Continued from Leaving Thargelion Pt IV
There had been little time to organise the defence; the host of Barad Eithel felt as though they were upon an island, surrounded by a sea of foes. They had been separated from the other Noldor kingdoms in the lands surrounding the fortress by the sudden flames. The fates of any others in the sudden madness were unknown, for all of Beleriand could have been destroyed in the unexpected tumult.
It had been two weeks or so since the bells had been rung, as far as Estarfin could tell. Days had run together; ice, blood and fire filling every waking moment and allowing little meaningful rest for the desperate defenders. The earth itself trembled with the discordant symphony of war. Idhrenian had led him out from the fortress, but he had swiftly lost her in the great sea of chaos, the sky weeping soot upon the warriors of Fingolfin. Yet he had found Cendamo in the wild melee, the tall Noldor Captain shining like a star. They had spared what brief greeting the battle allowed, then set to the task of the defence of the citadel of the High King.
They had led a score of warriors armed with cruel swords, broad shields, arrows and bows of ivory and Ash. The orcs of Morgoth were almost without number. They hated the Elves and were wicked in their assault, if not brave. For when they realised they were outmatched they attempted to flee the field of battle. Yet ever their numbers were supplemented by fierce and evil wolves; their teeth sharp their claws long, waiting in ambush and springing on the Elven warriors from behind and bringing them down swiftly. At times from a distance true horrors could be seen. Huge shapes, too vast almost to believe they could move of their own power stalked the battlefield. Fire and fear surrounded these creatures and Estarfin quailed at the thought of them. He hoped that if needed, the courage of his kin, his company and he himself would hold.
Cendamo led the company. Their numbers waxing and waning with the perils of battle and reinforcements from the keep. Slowly they pushed the orcs and wolves further from the fort leaving the planes surrounding the white towers littered with the dead; both their own and the enemy. As they pushed the orcs back through the mountain passes, battle became narrower and closer. Often they were forced to fight on frozen rivers between sheer cliffs. The armour of Estarfin held and prevented any serious harm, the spear and shield he had taken from the smithy wreaking a dreadful toll amongst the enemy. Cendamo often kept him at his side in the forefront of battle, glad to have the fell warriors of Caranthir fight alongside him.
“Cendamo, we cannot fight them here, the ice will never hold us all.” Estarfin shouted at the Captain over the din of battle. He could barely hear the response as he parried an obvious thrust of a crude spear, turning it away and using his shield to push the orc backwards into his own kind.
“Dawn will come soon, and they will flee back to their shadows. Until then we hold!” Cendamo yelled to Estarfin, and all the surrounding troops. “Until dawn, we hold!”
A hail of arrows fell towards the Noldor warriors, the last darkness before dawn hiding their progress until the last moment. The volley was short, most falling among the orc host and felling them swiftly. A few reached the Noldor lines, but their armour and shields were proof against the barbs. The orcs, losing what little courage that they had at the sight of their arrows achieving nothing against the armoured might of the Noldor began to turn and flee northwards.
“Into them! Do not let them regroup!” Estarfin yelled to the company, running as swiftly as he could over the slick ice beneath them, his previous warning forgotten in the hunger for revenge. The host moved with him, and soon splintered the cowardly orc host, their blades singing death to their foes.
They felt it, before they saw it. A palpable sensation of malice stung the air around them, and a fierce heat blew towards them, despite the ice that surrounded them. Then the calls of alarm began as they saw it striding through the throng.
“Valarauko!”
The warriors of Fingolfin and Caranthir were brave, but they quailed in the face of the monster before them. Tall, wreathed in smoke and fire and holding a whip of flame, the Balrog of Morgoth came towards them. The Noldor fell back, save for a single figure who did not give way. Cendamo stood his ground; his armour, dented and scorched, bearing the marks of the terrible battles so far. His eyes, once bright with hope and joy now burned with the fire of defiance.
The ground shook as the Balrog approached, a towering fiend of shadow and flame. Its eyes glowed like coals in the abyss, and its whip lashed the air with a sound like thunder. The Elves, witnessing the approach of this terror, felt the icy grip of fear clutch their hearts, and in despair, they took another step back, giving ground to the abomination. Cendamo watched as his kin gave way, understanding and accepting that his fate was sealed.
The clash was titanic, the sound of steel against the dark hide of the Balrog rang out like a bell tolling the end of days. Cendamo fought with grace and fury, hewing at the shadow that surrounded him. But the Balrog was relentless, a creature of ancient evil unbound. With a mighty blow, it shattered Cendamo’s shield, and with a lash of its whip, it cast him to the ground. The Noldor warrior rose, his sword gleaming with a cold light, and plunged it into the chest of the beast.
The Balrog roared in pain and anger, flames leaping from the wound and causing a foul vapour to fill the air around the combatants; the ice and snow that surrounded them flashed to steam by the immense heat. Cendamo fell back, choking on the noxious air and engulfed in flames. The warrior’s cry was lost in the firestorm, and as his body fell the host of the Noldor turned and fled, their hope broken.
But the wrath of the Balrog had cracked the ice that covered the usually swift-flowing river, and as they ran upon it with steel-shod boots it gave way beneath their feet. Many fell into the icy depths, their cries a haunting dirge for the fallen Cendamo. The river, once a symbol of life, became the tomb of many of them, and the memory of that day would forever be etched in the annals of the Noldor, a testament to the bravery of one who stood alone against the darkness.
Estarfin ran with the others, then fell suddenly into darkness, a thousand knives of frozen pain stabbing him as his body fought against the deadly cold. Yet he was weighed down by steel armour, and he began to sink into the blackness. A strong hand grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the bank, Estarfin had a vague vision of a bearded Man with blond hair as he retched iced water from his lungs, then cold and exhaustion took him and he collapsed.
