Chapter Eight: The Great Fire and the Calling of the Captain

The port of slaves, Fort Morn, stood on the edge of the sea. Its vast wooden walls were armed with pikes and metal barbs to keep out intruders. Once it had been a merchant's port where those across the water would come to trade. It was a place of life, diversity, and flourishment. Now it was cursed, a beacon of oppression and slavery. Like the fisheries and farmlands, the port was now used to feed Sauron's armies. Hundreds of broken souls were taken here, branded, and sent out to the Slave City, where they would be exported across the great stretch of Sauron's lands to toil and die.

Atop the wall, facing the stretch of Núrn, was the Tower. Beside him stood his deadliest servant. Talion gazed down at the green, searching for a familiar face. He remained silent, only speaking when necessary. The Tower turned to him and, with a smirk, looked upon the expression on his face.

He said, "You do not smile? In time, you will find joy in it just as my Orcs do. Look to this one."

The Tower pointed to his messenger beside them, awaiting orders. He sported a large toothy smile.

"When he came to me, he was afraid. He sorely missed the brother I had taken for my own and feared the unknown fate that awaited him. Is it truly a horrible fate that has befallen him? One spends their entire life in fear, afraid of failure and pain. If one surrenders themselves to a greater power, only then can they know peace. In the absence of the prisons of their own mind, one finds freedom and joy. Soon you too will smile. When we return to my home, my devices will see to that. You will be burdened no more. No more memories of pain. No more ambitions that keep you awake in the dead of night. No more fear of what you have become."

"Tell me, does a part of you still grieve for what you have done?" asked the Tower.

Talion spoke, "I do not know. I wonder what will become of the Warchief? Am I to hunt her yet again?"

"She brings you only pain" answered his master, "She always has. You must forget her if you are to save yourself."

Talion scowled as he stared down into the far-off forest and mountains. His eyes were searching for something but he did not know what. His gaze was meant for spotting the enemy: the female Warchief and the rebels. Beneath the surface, he sought the thing that he lost. A great fog filled his mind, as a maxim controlled his very being, silently guiding him. Out in the wilderness was something that lay beyond that guidance. He felt that if he found the Warchief, he would find the answer.


Ursa was awoken several hours into her slumber by one of the tribesmen. They had been staring down at her in bewilderment for a while now, unsure of what to make of the Uruk. Seeing Lithariel, who excelled above them in killing Uruk, care for the half-Orc was strange unto itself. Having one so close and for so long was even stranger.

Only a moment ago, Lithariel had returned from foraging. On her command, the Uruk was awakened. She stirred in her sleep as the guard's boot prodded against her healthy arm. Her golden iris slowly opened. Her reflexes, so sharp before, had dulled in the company of her allies. When she awoke, she felt well-rested. It had not been a long sleep, but it had been far deeper than any in the last two nights. Even the pain in her arm seemed to have weakened, although it still required treatment for the swelling to descend.

"Good morning," said Lithariel.

She turned to one of her men and said, "Bring the Warchief some food and water."

The golden-haired woman then said, "I have brought back the herbs. Some I will grind into a mash and place on your wound. The others are to be ground into a tea."

Ursa said sleepily, "Thank you. I will do my best to regain my strength."

"Indeed," said Lithariel, "If we are to rescue my mother and your… husband, we must make haste."

She struggled to hide her discomfort and awkwardness at calling the Talion the spouse of a half-Orc. However, though it puzzled and bothered her, she did not want to offend Ursa.

Ursa was handed drink and breakfast by the men. Along with a water from a skin, they offered her a small piece of rabbit, a half chunk of potato, a crust of bread, and some assortment of berries. Ursa tried to restrain herself, wanting to look the part of the elegant Warchief. However, her stomach felt infinitely empty, as if it would pull her into an abyss if she did not plug it up. Unable to restrain herself, she quickly downed the food, each bite rich and invigorating. After she ate, she felt a bit of health return to her. It was then that she realized how sick she had been the last two days. She must have had a fever for the most of it, something the sheer cold hid from her. For whatever blessing was upon her, Ursa had survived it against all odds. Although her allies were on their last limbs, their presence filled her with hope. She was not alone.

Lithariel began to use her flint rocks ignite sparks over a set of ash, sticks, and stones. Above it, a tea pot on a frame was placed. Ursa, seeing what she was planning, stretched out her arm.

She said, "Allow me."

