Authors Note: A word of warning! This chapter deals with the creation of the Uruk Hai, the foot soldiers of Saruman. As such, the content is somewhat graphic. For those who may find this material offensive, I apologize, however, since they deal with how the Uruk Hai were initially created, based on aspects of summations of previous authors in the Tolkien universe. I felt that they were integral to the continuation of the plot.

I have written those portions in italics so that the reader may skip past them if desired.

Chapter 4

"The art of politics is akin to the setting of the game. Each places his pieces in positions of highest advantage in order to best gain their objectives…"

Shin-Chi-Mon

Concepts and Philosophies of War and Peace

Gowardred leaned back in the dark obsidian throne in the heart of Isengard, a cool, satisfied smile on his lips. He was a lean man, tall and proud, with long dark hair and deep, dark eyes. The armor of his homeland, Rohan, seemed somewhat beneath his newly established station.

In the three months since his councilor, Belial, had arrived, all had fallen into place. His ambition to rule Rohan was close to fulfillment. Only one final obstacle remained. The city of Edoras and King Eomer.

Belial had arrived mysteriously, accompanied by another man. One of the few remaining Wild Men, known as the Dunlendings.

"Greetings, Great Lord," Belial's soft voice had mewed. "I come with tidings and offerings from my Mistress. Too long have you sat upon a throne, behind those who would claim their superiority, wasting your talents in a worthless errand to maintain the forgotten walls of this place. My Lady bade me tell you that she has in mind a plan to remedy this situation, to your benefit, if you should be willing?"

Belial was a small man, shrouded in a dark cloak, with a reptilian voice that flowed like honey, though it had the feel of venom. Truly an agent of darkness if ever there had been one.

No matter. Gowardred had dealt with the likes of such men in the past, utilizing them to his benefit before casting them aside. Belial would be no different in the grand scheme of things, and his efforts, along with the efforts of his mysterious Lady would only seek to increase his own personal power.

"Who is this lady that you serve?" He asked the small man.

Belials icy pale gaze did not waver. He merely smiled showing pointed teeth.

"None, save her most trusted lieutenants, have right to know her true name, Great Lord," he replied. "To learn that, you must seek surety through actions and honor through great deed, bold and treacherous. This you have already done, to some small degree, arousing my Lady's interest. Now she sends me thither, with an offer of aid, and a plan to grant that which your heart desires."

"And what does this Lady desire?" Gowardred asked, leaning forward and glaring down at the man.

"My Lady begs your favor," Belial said.

"As a token," he reached into an oversized bag that he bore on his shoulder. "My Lady offers gifts, befitting a man of prominence, such as yourself."

He drew from the bag, a large, smooth crystal orb. It was made of smooth, dark, polished crystal, about the size of a man's head.

Belial held the crystal orb towards Gowardred, like an offering. "This is the Palantir of Amon-Sul," he said with an air of awe. "One of the treasures of the Elder Days, thought lost in the wars of Gondolin. My Lady offers it to you, in anticipation of your friendship."

"And should I refuse the friendship of your lady?" Gowardred said in an even tone, masking his sudden flaming desire to possess the stone.

"This is a gift," Belial replied easily. "A token of trust and friendship only. There is no compulsion for you to act in any way other than your own devices dictate."

Gowardred considered that for a moment, his steely eyes holding the strange messenger. To his surprise, Belial met his gaze with an expectant one of his own.

"And who is this that accompanies you?" He gestured to the man standing several paces back.

That man was tall and lean, with long, unkempt hair and fierce, wild dark eyes. He was clad in a combination of worked and unworked dirty leather skins, trimmed in ragged fur. At his waist was a simple belt, holding a dirty leather sack and a long dagger. He large hands were clasped in that belt, and he stood and glowered at Gowardred.

"It has been twenty years since the Dunlendings assailed the Westfold, under the deception of Saruman, the Traitor," Belial said, setting the Palantir on a large stone pedestal in the center of the chamber. "I bring before you, one of their chieftains."

Belial gestured to the feral man, and a smile slid across his face.

"I present to you, Volf," he said. "Son of Wulff, the leader of the Dunlendings who served under Saruman."

Gowardred nodded to the man. "I welcome you."

Volf merely maintained his gaze on Gowardred, as if he were sizing the Rohirrim lord for a meal.

"Master Volf seeks permission to allow some of his people to dwell in the more temperate sections of this valley," Belial said easily. "The harsh environment of the high hills has brought hardship to his people. In exchange for this consideration, he offers his finest warriors to serve under your command and aid in the defense of Isengard. Your garrison is quite small, and you would be hard pressed to defend it against attack, should one come."

"An attack that would come, should I refuse to grant this man and his people the land they request," Gowardred replied. "Whether you are the architect of this, or not, Master Belial, it is what would happen should I refuse, is it not?"

"I cannot say, one way or the other," Belial began, but Gowardred cut him off with a wave of his hand, fixing his gaze, instead, upon the chief of the Dunlendings.

"Is that not true, Master Volf?" Gowardred asked again.

The Wild Man stood his ground, gazing back at Gowardred with growing ferocity. His arms began to tremble as if a pent up rage were beginning to break free.

Gowardred smiled and leaned back in his throne. "I see by your manner that it is so. You would take by force that which is not given in parlay."

"We are all neighbors here, My Lords," Belial interjected, hoping to stave off a confrontation.

"Indeed?" Gowardred replied, fixing his gaze once again on the messenger. "And just how is that so? Where does your Lady dwell?"

Belial's genial nature took on a forced expression. "My Lady dwells far to the north, however, she had recently laid claim to the lands of southern entwood, and there, have I been installed to govern that region in her name."

"I know the lands you speak of, though you do not name them," Gowardred said sharply. "The lands are those of the southern region of the Entwood, and the seat of power that you have been granted can only be the tower of Dol-Guldor."

"That is its name, Lord," Belial replied slowly. "And though once a name of ill omen, I hope to change that perception with deeds and alliances of those who would be great, such as yourself and the Chieftain of the Dunlendings. Together, there is much that we could accomplish and end the trials that still plague these forsaken lands."

"Under the direction of your lady," Gowardred finished.

"Indeed," Belial replied honestly. "I am, and ever shall be her faithful servant. But I know her mind well, and know that she seeks only friendship with the Chief of the Hill Men and the Lord of Orthanc."

Gowardred stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I shall consider what you have offered, and call you to me on the morrow. In the mean time, take your ease in Orthanc." He gestured to one of the guards at the main entrance. "Show our guests to quarters, and then leave me alone to consider these offers.

Once the room was emptied, Gowardred considered all that he had heard for a moment. Then his eyes fixed on a small, shadowy alcove.

"Well?" He asked. "What do you think, Gamling?"

From his place of concealment, an old man emerged, clad in long flowing robes. His hair may have been red at one point, but now shimmered like snow in the dark chamber. His pale blue eyes were keen and bright, and his face was lined with wisdom and years.

