Author's Note: Please forgive me for not updating sooner! I can't tell you all how much I appreciate the many story hits I keep getting for this fic, month after month, in all the time since my last update. And of course, the incredible collection of glowing reviews. You guys still care even though I've been so delinquent in updating! Thank you!

I'm especially awestruck by the amazing review I just got from Turambar Draugmor. What compliments! Ai! I wish it had been a signed review so I could reply directly! As it is, Turambar: I hope you see this update and know that I'm still writing this fic and I WILL finish it, no matter how long it's been. In fact, it's largely your review that has inspired me to update RIGHT NOW, so you see, you're doing honor to your chosen name and definitely influencing the destiny of this fic!

Now for the dedication. I don't do this every chapter, of course, but sometimes I just have to. This chapter's for you, Sauron Gorthaur! By which I mean the FF.N author who goes by that pen name, naturally. ^_^


Chapter 11: Journey to Angband

"Leave him alone!" a voice snarled. "Or I'll rip your hands off, see?"

Terrified at this awful threat, the slowly awakening young Orc-soldier drew himself back away from the voice. Vaguely, his confused mind heard a low assortment of mumbling, snarls, and cursing, and a general sound of feet shuffling away a short distance.

"There, now," the same voice said, sounding completely different. At the same time, he felt a cool, rough hand touching his face - not cruelly? Somehow, he found the sensation comforting. "I won't let those rabble hurt you. You've been through enough, you poor, young child."

He found the strength to bristle at that. He wasn't a child! He had already lived for... how long? He cast about in his mind for an answer. Two centuries...

Then he tensed, panicking again. This is a trick! he thought frantically. Master always does this - the healing, the comforting touch, then more agony -

Instantly he curled himself into a tight ball, as he had done in that unspeakable time not so long ago when the demon was burning him. A wave of deeply frightened trembling shook his cruelly scarred young body.

The flames... burning, burning... He tried to wrench his mind out of that time, but it was hard. With an effort, he forced his thoughts forward to what had happened next.

He could barely even stand to think about the encounter with his Lord, when he had pleaded for mercy but been handed back to the demon in spite of his screams. He had never been so terrified as when he thought he would be carried back to that dark den to be burned again...

Never? he wondered. There was one time more terrifying, wasn't there? He saw a brief flash of a sweet, panicked face, someone being pulled away from him -

It was gone. Still shuddering, his arms wrapped around his head and pressing it tightly towards his body, he remembered the awful relief when the demon had left him at a building called the Barracks, rather than carrying him back to the dark cave of his torment.

He had learned quickly to do everything that was asked of him, obeying every order with terrified alacrity. It would not do to risk displeasing his Master and being returned to the burning agony again...

Then, only a few weeks later, the fortress had exploded into chaos. He had panicked, wanting nothing more than to hide; but he had been ordered into battle and had obeyed in desperate fear. Somehow he had survived, and found himself fleeing wildly along with hundreds of the other Orcs as enemies swept through the dark caverns.

He remembered little of the journey, except that they had run always eastward, away from the furious attack that had come thundering from the West. Finally, many days later, they had crossed a tall mountain range and escaped onto the broad, empty plains beyond it.

Something in this new land felt safer than the places they had been before, as if it was beyond their dark Lord's power... or at least his attention. The young soldier recalled stumbling, exhausted and badly frightened, down the last slopes of the rocky foothills. Then he had fallen into the blackness of a deep sleep.

His memories brought him sharply up against the present. He focused on the sounds he was hearing, and understood the same gentle, gravelly voice as before. "Now see here!" the voice said. "This is quite enough! Sit up, now."

Panic shot through him. An order! He knew hazily that he did not have to obey, that they had escaped and there were no demons or Master to punish him if he did not. But he was already sitting up, his back perfectly straight just as his training demanded, before he had any time to think of such things at all.

The young Orc opened a pair of exquisite black eyes that had been transformed by his suffering into deep, liquid pools of pain. Standing in front of him was a badly stooped old Orc soldier, his gray eyes kind in his hideously grotesque face.

"That's better!" the old warrior said, clapping him roughly but kindly on the shoulder. "You'd better start protecting yourself, now, or I can't be expected to keep them all off you!"

The frightened young soldier cringed back, shuddering again, as he tried to convince himself that there was no reason to expect a blow. "Why are you helping me?" he asked finally.

"Because I've still got my heart in spite of all they've done to me," the old one said gruffly. "I saw your hair an' your clothes when that devil brought you to the barracks. You must've had more pain than you could keep inside you, and I won't let any of these lads give you extra just because they're lookin' for some fun." He smiled kindly, sharp teeth showing between his broad gray lips. "I am Kemendur. I don't know what your name is, so I'm going to call you Girith: 'shuddering'. But see here, you're going to have to get a sight braver if you want to keep yourself safe!"