Lithariel tilted her head in confusion. However, a second later, she saw the tinder and straw she had laid out on the campfire become ablaze. The small flames cracked as they started to eat away at their meal of twigs and branches. The water in the pot would be bubbling in no time.

"Amazing," said Lithariel, "I did not think I would see magic in my lifetime. At least, besides the time when the white wizard possessed my Queen. To have such a gift, I am envious."

"Such power is not without a price," said Ursa.

Lithariel frowned and asked, "And what is that price Ursa?"

"One must fall. To create flames that devour my enemies as if they were no different than firewood…. A fire that water cannot soon put out… Mine is a dark power. A gift from the enemy. One does not use his power without falling in our own way."

"How did you fall?"

"I learned what it meant to kill. I learned that sometimes you cannot run, barter, or expect someone to save you. I have done terrible things and I must continue to do terrible things. For the sake of peace, I will certainly kill again."

She continued, "I don't wish to hurt anyone. Even so, I will use this power to destroy the Tower and those that threaten these lands."

Lithariel said, "What you call falling, I call a sense of duty, a necessity for all whom are hunted by Orcs."

Ursa said, "This power is beyond any of us. I fear that one day it will consume me. Do you fear that power? Do you fear the power of the enemy?"

"I am grateful to have a sorcerer on our side, but this power invites corruption. One day we might become enemies" answered Lithariel, "I will not lie. I am afraid."

"I see…" said Ursa, "So am I."

She could not forget how she had acted when first possessed. Her cold logic so perfect for fighting the enemy; her logic so lacking in morality and empathy. Though those thoughts had passed, she continued to feel Sauron within her, his mind so close by. Perhaps he need only reach out to take her, or he would slowly poison her heart and mind. The only saving grace for Ursa was the love she felt for her family and the regret she felt for those she had killed. Once she lost those, she was doomed forever.

Lithariel began pouring Ursa a cup of boiling tea. She brought over a small tin cup to her guest. The drink slipped into the delicate hands of the Warchief. It fascinated Lithariel that such a small being could possess such power, power over Uruk and power over flame. It frightened her in a way, but she did not know what to think anymore. Ursa confused her. She confused her knowledge of the Orc and her disdain for them. Lithariel thought such power was wasted on a being of such kindness. Such kindness should not be on a battlefield. It was a tragic thing.

"Thank you," said Ursa before blowing gently on the cup.

After taking a sip of the medicinal tea, the Warchief looked forward, with no object of focus in mind. Her thoughts were elsewhere. It was obvious to Lithariel that the gears in Ursa's head were turning. It was the same face her mother often made in her throne room.

"We cannot enter Fort Morn," said Ursa, "We have no choice but to bring the enemy to us."

One of the men asked, "What use are to use against his illusions?"

Ursa said, "He is not all powerful. I believe he must see his targets to cast his illusion. He must be on the battlefield to do so. What matters most is that we offer him a reason to appear before us. What could draw out the Tower from his castle?"

"What could he value?" asked Lithariel, "He has the Queen and Talion. He has the Warchiefs beside him. Do you plan to offer yourself?"

Ursa said, "We are of value to him. You and I will gain his interest. However, I think there is another weakness that he possesses. Do not forget, the Tower does not wish to remain here. He wishes to sail back to his land across the Sea, to return to his brother with his winnings."

"You mean," asked Lithariel, "the ships? His fleet of ships that are stranded on the shore?"

"I believe," began Ursa, "if we slay his Uruk and burn his ships, the Tower will feel the need to deal with us. Once his scouts report we remain at the shore challenging him, he will spring the trap despite the warning in his heart. He will bring Talion with him."

"What if he does not?" asked a tribesman.

"Then I will burn the last of his ships and he will be stranded here. Perhaps he is happy to spend the next two months building his great ships again. Perhaps he will be happy watching his last enemies disappear into the wilderness, burning his patrols, his camps, and his forests while he cowers."

"You would have us burn the forests?" asked Lithariel, "To turn Núrn into ash like Mordor?"

"I will do what I must," said Ursa, "To save Talion. What about you daughter of Marwen? How far will you go to save your mother… to save your people from pain and death?"

Lithariel then realized how far Ursa would fall to bring victory.

"I have no wish," said the Warchief, "to see these green lands turn to ash. Their beauty has given me such peace and joy. Nevertheless, grass and trees will return in time. The ones we love will not."

"Your words ring true," said Lithariel, "Let us then proceed down this path of darkness. So too will I fall if only to destroy the evil that plagues my land."