Gamling, Champion of Théoden, uncle to their present ruler, Eomer. It had been many years since he had held a blade in his hands, yet his past was a part of the legends that had been woven within the workings of the War of the Ring.

He was a shrewd man and plain spoken. He saw much and held nothing back in the telling, which was why Gowardred both liked and despised him. Just as the old man would be forthcoming with his opinions about this recent visitation, so to, would his report to Eomer be equally verbose.

Glamdring moved across the polished floor with long purposeful strides that belied his advanced age.

"Were it not the fact that this man was accompanied by our old enemy," he offered, staring at the closed door where the guests had recently exited. "I might be swayed by his words. However, hearing that this Lady he serves has taken over the management of Dol-Guldor, and that they have obviously allied themselves with the Dunlendings, I would say that they could not be trusted."

"Of course you would say that, you old fool," Gowardred thought to himself, but aloud he said. "I agree. We should strike no bargain with the chief of the Dunlendings, even less with any who would occupy the only remaining stronghold left by Sauron."

"Still," Glamdring continued. "This Belial did make an interesting point. We now sit in a valley with two potential enemies at our backs. We could not hope to hold off the Wild Men alone, with the small garrison here, let alone a combined assault from Dol-Guldor as well."

"Are you suggesting some duplicity on our part, Master Councilor?" Gowardred asked with a slight smile.

"Not at all, My Lord," Glamdring replied. "We should send for reinforcements, and then I merely suggest delaying the resolution of this offer until help arrives."

Gowardred rose and walked over towards the pedestal where the Palantir rested.

"What of this gift?" he asked, touching the smooth surface. There was a flash, and instantly he beheld an ancient fortress, nestled in the mountains. Snow floated down through the air, covering it in shades of black and white so vivid that it hurt his eyes.

In his mind, he heard a soft, husky, feminine voice whisper to him. "All that you desire."

Then his finger was off the crystal and he blinked.

Glamdring considered. "It is a kingly offering, to be certain. This is more the reason, I say, to consider carefully our next course."

"All that I desire," Gowardred whispered aloud.

"My Lord?" Glamdring asked.

Gowardred blinked again. He hadn't meant to speak openly.

"All that I desired," he said again. "Was to serve this post in a time of peace and earn the respect of our king through honorable service and repair the damages caused by the enemies of Rohan. I have no desire to be mingled in intrigues and plots."

He resumed his seat and rubbed his temples.

The old man smiled understandingly. "Such are the reigns of leadership, My Lord."

Gowardred smiled and nodded. "Leave me for a time. I have much to consider."

"Of course," Glamdring bowed and withdrew.

The massive doors of the chamber shut with a resounding thud, sealing Gowardred in the room, alone with his thoughts.

All while he pondered, his eyes constantly returned to the Palantir. The smoky crystal seemed to shimmer somehow, as if the colors and mists within were something alive, floating like disembodied spirits in that tiny sphere.

"All that I desire," He whispered again.

He rose and stepped quickly over to the magical stone, his eyes fixing on it with a mixture of wonder and anxiety.

"What doom is it, I wonder? "He whispered. "To walk in the shadows of great deeds, embracing all that was and hoping to reclaim it!"

His hand came down and clasped the Palantir and his eyes snapped shut.

When Glamdring returned the next morning, he was startled to discover Gowardred, seating on the throne. He looked pale and haggard.

"My Lord?" He asked as he entered, followed by two guards. "Have you taken no food or rest since yesterday?"

"The considerations placed before me have weighed heavily upon my mind, old friend," Gowardred replied. He gestured to the guards at the door. "Send for our guests. Have them attend us as soon as they may."

"My Lord," One of the guards replied and withdrew.

"I shall conceal myself," Glamdring said, moving towards his closet.

"Stay a moment," Gowardred commanded. "In this meeting, you shall be present and able to speak your mind."

Glamdring nodded his head and stood beside the throne. "As you wish, My Lord."

A short time later, Belial slinked into the room, followed by Volf. Both men paused when they saw the old man standing beside Gowardred, but recovered quickly, to their credit.

"Yesterday," Gowardred began. "You came to me with gifts and offers of peace, conditional upon my acquiescence to allowing the Dunlendings, once our enemy, to dwell again in the vale of Isengard. Without word to that effect, you all but told me of your intent to attack Isengard should I refuse."

"I myself, made no threat against you, Noble Lord," Belial began.

"Silence!" Gowardred commanded. He fixed his gaze upon the Chief of the Wild Men. In the corner of his eye, he could see a smug smile appearing behind the thick whiskers of Glamdring's white beard.

"I am not inclined to grant the Dunlendings leave to dwell in this valley without certain assurances," Gowardred continued.

Belial looked at Volf, and then back to the Lord of Isengard.

"What would your terms be, Lord?" Belial asked.

Gowardred rose and stepped next to Glamdring.

"I trust that our messenger has been dispatched to Edoras?" he asked.

"He left at dawn, My Lord," Glamdring replied.

"Very well," Gowardred nodded.

In a flash, he drew a dagger and rammed it through the old man's back.

Glamdring's eyes went wide in surprise. He let a small gasp escape his lips, but no more, and then crumpled to the ground.

"If you desire to dwell in this valley, Volf," Gowardred said, wiping his blade clean on the old mans robes. "Then make sure that messenger does not reach Edoras."

Then he stood and stared at the Dunlending Chief. "Bring your men to Orthanc, and destroy the garrison here, down to the last man. You may then occupy this keep, and the surrounding land, under my governance."

"You are asking us to slaughter your own men, My Lord?" Belial asked in shock, looking down at the corpse on the ground.

Gowardred looked at Volf and for the first time, they seemed as kindred spirits, their eyes both alight with fierce fury.

"You have a body guard, do you not?"

Volf nodded. "Fifteen of my finest hunters."

"Let them hunt the guards within the tower," Gowardred ordered. "Clear this place of Rohan's men, and take their places." He ripped his fine horse head broach from his cloak and cast it into a corner. "Eliminate the messenger, and destroy the Rohirrim within these walls. Once this is done, we shall meet again."

Volf grinned, gave a nod and exited the chamber. A few moments later, there was a brief sound of things thumping against the door, the ring of steel, and then ominous silence.

Now Gowardred turned his dark gaze upon his other guest.

"As to you, Master Belial," he said. "What have you to offer, besides the ruins of an ancient stronghold, lost in the woods, miles away?"

Belial didn't miss a beat. He smiled. "I have much to offer, My Lord. You seek power to order all things in your world to your design. Here, within this place, secreted away, that knowledge – that power – has lain hidden. In my fastness at Dol-Guldor, I learned many secrets, many arts that are thought to be lost. I also discovered that Saruman had taken and copied many of the writings of the Lord Sauron, centuries ago, and closeted them away, here, somewhere in Orthanc. I know where these great secrets are kept. And I shall share with you that knowledge that will give you the strength to claim all that you desire."

