin Oakenshield. His memory served them well, and he led the company upward through winding stairways.

They passed along high stone galleries, peering down into chasms without bottom, where the dwarves of old had mined mithril until the very world seemed hollow. Even the walls of the passages glittered faintly with silver veins of ore. Outside Moria, a single chip of such stone would buy a kingdom, but here, it lay so common in the rock that once the dwarves scarcely bothered to lift pick to it, deeming it too poor a yield.

Now, the dwarves' eyes burned with desire. More than one glanced sidelong at the mithril glinting in the stone, and it was plain they would have hacked some free on the spot if not for the grim warning of Gandalf and the gravity of their quest.

At length, the stair brought them to the Twenty-first Hall, the greatest chamber near the West-gate. Moria held twenty-one vast halls in all: the First Hall near the East-gate, then hall after hall stretching westward until the final one, this place, closest to the Doors of Durin.

Here the dwarves had long ago dug through the roots of the Misty Mountains, piercing Morgoth's once-impregnable barrier and carving a road from gate to gate, a feat of craft that even the Valar had marveled at. Gandalf told them it would take four full days to walk straight from the West-gate to the East-gate, without pause.

The Twenty-first Hall was held aloft by mighty stone pillars like a forest of rock, and doors opened in every direction, leading to mines and passages uncounted. Here too lay the Chamber of Mazarbul, where the records of Durin's Folk were kept, and where, in another fate, Balin's tomb would stand, with the last of his company fallen around him.

Balin's eyes suddenly widened as they fell upon a great weapon lying upon a stone table. He rushed forward, seized it with trembling hands, and stared in wonder.

"The Axe of Durin!" he cried.

It was no ordinary relic. This was the weapon once wielded by Durin the Deathless, father of their people and first King of Khazad-dûm. To the House of Durin, the axe was more than steel, it was a symbol of rule, a sign that he who bore it had rightful claim to Moria itself. Balin's face shone with joy as if he had discovered a treasure greater than gold.

Meanwhile, Sylas cast his gaze around the chamber. This was the Chamber of Mazarbul, once the proud library and record hall of the dwarves. Yet centuries of decay and the ravages of orcs had reduced the tomes to dust. Even magic could not mend them. The weight of lost history hung heavy in the air.

Then, a sudden hiss of danger. From the shadows, a poisoned arrow streaked toward Balin's neck. He was unprepared, too caught in his triumph to react. In that heartbeat, Sylas flicked his wand.

"Protego!"

The Shield Charm shimmered, catching the arrow barely a hand's span from Balin's throat. The dwarf staggered back, pale but alive.

"By Durin's beard, you saved my life, Sylas!" he gasped.

Before Sylas could reply, Gandalf drew Glamdring with a flash and cried out:

"Orcs! To arms!"

At once, the chamber filled with clamor. The dwarves rallied, weapons raised, as distant drums began to thunder through the black halls of Khazad-dûm. The deep booming echoed like the heartbeat of the mountain, and mingled with it rose the guttural roars of the orc-host.

Sylas conjured a ball of white fire, hurling it aloft. The mines blazed with light, revealing a tide of orcs surging from all four gates of the hall. Thousands, their eyes gleaming, their blades flashing. Among them lumbered trolls, monstrous and towering.

The dwarves wheeled into formation, disciplined and fierce. Four companies sealed the gates, shields locked, axes ready. Though outnumbered many times over, they fought as one. The first wave of orcs broke against them like water on stone, bodies falling in heaps as the dwarves pressed forward with battle-cries.

But the orcs were cunning. Snarling, they drove great cave-trolls forward as living battering-rams. One massive brute, wielding a hammer the size of a wagon, smashed at the gates, shattering stone with every blow.

Sylas raised his wand.

"Depulso Maxima!"

The troll staggered, flung back by a force like a battering ram of air. Sylas called out over the clash of steel:

"Balin! Hold the orcs, the trolls are ours!"

Balin nodded, lifting the Axe of Durin high. "Khazâd ai-mênu!" he roared, and the dwarves surged behind him, their axes rising and falling like the waves of the sea.

Sylas turned to face the nearest troll. It resisted spell after spell, hide thick and cursed with Morgoth's lingering power. But Sylas was not deterred. He whispered a charm, and the carved statues that lined the hall shuddered, stone groaning.

