Flight to Zirakzigil

The underground garden of Tharâkh-bazân holds some appeal for the Men and Elf, but as Harvonir points out, there is an artifice at work here that cannot rival nature. The company resumes its journey westwards, through the garden, and finds itself once again in a wide corridor. This time, all three companions feel uneasy.

Minnwen slows to a halt, pulling on Forvonir's sleeve. She places a finger against her lips, drawing her blade slightly from its scabbard. The steel glows bright blue.

Forvonir looks around. ''Orcs and goblins everywhere.'' He takes out his halberd.

Harvonir draws his sword ''I am ready''.

Forvonir looks at the shining blade ''I have heard stories about the glowing blades of the elves. It seems those stories were true.''

Minnwen nods. "Rhovancrist was bestowed me by Lord Círdan, who had it as a gift from the elven forges of Eregion. I wager he knew it would serve us well here, Forvonir."

Forvonir looks at his weapon. ''This halberd has no name, nor a story worthy to be told. I have been wielding it since I started serving as a captain in Osgiliath. It was forged in Minas Tirith.''

Minnwen looks with confidence at Forvonir. "Then you will give it a story worthy of your heirs. Silently now, there is no avoiding these wretched yrch, for it appears we are besieged, but Rhovancrist shall lead us, and Elbereth grant us victory."

Forvonir nods ''Let us hope this weapon shall live long enough to be wielded by heirs, before it breaks into pieces or corrodes to dust.'' He grips his halberd more firmly. ''Then to battle.''

"To battle, brother.'' Harvonir repeats his words.

Quietly moving along the corridor, weapons drawn, they arrive at a junction, and see a light shining from the north. Before they can head towards it, a cry goes up from the landing atop a nearby flight of stairs. "MAGGOTS, attack them, what are you waiting for?" And the grunts of orcs reach their ears through the darkness.

Forvonir stands ready. ''Brace yourselves, here they come.''

A party of two goblins and an uruk leap down the stairs, the first of them going straight for Forvonir and Harvonir. Forvonir swings his halberd elegantly, the pole almost dancing in his hand, yet the strikes strong and harsh. The blade runs through the neck of the attacking goblin, beheading it instantly.

But the second goblin catches Minnwen off balance, inflicting a serious wound in her side and evading Harvonir's strike. Forvonir lodges his dagger in the goblin's upper arm, making it drop its axe, but now the uruk joins the fray, whirling its axe high above its head as it charges towards Forvonir.

The captain jabs his halberd handle into the uruk's face, gaining distance and time to prepare a counterattack. His gently spinning pole builds momentum, the blade descending through the uruk's rusted armour and dispatching its entire arm in one swift blow.

While Harvonir deals the killing strike to the uruk, Minnwen stands over the surviving goblin, her sword Rhovancrist glowing with an intense blue wrath. The creature grovels before her. "Mercy! You are my masters now, and I will serve you ..." It eyes the Elf slyly, its fingers creeping towards Forvonir's dagger lodged in its shoulder.

Forvonir looks pitifully at the goblin ''We are masters of noone. And even if we were, you would be a servant we would never trust.''

Harvonir shouts, ''Watch out, Minnwen!''

Minnwen, seeing the danger, points Rhovancrist at the goblin's heart and thrusts, as Harvonir's warning resounds. The blade sinks into the vile flesh, and yet when withdrawn, is clean and unmuddied. Blood drips from the goblin's mouth, now slack, and its fingers fall away from the dagger hilt. The Elf barely pauses and yet a sad light shines in her eyes as she glances up at the Men. Forvonir looks around ''It is done then. We should move. I am sure more will come.''

"Run," the Elf says, watching the blade confirm Forvonir's prediction. "Run down that corridor north. I can hear them coming from the west and this time it is a tide we cannot stem."

Towards the distant light they fly, their enemies pursuing.

An icy wind hits them like a barrier but at last they burst through into ... a blinding blizzard. They are in the open at last, on the surface, thousands of feet above the Dimrill Dale, on the very slopes of Celebdil the Silvertine, called Zirakzigil in the dwarven tongue.

The orcs do not follow, apparently deciding to leave the company to the mountain's wrath.

Down the slope the Men and Elf climb, hoping to cross Celebdil into Rhovanion. Before long, a massive crack in the mountain catches their attention, the corpse of a monstrous beast stretched out in the snow. The Men have never seen its like, while the Elf, gone pale and quiet, refuses to confirm her knowledge without moving closer to the creature.

Eventually they stand at the edge of the crater.

Forvonir inspects the creature, but dares not step any closer. ''This beast is huge. And it is... oozing dread." He steps back a bit. ''I feel as if its blackness consumes my soul. Even in its death it is still a frightening sight.''

Minnwen, debating within herself, is speechless for a moment. At last, she says, "Your kind are young and do not live long ... If my people are right, then such creatures have not walked these shores since the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, the Battle under the Stars, many an age ago. We called them the Balrogath, Forvonir. This one, this Balrog, has been slain not long ago. I will wager the Lady and Lord of Lórien have seen portents of this."

Forvonir inspects the body ''The Balrog you say. It seems a monstrous creature. What manner of warrior could slay a demon like this.''

Minnwen shakes her head. "As my people tell it, only the great elves of a kingdom that once was but now is no more ..."

They circle the great corpse but there is only a ledge beyond, and a vertical drop so steep that none could hope to survive the descent. Celebdil the Silvertine will not let them pass.

#Jazârgund #Tharâkhbazân #combat #Zirakzigil #Balrog