Gowardred smiled in a way that would have frozen water. "You understand, Master Belial, that I have just committed a great treason against my kindred. Should your promises prove false?"

"My promises are true, My Lord," Belial replied. "And the influence of My Lady shall protect you. I myself shall return to my fastness in Dol-Guldor and order your protection at once."

"No," Gowardred replied evenly. "You shall not."

"Lord?" Belial seemed confused.

"You came as a friend, and yet I perceive plots within your errand. Plots that may not be known even to your Lady, whom you claim to serve."

"My Lord," Belial began. "I can assure you,"

"No, you cannot," Gowardred said sharply. "You will not come into this place and then slink away, leaving me at the mercy of your allies, or my kindred."

"What do you propose, My Lord?" Belial asked, his eyes narrowing.

"You shall remain here," Gowardred replied. "Any correspondences you need sent, may be transported by courier to your fastness in Mirkwood. Once the aid you promise has arrived, then we shall speak of your leaving. Your other option is to die, here and now."

Belial was clearly unhappy with this turn of events.

"Very well, My Lord." He finally nodded.

"And you shall unlock, for me, the secrets of Orthanc," Gowardred continued. "We shall begin to work towards my ascension to Lordship over all of Rohan."

One narrow black eyebrow rose on the small man's face.

"All of Rohan, My Lord? Is that indeed the limit of your ambition?"

Gowardred smiled. "It shall serve as a start."

"Should I agree to this, now," Belial said cautiously. "I will require something in return."

"Indeed?" Gowardred replied. "Apart from sparing your life?"

"My life is immaterial, Lord," Belial replied easily. "If I am lost, My Lady will appoint another Steward to govern her lands. It is the knowledge I have found, locked in the vaults of Dol Guldor that are most valuable. If I agree to this, it must be in the capacity of allies, bonded by common cause."

Gowardred considered for a moment, his eyes alighting with a hunger that could have been seen as almost ravenous.

"To the conquest of Rohan," He said.

Belial smiled. "To the conquest of Rohan."

Belials eyes drifted to the corpse of Glamdring lying on the floor.

"Very well, My Lord," he said. "Follow me."

With that, Belial strode across the chamber and through a set of doors.

Gowardred followed him, entering the chamber that had once been Saruman's private study.

The room was darkly furnished, with a black wooden desk, oversized chair, and bookshelves lining the walls.

Gowardred wrinkled his nose as he entered. The room felt stuffy and smelled of old parchment. 'Wizard's Smell' he had called it.

"I know this chamber well, Master Belial," he said.

"Ah, indeed, My Lord," Belial replied. "You know this chamber as it is, now. But I know it as it was."

He moved to stand before a large case, lined with ancient books and rolled parchment.

He eyed the imposing piece of furniture for a moment, and then stepped to the side of it.

His hands moved gently up and down along the smooth, worn side, seeking as a blind man would search.

Suddenly, he froze and a confident smile appeared on his face.

"This private study was not always as you see it." He said. "The Traitor, Saruman, changed Orthanc to suit his own devices. Part of that change was to conceal his actions from those who thought him friend and ally."

There was a soft click, and the book case slid to the side, revealing a dark, passage descending into darkness. Cobwebs hung, like wisps of cloud, and fluttered in a cool breeze that the opening generated.

Gowardred felt cool, dry air brush his cheeks as the air flowed out.

Belial took up a candle and stepped to the opening, watching as the small flame consumed the tendrils of cobweb, sending them writhing away like pained spirits.

"Saruman's true treasure of knowledge is below," Belial cooed. "Follow me, My Lord."

Gowardred stepped back into the main audience chamber and grasped a torch from a sconce on the wall. The two men stepped into the abandoned passage and descended into the bowels of Orthanc.

"Saruman knew that his designs for power would garner him many enemies," Belial explained. "He plotted to not only overthrow King Théoden of Rohan, but also his mind was bent upon Minas Tirith, and ultimately, he would betray Lord Sauron as well, and ultimately all of Middle Earth would be under his boot."

A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "What he did not know, was that Sauron already knew of his ambition and treachery, and so used that ambition to fight his battles for him. He instructed Saruman to create an army. The army that marched on the Hornburg was the culmination of his experiments.

"I remember of the Uruk Hai," Gowardred said grimly.

"Ah," Belial said. "But the Uruk Hai was not the ultimate culmination of the evolution of the Orc. It was merely the next step."

They came out of the descending stair and entered a large, dark chamber.

"Behold," Belial said in a soft, almost reverent voice. "The secret library of Saruman." He began slowly circling the room, kindling several torches left in sconces upon the stone wall.

Gowardred felt his mouth fall open in wonder as the room emerged from the darkness, large and circular, with tall shelves lining the outer edge of the room. Each set of shelves was filled with books or scrolls, hundreds of them.

"What dark devilry lies in this place," he breathed. "How many secrets?"

"Many, My Lord," Belial replied. "Many."

Gowardred moved slowly about the room, smelling the musty odor of old knowledge compiled over many years, even centuries.

"Saruman was one of the council that drove Sauron from his hold in Dol Guldor, many, many years ago. As a result, he and the other members of the council had access to Sauron's store of arcane knowledge. Much of Sauron's library is contained in these copies. Many spells and magicks, tested over centuries, refined, and completed, exist in these works.

"The darkest of magic," Gowardred said bitterly, trying to mask his appreciation for the treasure before him.

He moved to a large circular table that dominated the center of the chamber. Upon it were stacked more books and scrolls. One large, dark leather bound tome caught his eye and he moved toward it cautiously.

"Within this chamber," Belial said, looking up at the nearest series of shelves. "Are the fruits of Saruman's knowledge and wisdom, founded in long years."

"Indeed," Gowardred replied. Without knowing quite why, he lifted the book and quickly concealed it beneath the folds of his cloak. "Indeed."

Gowardred suddenly felt a desire to leave this place. He did not wish to linger here, and he especially did not want to afford an opportunity for his strange new ally to peruse the writings here.

"I have seen all I require," he said quickly. "Come."

"Of course, My Lord," Belial smiled and bowed, preceding the Marshal back up the steps to the main chamber.

Once back in the central chamber, Gowardred slid the tome behind the throne before resuming his seat.

"So," He said. "This discovery was contingent upon assistance, on behalf of your mistress."

"It was indeed, My Lord." Belial moved to stand before the throne, his eyes locked upon the Marshal of Rohan. "My Lady requests that you aid her in the return of a treasure."

"What treasure would that be?" Gowardred asked.

"The mantle of the Lord of the Nazgul." Belial said simply. "The crown of the Witch King of Angmar, lost upon the Pelannor."

Gowardred felt his jaw drop in astonishment.

