A fan of "The First Warrior" asked me if I would make a sequel. I replied that if I did, it would be a between story during the Golden Age. After thinking about it, I'm starting it. Enjoy.

Warning: You may want to read "The First Warrior" if you haven't yet before reading this.

Disclaimer: I own very little in this story. That little would be Miranda and Onyx.

Lips of Profanity

Not to be Taken

Moonlight shone on the white marble floor as a greasy black foot glided upon it. The creature that belonged to the foot looked toward the canopy bed in the middle of the room. Its sharp eyes could distinguish the figure of a young woman with dark auburn hair and fair skin.

The creature licked its lips with a black tongue, revealing jagged teeth of brown and black.

But no; his masters orders had been specific. Get in, get it, and get out.

It had been fairly easy to get in. The fell beast had been swift and silent, and he himself had always been well known for his ways of stealth.

He continued his silent trek across the room, his eyes, so accustomed to the darkness, darting back and forth, looking for it.

Then his eyes saw it. An ivory horn in the shape of a roaring lion, hanging upon a peg on the wall.

Slimy green hands took it from its place on the wall and placed it in a pouch that hung upon his waist.

The young woman stirred in the bed, moaning softly. The creature froze, a hand going to his dagger, ready if needed. But the moment passed, and her breathing became slow and deep once again.

The being quickly slipped back to the open window and gave a soft birdlike whistle. A giant animal with dragonlike wings soared down towards him and bent its neck down. He grabbed onto the fell beast, and it soared towards the northwest. Within moments, a flash of light surrounded it, and the creature disappeared.

Opaque blue, cat-eye green, and crimson red eyes searched the skies for the fell beast and its rider. The Orc party had been sent messages that it would arrive at the ruins of Isengard at dawn. The Orc's eyes looked to the horizon. It was almost time.

Suddenly, a great roar sounded throughout the cold morning air, and a beast of great might and power followed. It landed next to the Orc party, with a single Orc on its back. The rider slipped off the fell beast, and the creature lifted itself back into the air, heading back to its hole for some rest.

The Orc, named Galza, handed over his booty to the captain of that Orc party, Carth. Carth took the ivory horn out of the pouch, and looked at it greedily.

"Surely the master will not mind us using it once," the captain stated.

The mass of Orcs, ugly and terrifying, cried out for their captain to use it. Their own, after all, had gotten it for him. So why shouldn't they blow it.

With lips that stank of blood and filth, the captain of the Orcs blew upon this horn.

The sound that emitted from it was the worst sound they had ever heard. Harsher than a fell beasts crow, crueler than a Nazgul's cry, and louder than the Balrog's roar.

It was long, and loud, and crooked. It sounded like a beast of darkness and death, of hopelessness and pain, torture and filth. The Orcs had never been scared of any sound before, but now they howled and covered their ears, bending over as if in pain.

Finally, the sound stopped, and the Orcs stood up. Some shook, some laughed at their own fear, but only one remained stone silent.

Carth was looking at the horizon.

Eight black figures were coming towards them.

Unseen by any, but watching the entire time, stood a figure upon a mound of broken rocks. A lion, brighter than the sun and as large as a small elephant.

The great lion looked upon the Orcs with anger burning in his amber eyes.

Their profane and lying lips had touched something made for purity and truth. They had taken a gift that had been given to one, and were using it as an instrument for death and destruction.

He threw back his great golden mane and roared long and loud and clear. The earth shook beneath, and the skies were suddenly cloudless.

Aslan's eyes went back to the Orcs. This would have to be dealt with. And it would be dealt with by hard hands and strong hearts. It would be dealt with by those they stole the horn from.

Narnians.

It was time for Middle Earth to remember them.