One by one they broke free, towering effigies of kings and heroes long dead, striding into battle. The trolls bellowed in rage as stone colossi descended upon them, grappling and striking with fists of granite.

Sylas leapt to the shoulder of one statue, spear Aeglos in hand. With a cry, he drove it down into the skull of the troll, black blood spraying as the beast fell with a crash.

At the west gate, Herpo uncoiled. His golden eyes burned. Any orc or troll who dared meet his gaze dropped lifeless or froze in stone, and soon the westward host faltered, unwilling to approach.

At the south gate, Gandalf himself stood as a bulwark, Glamdring gleaming white fire in the gloom. Behind him, five hundred dwarves fought shoulder to shoulder, their chants echoing:

"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"

Sylas moved with startling agility, staff in his left hand and sword in his right. He ducked beneath the ogre's hammering blows, drove his staff forward to release a shockwave that staggered the brute, and in the same breath swept in with his blade, felling the monster cleanly.

At the eastern gate, Balin and five hundred dwarves held the line with grim determination. Their armor, forged in the halls of Erebor and Iron Hills, turned aside crude orc blades as if they were twigs. Orc after orc fell, but the dwarves stood as iron.

The northern gate was even more secure. There, Sylas had set the stone guardians loose, towering statues come alive, their colossal arms crushing and scattering foes. Sylas himself stayed behind them, delivering killing strikes where the enchanted warriors had already broken the enemy.

The battle raged for hours, a tide of blood and iron echoing through the vast halls of Khazad-dûm. At last, the relentless pounding of drums slowed, and the orcs melted back into the shadows.

The dwarves raised a cheer, their voices rolling like thunder in the cavern: victory! Twice as many orcs lay dead as had fallen in the first assault. Even the trolls had been driven back, their bodies piled high with the slain.

Sylas carefully returned Herpo to his enchanted case. Though the serpent had proven invaluable, its gaze was a double-edged sword. One careless glance from an ally could bring ruin, so Sylas dared not risk keeping it out too long.

After the grim work of dragging the heaps of corpses deeper into the mines, the company rested briefly, sharpening blades and binding wounds. Then Gandalf gave the signal, and they pressed onward, eastward into the dark heart of Moria.

They passed through the Twentieth Hall, the Nineteenth, the Eighteenth… each one a hollow echo of Khazad-dûm's former glory. Small warbands of orcs skirmished with them, but the dwarves, hardened now, dispatched them swiftly. Neither Gandalf nor Sylas raised hand or spell; both conserved their strength, for they knew the true trial yet lay ahead.

At last, they reached the Second Hall, and there, the full fury of the Enemy awaited them.

From every passage, from every stair and tunnel, poured a black tide. Thousands of orcs, shrieking with madness, surged forward without fear of death. Behind them thundered scores of cave-trolls, some wielding iron clubs, others dragging siege-slings, their roars shaking the stone.

The orcs had learned from their earlier defeats. To defy the basilisk's deadly gaze, they had blinded their trolls, gouging out the eyes, then mounted them like war-beasts, guiding them with cruel chains and spurs. Even the orcs themselves kept their eyes shut, relying on their sharpened hearing and smell.

The sight turned the stomachs of the company. Orcs that would mutilate even their own for the sake of battle were beyond mercy.

The horde crashed against them, a storm of steel and flesh. Sylas and Gandalf exchanged a glance, this would not be a battle of endurance. This would be a battle of annihilation.

Raising his wand high, Sylas shouted:

"Confringo Maxima!"

The ceiling groaned, then thundered down. Hundreds of tons of rock broke loose, avalanching into the Second Hall. Orcs and trolls alike were crushed beneath the falling stone, their screams cut short as the floor shook with the fury of it. The air filled with dust, and when it cleared, countless bodies lay mangled in the rubble.

They also destroyed the stair corridors and other passages to prevent the Orcs from having any way to attack.

Gandalf struck the ground hard with his staff, releasing a dazzling shock wave that knocked the orcs and trolls away.

"Sylas, do you feel the temperature around you getting higher?"

Sylas nodded and looked at him seriously. "Our real enemy is coming!"

...

STONES PLZ

Read chapters ahead @/Keepsmiling818