"The crown of the Witch King currently rests in the treasuries,"

Gowardred cut him off. "In the Treasuries of the King!"

"Yes," Belial replied. "It lies in the vaults of Minas Tirith."

"You would have me assail the walls of Minas Tirith, all the way to the summit of Mount Mendeluin, in order to recover a trinket, lost in a battle some twenty years past?" Gowardred thundered. "Are you mad?"

"That is the condition for any further aid from My Lady, Lord Gowardred." Belial replied. Then he smiled slyly. "Consider this a test of your worth."

"It is an impossible task!" Gowardred replied. "Not with one hundred thousand men could you accomplish this!"

Belial backed toward the exit. "It is the condition, set by My Lady. This and no other boon will she accept."

He stopped at the door and bowed. "I shall leave you to consider this honorable task, My Lord." Then he backed out of the chamber, closing the doors behind him.

The walls seemed to close in around Gowardred as he sat in silence, feeling the weight of his actions begin to slowly crush him. He forces the rising panic down and thought furiously.

He had betrayed his king, murdered his men, and allied himself with the enemy of Rohan, all before even knowing what would have been expected of him. His hunger for power and his untamed ambition had gotten the better of him, played expertly by the slinking emissary of the mysterious lady.

He immediately disregarded any outright assault upon the towering city of Gondor, which left him optionless and close to despair.

As he stared sullenly about the chamber, his eyes fell upon a spider, slowly working its way up the wall near his seat.

He sat, transfixed as the arachnid moved up the side of the wall towards the top of a simple stone support. The entire chamber was utterly still and silent except for that simple minute movement. In fact, if he had not been so filled with despair, he probably would have overlooked –

His eyebrows rose as a plan began to percolate in his mind. A straightforward assault would be vain. But an indirect assault; one that would use the defenses of the mighty city to his advantage.

"Volf!" He bellowed. The doors opened, and the big Dunlending chieftain strode into the hall. There was still blood on his hands and arms.

He stopped and stared hungrily at the Lord of Rohan.

"I need six of your best men," Gowardred said quickly. "They must be fair of face and sharp of wit! Have them brought to me at once!"

"As you wish," Volf said, bowing his head.

A short time later, the six prospective warriors stood before him. He moved up and down, inspecting them. They were all similar, powerfully built with fierce eyes, and long, unkempt hair.

Gowardred winced. "These are your best?" he asked, barely masking his disgust.

Belial, who was now lounging near the entrance, watched intently as Gowardred looked the recruits up and down.

"What is your plan, My Lord?" he asked.

Gowardred paused in his pacing. "Instead of assailing the towers of Minas Tirith. I propose we slip in quietly."

"I see," Belial replied, musing. "With your permission, Lord?" he offered.

Gowardred nodded.

"Master Volf," Belial instructed. "Bring the slaves of your house to this place, and have them attend these men."

Volf nodded and withdrew.

"For this deception to succeed," Gowardred continued, addressing the six men before him. "You must learn to blend in with the men of the west, how they think, their customs, their expressions. To that end, you shall be instructed in their manners and etiquette. You will also learn our art of riding, so that you may escape capture in the task I shall set before you. Should you succeed, I promise a handsome reward, befitting a lord of the Mark, for each of you."

The men looked from one to the other, their eyes alighting hungrily.

The slaves were brought in, and instructed to clean up the six men before the Lord of Isengard. Then the entire company withdrew.

Belial watched them depart, his narrow eyebrows arching in curiosity.

"May I inquire?" he began.

"You may not," Gowardred cut him off. "Your Mistress has set this task before me. I will not have you meddle in it!"

Belial's gaze turned cold, but only for a moment. Then his smile sprouted again. "As you wish, My Lord."

When the six prospective men were brought before Gowardred again, they had been bathed, their hair and beards had been trimmed, and they were clad in clean garments. On the outside, they looked like any wandering traveler in those lands, except for the smoldering wrath in their eyes. They stood tall, proud and defiant.

"Much better," Gowardred nodded.

It was a tribute to Volf's instincts when his choices showed unusually apt talent for learning. In a matter of a few weeks only, they had mastered not only the art of horsemanship as far as it would aid them in their task, but their verbal skills had grown to where they could hold conversations in such a way that even Gowardred had to remind himself that he was dealing with a member of the Wild Hill Men of Dunland.

One of the men, a tall, handsome man named Chras had taken the role of leader of the party, and it was he who spoke most and listened closest to all the plots outlined by Gowardred.

"You should all enter the city singly, or in pairs, but no more than that," Gowardred instructed. "Locate a dwelling, as high up in the city as you may, and use that as your meeting place."

"Very well, My Lord," Chras nodded, studying the ancient map of Minas Anor, now Minas Tirith, yet another of the treasures to be salvaged from Saruman's private library.

Chras studied the map with a keen eye.

"This ridge, on the western face of Mendeluin nestles up against the actual wall of the city, see?"

Gowardred nodded. "It is the steppe above that section that you shall use. Move around to the southwestern face of the mountain and then climb up and come to the palace from behind. The peak of Mendeluin should give you an opportune point from which to observe and then execute the plan."

"Where are the royal stables?" Chras asked.

"Very near to the entrances of the Royal Treasury, here," Gowardred indicated the map. "I recall, from my last visit there, that the main courtyard and the stables are lightly guarded. Once you gain egress from the palace, you will encounter little resistance. It is the escape from the city that concerns me most."

"I have a strategy to deal with that, My Lord," Chras replied with a cruel smile.

Gowardred blinked. "This man is a Dunlending," he reminded himself again. "Yet I feel as though I am holding a council of war with one of Eomer's captains."

"Only five shall make the ascent, while the sixth stations himself outside the palace, along the escape." Chras pointed to the first switchback leading from the palace. "The palace is sure to have archers at the ready, if not pike men that they may call further down. I have decided that the crown shall be handed off to the sixth man, and then the remainder of the party will make for the main gate and attempt to flee the city. If they can stay ahead of the alarm, they should make the escape."

"While at the same time, focusing the attention of the city upon them and allowing the sixth man to sneak from the city undetected, once all settles." Gowardred completed.

Chras's smile widened. "Very good, My Lord."

That had been nearly a month ago, and in the time that followed, Gowardred spent many hours in Saruman's private library, poring through volume after volume of lost or forbidden knowledge, seeking the one thing that could guarantee his victory. His six spies, sent into Gondor had not returned, and now, word had reached him of an expedition that had crossed the plains of Rohan, aided in the journey by a daring strategy, executed by the Fourth Marshal of the Riddomark, Breggolard.

That meant that the marauding bands of Uruk-Hai, remnants of Saruman's army, augmented by fresh creatures, bred in Dol Guldor, had been distracted from their mission of severing all ties with the east. Soon, the small marauding bands between he and the two strongholds of his country, Edoras and the Hornburg, would need to be withdrawn and regrouped.