Daybreak at last. The usual cloud cover of Núrn had vanished and a sky of blue now returned. The Orc were forced to cloak themselves and slipped on helms lest their grey skin be seared by the heat. However, the ranks were silent that morning, lacking their usual rowdy behavior. Something left them anxious and silent. Throughout the coast, there was a sense of tension, as if something was about to break.

Walking along the coast was a black-cloaked figure. The Warchief stood atop her horse, briskly making her way to the parked flotilla. Behind her was the Lady Lithariel, atop a white horse. Following in her wake, were fifty men of the wild. They were what remained of her forces, as well as slaves which had been freed a day prior. Ursa had armed them with gear raided form her old war camp. Now with her small force, the Warchief set her trap for the Black Captain.


Uruk archers up ahead took notice of the small band. Lithariel and a group of archers began to fire on them. The closest Uruk was shot between the eye by one of the war maiden's skillful shots. The Warchief tore on the reigns. Her horse rocketed forward into the small band of Uruk guarding at the front of the ships. All around were similar parties of ten, meaning a total of four hundred Uruk were guarding them. The tribesmen would be no match for so many goblins. Ursa's eyes wavered one last time as she swooped upon the Uruk.

She said, "I am sorry. Truly I am."

She stretched out her hand once more, her black robes rippling behind her as she set the Uruk ablaze. All she gazed upon was consumed by fire. The army of Orcs screamed and shrieked as they burned. They ran to the sea for the flames to be put out. The tribesmen chased after them, firing arrows into their backs. The Warchief continued to ride forward. She created a massive torrent of fire and unleashed it like a falling star upon the ranks. The Uruk were blasted in all directions as her magic plummeted into the sand and stone. Lithariel now pulled out her sword and began to slash into the Orcs. Their quick, clumsy style was no match for a warrior who did not fear such movements. Their war cries were quickly replaced with calls for help as she ran her blade through them. She showed no fear as she charged an entire party of Orcs. She parried her sword off ones Orc's swing, angling her blade over his so that it slid down into his throat. She delivered a kick to her right, cracking open the shin another other Orc. Her sword slashed open the downed goblin's throat as she on the rest of the enemy swordsmen. Lithariel's own men were equally as brave as her. Though some fell, the tribesmen quickly prevailed on the scattered Uruk. After an hour of battle, hundreds of Orcs lay dead. The white sands were stained from battle and the pure waters ran black with the blood of Ursa's fellow Uruk.

Ursa now turned her attention to the great ships. She could not set them ablaze as easily as a small Orc. Instead, she traced her hand along the bow of the ship to the stern. The top of the ship caught fire and roared as the dried wood was consumed. Like painting a canvas, she slowly set the entire hull on fire. The long beams and fabric of the sails soon vanished like matchwood.

"Lady Lithariel!" shouted Ursa, her voice unwavering and filled with determination, "The tide is upon us. Send you men aboard the rightmost ships. Drag them to the sea and sink them."

"You heard her!" said Lithariel, "Secure our vessels!"

Ursa had seen far ahead. If she survived this battle, she would have need of these great ships. She had no idea how to construct them and few of her Uruk were likely to. Perhaps the corsairs in Marwen's forces had some idea, but it was still faster to sink them close to shore and salvage them later on. Right now, the coastline was ablaze as black smoke poisoned the air, taking the form of a vengeful storm cloud. Sparks and ash fell down like snow across the land. The air became hot, cloudy, and hard to inhale. Despite the inferno they had created, the rebellion continued to fight. As Ursa had ordered, one ship was still standing on the beach.

Ursa rode up to one of the tribesmen. She looked to him and declared, "Bring me a prisoner."


Talion strode forward on foot, heading the slow war party as marched towards the black smoke on the horizon. His master rode behind him, his massive form towering above his Orc garrisons.

The Tower said, "Such confidence. Or is it desperation? She knows that time is running up. Either she devours her enemies in one swelling flame or she is devoured here this day."

Talion said nothing as he gazed ahead. His eyes were quickly glancing about for the black robes of the Warchief. He heard the command to slay the she-Orc echo and fester in his mind. However, something else drew him to her. The ranger grimaced as he failed to find the answer to what troubled him, just as he failed to find what it was that he had lost. No matter what it was, he felt it would soon be lost forever.


Author's Note: I apologize for the week-long delay. I was feeling under the weather. If you have a moment, please leave a review. It means the world to me.