Gondor would come to the aid of the beleaguered city of Edoras, then it would open the way to the Hornburg, and finally, the combined strengths of those three forces would come for him.

No matter. He held six thousand in the field, plus another one thousand Dunlending's garrisoned with him in Orthanc. Belial's promise of an additional two thousand of the newly bred Uruks would arrive within the week, as promised, along with all the machinery of war that he required. If only there was something more he could utilize to secure his treacherous position before the hammer stroke fell.

He turned the page of the book and his attention became completely focused on the words written within. It seemed to be a portion of one of Saruman's many journals. The previous page had been smeared to the point of being unrecognizable. However, this leaf was still discernable to him.

but what if I supplant him? If the One Ring comes to me, I would have that power. Gandalf never bothered to consider that possibility. Then again, perhaps he did, but dismissed it out of hand – ignorant fool. He is a powerful member of the council, to be sure, but he is weakened by his compassion for the less fortunate.

The Dark Lord, Sauron, had commanded me to build him an army, one worthy of his great kingdom. While this order was not a surprise, the swiftness of it was. I had not had the time to prepare Isengard for this task. While I shall never accept that I felt fear at his order, I will admit to a certain amount of concern. I had only just begun my research into the breeding of such creatures. Fortunately, I have, in my library, the only remaining copy of the works of Melkor, who was the Master of Sauron in the Elder Days, before the fall of Gondolin. I had achieved some small success in following his works and created a force of laborers that would do my bidding, but they were weak and could not serve me as I needed in war. For that, I needed something better. Something that will strike fear in the hearts of those miserable Horse Tamers to the south. Melkor's dark works served me as a start, but they were far from complete, and Melkor himself, confessed that he had been hard pressed to create his armies. The process had been far from perfected.

Where he had failed, I had been more successful. Indeed, I had been fortunate to capture several elves before deciding my course. I knew now, that my soldiers could be bred quickly and with little difficulty, though I would need a place to carry this out.

My first task was to dam the river, allowing the deep pools of Isengard to drain, opening vast pits within the ring of stone. That task was already underway when Gandalf arrived near midsummer, and I feared that he might suspect something. Fortunately, the wood around Isengard had not yet been harvested and the sinking lakes were kept from his prying eyes.

Still, I must confess that it is a shame that Gandalf could not be persuaded to join me in my quest for the One Ring. Even as a servant, he could have been useful. Then again, his penchant for compassion would have been my undoing in the end. No, better he rot on the roof of the tower, where his words and magic could do no harm.

Once the trees were being felled and the furnaces lit, it was time for me to address the shortcomings of Melkor's breeding process. On the fourth level of my tower, I kept my prisoners, locked in small windowless cells, chained and helpless. I held three females and two males, which I planned to utilize as templates for my soldiers.

The powerful magicks that Melkor employed to transfer elf into orc were tiring for me, involving ancient incantations that had not been uttered aloud for ages uncounted. Also, I was not convinced of their potency. Yes, they would work to transform the elves into twisted aberrations, but I needed more than that. Much, much more!

Out of the male prisoners, I managed a fairly complete transformation, though they were wild and unsalvageable, they provided materials for the next phase of my experiments. From them, I was able to grow, in my first pit, a small group of five basic orc kind. They were loyal, but unusable in war. I needed something stronger! Something that could move by day, as well as night! This was where Melkor's endeavors had fallen short. He had simply utilized these base creatures and improved them as much as possible, but they were still short, unruly, undisciplined, and unable to move in daylight, like the orc hordes of my supposed master, Sauron.

I needed a creature that could combat them as well as the world of men!

It was at this point that serendipity aided me! I still had three female elf prisoners to utilize! In them, I could accomplish what I desired. Of the three of them, there was one, a tall, splendid maiden, that I surmised would serve me best in this?

Taking one of my new children, the most promising one, and I ascended the steps and paused outside the door. I instructed my orc to wait without, and entered the chamber.

There she hung. Vale' Vana, a soft beauty of the Silven family, her small wrists wrapped in the iron manacles, and held above her head as she hung in the center of the tiny space. Even after many weeks of imprisonment, with little food and water, she was still lovely to behold, hanging in her shapely nakedness.

In spite of the complete darkness of the chamber, I beheld a glow in her skin, as if a light burned within her very form.

Her deep blue eyes opened and regarded me. I was amused at the amount of defiance mingled with her questioning gaze.

What could she know of my desires? One cannot explain the art of destiny to another. My plans were subtle and intricate, of which she would now have to play her part.

I stepped before her, my fingers tracing the arcs of her flesh, feeling it tingle under my touch. I found her soft wince of disgust strangely pleasing. I continued my inspection, reaffirming that she was indeed perfect for my purposes. She was tall and fair, with soft, velvety skin and delicate features. Her long dark hair hung past her narrow shoulders. My fingers traced the outline of those shoulders, down to her waist and back up again over her breasts as I walked around her. When I looked into her deep blue eyes again, they were filled with questions.

I smiled again and stepped back by the door, seating myself upon a small stool. Then I gestured to the door. The orc entered and I watched with satisfaction as Vale' Vana's eyes went from weary curiosity to wide horror.

I followed her gaze to the face of my child. The orc stared at her, as if enchanted. Perhaps something of the elf that spawned him still lingered. Well, that could be mended in the next batch.

"You know what to do," I instructed the orc. The creature looked to me, and then back again.

"Get on with it!" I ordered the orc.

The misshapen, dark face suddenly leered at her hungrily, and I could see the necessary physical reactions required. It shambled forward, towards her. Her wide eyes went even wider and then she cried out as she realized what was to come.

I stayed and watched for a while, observing the actions and reactions of the breeding. Of particular interest was the way that Vale' Vana struggled at first and cried out. Then her eyes seemed to dim, if that were possible. They glazed over and she finally offered no further resistance, allowing the orc to complete his task. The soft glow that I had perceived upon entering, seemed to fade as her flesh was scratched by the orc claws.

I watched until her cries had fallen to soft, unintelligible gasps and whimpers, then I rose.

"Remember!" I ordered. "She must be left alive!"

The orc paused for only a moment, looking up at me with deep, reddish eyes. Its grotesque features frozen in that same hungry leering grin.

It looked down at the elf before him. He stared at the myriad of bleeding scrapes on her soft back, then clawed fingers grasped her at the hips and it resumed its animalistic thrusting.

I paused as I sensed the approach of yet another figure. Stepping quickly to the balcony, I saw the entourage of Wulff, the leader of the hill tribes of men. He was a grimy, wild looking man, typical of his kind, having been forced to eek out a meager existence in the rocky hills on the outskirts of Rohan.

So, the Hill Men had accepted my invitation. Excellent. With their aid, I could begin my campaign against the Rohirrim, thereby allaying Sauron of any suspicions while I perfected my own army. I would have his allegiance, no matter the cost!

I would set them loose upon the outer edges of the Westfold, knowing that they would be the most poorly defended of old Théoden's people. Soon, the entire land of Rohan would be ablaze, and Gondor would lose its most powerful ally.

I would have to supply the Hill Men for a time. I needed them to wait for at least several months before we began, which was enough time for me to begin to utilize my new breeding pits…

Gowardred slowly closed the book, feeling the rough texture of the old white leather. A strange smile crept across his face.

The Orc Breeding Pits of Orthanc, which lay beneath this very chamber. If he could use them to craft creatures that could augment his strength…

The Lord of Orthanc spent the next days studying the tomes of knowledge buried within the vaults of his keep. He discovered many secrets, except the one he coveted most. The ways of breeding the fierce, loyal fighters of Saruman continued to elude him. He began to neglect his other duties as his obsession began to dominate his every waking thought, and then later, his dreams. His mind was filled with the images of fierce armies sweeping across the plains of the Westfold, all the way to the gates of Edoras until he, Gowardred, stood face to face with King Eomer.

In the dream, which now often invaded his waking musings, he saw the high and noble king, upon bended knee, offering the crown of the Eolingas in surrender. The captains of the Mark were dead on the field or stricken within the hall, the king's finest bodyguard, slaughtered by the sheer strength of his followers. Beyond the grand windows, he could see the rest of the wooden city, burning to ashes.

In his dream, the stronghold of Helms Deep had already been conquered. His new seat of power, wrought of cold stone, unassailable, impregnable, and it was all his.

He heard the sounds of people entering the chambers above. He quickly concealed the precious volume and moved up the secret way into the small circular study. After a few moments to compose himself and make sure no stray cobwebs had adhered to his clothing, he stepped into the main chamber.

There, standing proudly in his travel stained cloak, looking fierce and haggard, was Chras, a large wrapped bundle beneath his arm.

"It is done, My Lord," He said proudly. The Dunlending extended the bundle to Gowardred.

The Lord of Isengard smiled hungrily and reached out to receive the object.

"And the others?" he asked.

"None survived, My Lord," Chras replied. "One was killed in the assault upon the treasury, the remaining four were struck down as they made the attempt to escape the city."

"Struck down, you say?" Gowardred asked as he held the heavy cloth in his fingers.

"Yes, My Lord. They made good their escape, appropriating the horses of the royal stables, and managed to reach me on their way down, but they did not reach the main gates."

"The alert was sounded then," Gowardred nodded.

"It was not, My Lord," Chras said. "They managed to kill the trumpeter on the pavilion before making their ride. No call was sounded before they made the first turning."

"Then they should have escaped," Gowardred said. "As long as they preceded the call to close the gates, they should have made good their escape."

"There were warriors," Chras continued. "Bearing strange sorcerous weapons that killed from great distances. A man upon the summit killed one rider as he passed my place of concealment. I saw the wounding, though I never saw the weapon which struck him. I retrieved the crown and concealed myself."

"Did you see these warriors?" Gowardred asked.

"I beheld two of them, My Lord." Chras replied. "One of them was large, a man of the deep Harad, though he wore not the garb of one of that ancient tribe, and he spoke strangely. The second was a woman."

"A woman?" Gowardred exclaimed.

"Yes, Lord," Chras went on. "She was tall and powerful, with hair the color of night, and eyes like sapphires, keen and bright."

"What tokens did she bear?" Gowardred asked. "From whence does she hail?"

"I saw her tokens, My Lord, and yet, I know not the lands from where those devices hail. They were not of the Harad, nor were they of the Rohirrim, Nor of the Rangers of the West. She bore one special mark. A weapon, circular, divided in the center by a line of steel, like a wave upon the sea. But again, apart from my description, I can tell you nothing of the lands from whence it hails."

"The King of Gondor seems to be taking strange council," Gowardred mused. "And yet, without more pieces, this riddle offers no conclusion." He unfolded the last of the cloth and revealed the contents.

"Unknown answers make for perilous riddles," he breathed as his eyes beheld the artifact.

The crown of the Morgul Lord was more a battle helm than an actual crown, with long, angular cheek and nose guards and sharp spikes that reminded Gowardred of the ancient dragons he had heard tales of in his youth. It was not of silver or precious metal, but seemed more to be fashioned from deep gray iron, heavy and unyielding.

"The Crown of the Nazgul Lord," Gowardred breathed, raising the thing to look at it evenly. "King of Angmar, long ago. It is rumored to bestow great power to any who wear it."

"I know of no such rumor, My Lord," Chras said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"The lower vaults of this citadel contain vast treasures of lore, dating back to the Elder Days," Gowardred breathed. "It speaks of the fashioning of such devices and their powers. Immortality, invincibility, the power to dominate the wills of others."

He turned the crown and raised it to set it upon his head.

The door to the chamber opened and Belial came quickly in, his eyes ablaze and his pale cheeks flush with anxiety.

"Claim not that which is the prize of My Lady!" he bellowed in an unusually strong voice that echoed up the massive hollows of the tower. "Its powers are not yours to command, Lord Gowardred!"

He clapped his hands together once and two of the Dunlending guards entered with weapons drawn.

Gowardred's eyes were wide with excitement, or perhaps madness. "Silence, snake! You have served my purposes, and for that I shall reward you by sparing your life, but do not hinder the will of the Lord of Isengard! This wondrous thing is mine to possess! Mine to control! And I shall suffer none to oppose me!"

"It is a power beyond you, Lord," Belial retorted.

"You forget, Master Belial," Gowardred said in a strong voice that echoed up the shaft of Orthanc. "I am a Marshal of Rohan – a chief and captain general of my people! I have the will and the right to claim such a prize!"

With that, he set the thing upon his head, and discovered to his delight that it fit upon his brow as if it had indeed been crafted for him.

"Your mysterious Lady has no power over me in this place, and neither shall you!" He continued, his eyes wild. "And soon, even the King of Gondor shall bow before me and call me Lord!"

He could actually feel the power flowing into his body, coursing through his limbs and his mind, like warm flames on a cold winter night. The world shrank to something insignificant, malleable. A toy for him to play with. He could hear the minds of the men in the chamber, screaming in despair. Then all was bathed in red fire and his mind and body were immolated in a flood of power so agonizing that it shred what was left of his sanity.

Belials outraged expression faded to a satisfied smile as the Lord of Rohan writhed in sudden agony, his hands rending at the thing upon his head, trying to pull it free.

All eyes watching were impassive, calm, expectant. Only Chras showed any other emotion, that of complete satisfaction.

Gowardred's appearance began to mold and shift, like clay in the hands of some twisted sculptor. His handsome features transformed into the guise of something like an animal. His eyes yellowed and became slanted, his nose flattened and long sharp teeth appeared behind snarling black lips. His skin darkened, as if from burns and his howls of agony became roars of mad rage.

By the time the Lord of Isengard fell to the cold stone floor, he was no longer even remotely human.

"Ah," Belial cooed, looking down at the twitching thing. He stooped and reclaimed the crown, gently wrapping it back in its protective cloth. "My Lady knew that your ambition would not permit you to simply send this yonder. She knew you would attempt this treachery, and so, have you earned her favor."

He stepped back and looked at Chras.

"Is it done?"

"Volf is dead, Master Belial," Chras said evenly.

"Very well." Belial replied. He looked down at the misshapen form of Gowardred.

"Then, My Lord," he continued. "The secrets of Orthanc are yours to govern as you will, as we agreed."

"And the aid your Lady promised?" Chras asked, moving to seat himself upon the massive obsidian throne.

"The first portion of it lies before you, My Lord," Belial gestured to the creature. "Behold, the first of the Huna-Kai. The first of the fighters of Angmar, bred south of Imladris."

He looked back to the two Dunlendings standing near the door.

"Remove this specimen to Dol Guldor. Also, order the Uruk Hai that remain concealed in the hills to join us at once. They shall be needed for the assault upon Edoras."

"Do we have time?" Chras asked, watching as his men removed the Orc from the chamber.

"Even with the messenger to Gondor arriving when he did," Belial replied. "It will take some weeks before they can be counted a direct threat. By that time, you should have several thousand of the Uruk-Hai here to bolster your defenses, with more arriving each day until the army has been mustered. At present, there are five thousand of the Uruks camped in the forests surrounding Isengard. Their strength will guarantee your safety while the muster continues. Once all is ordered, you should have at your command a force of no less than ten thousand of foot, and two thousand Warg Riders. Then shall we march on Edoras, and claim it as our own, and from there, lay siege to the Hornburg. We will let the garrison starve, or ride out to their doom in open battle. Once that is accomplished, you will control all the lands from Dunharrow to the Anduin, and there will be little that the King of Gondor can do to prevent you."

"What of this foray into Eastern Rohan, by the kings horsemen?" Chras continued. "They were beginning to muster when I escaped."

"At best, they should not reach us for ten days, if they were to move with reckless haste." Belial mused. "Send additional forces too the east to impede their progress. We cannot hope to defeat them yet, but we may hinder them and lessen their numbers."

"It shall be done," Chras replied. "And will you be withdrawing to your fastness in Mirkwood?"

"Not as yet," Belial replied. "I shall remain here and see to it that all is ordered under your control before I return. Also, I should check the pits below and see if they can be utilized in our efforts."

"Most generous," Chras nodded his head.

"My Lady is always generous to her true allies," Belial replied with a snake like smile. "Less so for those who would use us as pawns." He stooped and lifted the heavy crown.

"This I shall take," He said. "And have it sent to my Lady in Angmar."

Chras sat upon the throne of Orthanc, his eyes drifting over the ornately carved dark stone of the walls. Unlike his foolish predecessor, he would not serve only himself. His teachings, though quick, had been thorough, and he had understood much, especially in the area of diplomacy. He knew his position was perilous for the time being. He and the rest of his people needed the orcs of Dol-Guldor to guarantee their safety until their own numbers had become adequate to the task of governing their new lands.

His musings were interrupted by the entrance of a scout. The man was covered in dirt from many miles on the road, and his clothing was grimy and travel stained. His eyes were wide with surprise.

"The Horsemen are gathering!" He said without preamble. "They gather to march here!"

"What?" Chras shot to his feet. "You have seen this?"

"I have," The scout replied. "The horses are being fed, and the men armed, gathering from all across his land. He plans to leave in three days, to come here."

"Which would place him at our gates in six days," Chras's unnatural education asserted itself. "He could not hope to raise many in three days. No more than one thousand."

He summoned a second man, standing outside the door. The man was dressed in the cleansed robes of an advisor, though they were somewhat large for him, being that the previous owner of the garments had been a man of somewhat greater stature. He was a lithe young man, with sharp blue eyes and fierce, thoughtful features. "Coya, have four thousand of the Orc host prepared to march in three days. We will meet King Eomer in the fields south of the Isen, and finish him there."

"What of reports that several of our war parties have been eliminated on the eastern plains?" Coya asked.

"We can do nothing to remedy that for the time being. I know that Gurg and his party still remain, and that they fended off an assault by the renegade, Breggolard. All he must do is to keep watch, and send word if he encounters the force coming from Minas Tirith." Chras replied. "He has a strong band, numbering several hundred. He can be left to his own devices for the time being. However, ready another two bands, each numbering one hundred, and have them begin to also patrol that region."

"Do you think this Breggolard enabled a messenger to reach the King of Gondor?" Coya asked with a sly smile that spoke to what he already believed.

"It was inevitable that a message would eventually reach the King of Gondor," Chras replied. "You and I both know this."

Chras turned to a large table, set in the main audience chamber. Upon it was a map of the land of Rohan. He studied it closely, his thumb and forefinger pinching his chin. He pursed his lips, staring at the imagery as if he were expecting the parchment to speak.

Coya stepped closer, his oversized robes swirling slightly, his eyes studied the new Lord of Orthanc closely.

"How many messengers have we prevented from reaching the stronghold of Helms Deep?" he finally asked aloud.

"At least six, Lord," Coya replied. "Feolin of Helm still knows nothing about our plans."

"Yet we have taken much of the Westfold, and this secret will not keep for long." Chras replied. "When are the reinforcements of Master Belial due to join us?"

"Within the week, Lord," Coya replied dutifully. "He is sending twelve hundred of foot. Pikemen and Archers."

The Company of the Fourth Marshall crested the small rise and saw the golden walls and buildings of Edoras emerge from concealment.

Breggolard smiled in relief. The city was still unassailed. He flexed his injured arm experimentally and looked back at the remains of his company. Of the five hundred he had led out, barely three hundred remained, and many of them nursed wounds. They were worn and battle weary after numerous campaigns in the northern plains.

"Make for the city!" He ordered, and the company resumed moving along the winding road that led to the gates.

As the company approached, he ordered the herald to wind his horn in greeting. The call was answered by the trumpeters on the walls, and the large wooden gates were drawn back, opening the city to welcome them home.

Edoras rested upon a large hillock. Its many houses and other structures rose steadily towards the large, shining house of Meduseld, the Golden Hall of the King of Rohan.

Breggolard knew that, within the hall, King Eomer awaited him. He was late, he knew. Late by many days. As the company passed into the gates, men and women emerged to assist with his wounded and tend his horses.

The king's son, Eothein came forward to meet him, his expression one of relief.

"How fares the City, Lord?" Breggolard called.

Eothein took the reigns of Breggolard's horse and nodded.

"All is well," He replied. "Though our supplies are much depleted, the people hare hopeful. How fare the men of the Fourth Mark?"

"Little better, I fear," Breggolard dropped to the ground. The Prince relinquished the reigns of the horse to a stable hand and the two men moved up the long, wide steps towards the entrance of Meduseld.

"I have lost nearly two hundred in prolonged fighting south of the Isen," Breggolard reported. "However, I hope that my extended campaign permitted a messenger to reach Minas Tirith."

"The king already sent messengers to Gondor," Eothein replied.

"We discovered their camp, not five days from here," Breggolard nodded. "None survived."

"Where was Hallas?" Eothein asked. "He was not among your company. Has he also fallen?"

"No, My Lord," Breggolard replied. "He went with the detachment to Minas Tirith, but that is a tale I should tell before the king and his councilors."

"He awaits you," Eothein replied. "But, I warn you. Your late return has not done well for his humor."

Breggolard smiled. "I hope that my tale may remedy that in some small way."

The halls of Meduseld were a long, arched chamber adorned with tapestries and dominated by a large fire pit in the center. A fire blazed in the pit, and several men, all adorned in fine armor, stood or sat on benches near the opposite end.

Upon a finely crafted throne, the king, Eomer, sat, his dark eyes locked on the dancing flames as he pondered. His eyes flicked in the direction of the new arrivals and his expression hardened somewhat.

"At last," he said in a clear voice. "Our Marshall has decided to return to us."

Eothein had been right. The king was not pleased.

"Hail, Lord of the Mark!" Breggolard greeted. "I come with tidings!"

"I should think," Eomer replied. "It has been nigh on twenty days since the time you were ordered to return to us."

"My delay was unforeseen, My Lord," Breggolard explained. "And yet, I hope that my news will mitigate my tardiness."

Breggolard then related his tale, describing all that had happened to him since setting out from the city.

"So," Eomer nodded, once Breggolard had finished. "The orcs have once again moved south of the Isen. And no messengers sent to Orthanc have returned. We must assume that Orthanc has once again fallen into other hands." The king rose, his deep red and black armor shone oily in the firelight. He wore no crown. The only difference between he and his nobles was the quality of the armor he wore.

"They have multiplied, somehow," Breggolard reported. "And they are not moving as orcs do. They have taken to patrolling the lands to the south of the Isen, but not far enough to directly affect us, nor are they moving in the large numbers that we are accustomed to tracking. The largest force we encountered only numbered in the hundreds, and this was a small company, equal to one of ours. No more than three hundred of foot, armed with pikes and bowmen."

"They have not the strength to assail us, even here in the wooden city of Edoras," Eomer nodded. "Yet that could change, if they are breeding somewhere. These orcs you destroyed. They were like to those that we defeated at Helms Deep, all those years ago?"

"In many ways, Lord," Breggolard replied. "Yet, they do not behave with the single minded hatred of the Uruk Hai. They seem more capable of acting upon their own initiative. Our ancient tactic of striking down their officers to sow disorder in their ranks has not had the same success as in the recorded past. They act now on their own initiative, with greater skill than any I have ever heard tell of before."

The king stepped before a table and looked down at a map of the country, frowning in contemplation.

"I see," Eomer nodded. "And these are the orcs that also patrol to the west, between Edoras and the Hornburg. They have also begun to patrol our eastern borders, intercepting messengers between Gondor and Rohan."

"They have not the numbers to encircle us properly," Breggolard replied. "They have moved south only as far as their numbers will permit to secure their lands. The parties to the west and east are scattered and difficult to find. I deem that they are not sufficiently armed to assail us in force, though I believe that moment is fast approaching."

"They have already despoiled many of the farmsteads in the Westfold," Eomer replied. "Our supplies dwindle each day and our people have been driven from their homes before the fall harvest. This attack upon us is coming faster than you think, and we dare not send our people to the Hornburg with the Western Plains occupied by the enemy. Our foe has learned to keep us from Helms Deep. They will draw the battle here."

"I have faith that Hallas and his party reached Gondor, My Lord." Breggolard said. "He is a most capable man, and the strangers I reported to you were also greatly skilled."

"Yet they fell," Eomer countered.

"They were only two women, against no less than thirty of the enemy," Breggolard said. "And they held out till our charge. It was no small tribute to their skill as warriors to survive an ambush such as that."

"And you sensed no treachery in them?" Eomer asked.

Breggolard shook his head. "Though I did not get to speak with the one, as she was wounded. I could sense no duplicity in her squire."

Eomer smiled. "I have long trusted your judgment in the hearts of others, my friend. If they survived the journey to Gondor and managed to gain the aid we seek, I shall welcome them as friends."

He turned back to the rest of the assembled men in the hall.

"As to the rest," he ordered. "Send messengers to all the lands unafflicted by the enemy so far. Have all able bodied men return to Edoras, gathering what supplies they can to withstand a siege here and bolster our defenses. There will be no retreat to Helms Deep, as has been done in the past. We must defend Rohan here amongst the golden halls."

The king strode out to the large step and looked down at his small city. The thick timber walls surrounded the hillock, but they would burn. The ramparts and walkways would burn, the thatch roofs of the smaller houses would burn. He sighed in resignation. Should they come under direct attack, they would be forced to leave this place and meet their opponent in the open field.

Several riders gallops from the main gates and moved off along different directions.

Eomer finally nodded as if he had concluded some inner council.

"How many men do you have left in your company who are still able to fight?"

"Less than one hundred, My Lord," Breggolard replied. "Were it not for the injuries suffered by my men, I would still be afield, trying to slow the approach of war to our gates."

Eomer turn and strode purposefully back into the hall.

"How many men can we muster out in three days time?" He asked aloud. Several of his captains exchanged glances.

"At most, My Lord," One of them spoke. "We could muster out close to one thousand on horse."

Eomer thought for a moment. "In three days, we shall ride forth with as many as can be summoned."

"Ride, My Lord?" Breggolard asked. "To where?"

"If war is coming, and I feel that each of us in the hall believe that it is," Eomer said. "Then I shall not sit idle and wait till it is upon our doorstep. Our enemy gathers in the north, near the Isen River. That is where I shall go. If anything, it may offer an opportunity for the rest of our people to make for the safety of Minas Tirith."

"My Lord," Breggolard said cautiously. "I have every hope that Master Hallas reached Minas Tirith, and I trust in the alliance with Gondor. The king will send us the aid we need."

"That may be so," Eomer replied. "But will the aid arrive in good time? We cannot wait."

Eomer took a deep breath. His eyes were focused inward as he pondered his options.

"We cannot hope to hold Edoras, standing behind wooden walls," He finally said. "In seven days time, we will take whatever strength arrives and march north towards Isengard. We shall meet whatever fate awaits us in the field, not cringing behind brittle defenses."

He turned and strode back towards his throne. "Send scouts to survey the lands in all directions." He ordered. "Find them, and return to me at once."

Several other members of the court bowed or nodded their heads and withdrew.

Eomer sat down, his hand coming up to brace his bearded chin.

"Now," he sighed. "We must wait and see."

21