Girith... He could not remember what he had once been called, either - but it felt incredibly natural to have a name again. We are the Quendi, we name everything... Where had that thought come from? Shaking it off, he looked around.

They were still at the feet of the mountains that they had escaped over. Now there was a kind of encampment there, with small fires and rough shelters that had all been built out of the small branches and shrubs that seemed to be everywhere here.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of escaped Orcs scurried about the entire area. Girith looked at all of them, wondering which ones had been threatening him before and whether they would return.

Then he felt his heart grow harder and less afraid, and he snarled savagely as he realized something. No one here is stronger than I am!

He looked back at Kemendur. "Don't worry," he said, more sternly than he had said anything in a long time. It was both a statement of grateful reassurance and a harsh, warning threat. "I will protect myself."


In the wild lands west of ruined Utumno, another, much smaller band of Orcs travelled through Yavanna's dense forest with their Maia lord. They moved quickly in spite of the bound females who encumbered their progress. Still, after they had covered many miles, Culnaur saw that his burdened warriors were beginning to slow. It was a slight thing, but he knew that if he let them become seriously tired, it would interfere with the speed and secrecy he needed for this desperate journey.

"That's far enough for now," he said quietly in his clear, strong voice, calling a halt. The Orcs unquestioningly came to a stop, setting down the frightened women they carried, then stood crisply tall again and looked to their master for further orders.

"Rest," Culnaur told them, gesturing calmly with his hand. "We will not travel again for some hours. Eat some dried meat from your packs, and feed some to the women. I hear water moving nearby; go and get some."

There was a general low murmur of relief and pleasure among the soldiers as they set about their agreeable tasks. Culnaur paid them no heed. Stepping quietly between them, he moved to examine the huddled group of breeding-women.

The pregnant slaves, limited in their movements by the ropes about their hands and feet, still managed to shrink back in fear from Culnaur as he moved among them. Tears were on several of their faces, while others simply looked pale and grim. A feeling of horror and hopelessness pervaded all of the firmly bound captives, and their eyes of terror and pain never left his face.

Culnaur stooped down to grasp one by the shoulder. She cried out softly in alarm at his touch, but he did not hurt her. Instead, he simply turned her body away from him to look at her hands. Their color was good beneath the black dirt, and the wrists had not swollen. His soldiers knew well how to tie a captive without causing damage. Prisoners in the keeping of Culnaur and Melkor came to harm only when and as it suited their Lords.

The thought of Melkor brought a deep dismay back to Culnaur's heart. He looked up through a tracery of heavy branches to the starlit sky, and thought of Varda and their other enemies who had dragged Melkor away in chains. Where is my Lord Melkor now? he wondered. Then, with the strict discipline that he demanded of his own mind no less than from his servants, he brought his attention back to the here-and-now.

The Orc-female's pinned hands were twisting in terror behind the small of her back, the deeply scarred fingers clenching and unclenching in her long matted hair. Culnaur laughed suddenly, feeling a cruel enjoyment at the sight of her fear. He reveled in the knowledge of her helplessness and his own power.

It was also, he knew, something he could use.

Casually pushing her down to sprawl face-first on the ground as he let go of her shoulder, he stood tall and looked commandingly down on the females. "We have a long journey ahead of us," he told them sternly. "We will march for many days. The soldiers have carried you long enough!" He paused briefly, gazing into one desperate scarred face and then another. "I am going to have your feet unbound," he said. "When we march again, you will walk on your own. None of you will try to escape, of course."

Their fear of him left no need of threats to ensure their obedience. He read in all their faces that they would do exactly as he bid, without any thought of defying his will.

With this minor problem of transporting the Orc-mothers solved, Culnaur turned his attention to Alakë. She was still unconscious from his blow to her head, and the bruise was spreading from her left brow above her ear to her chin, with a purple thumbprint across her nose. Even when the young Maia shook her sharply by the front of her ragged dress, she did not stir. But her breathing was steady, and her face behind the bruise bore a look closer to a deep sleep than to sickness or death.

She will probably live, Melkor's lieutenant thought. He turned away and spoke quietly to a nearby soldier, giving instructions for the untying of the other women's feet.

"Alakë is too defiant," he warned next. "Leave her fully bound, lest she should awake and try to run away or do herself or us some mischief!"

He glanced down at Alakë's slight frame as she lay still on the ground to his left, and a thought struck him. Even with the added weight of her child, she would be no burden to his Ainu strength. It will be better, strong as my warriors are, to conserve their strength as much as I can for now. And this small thing is one that I can do easily.

"For the rest of our journey," he told the attentive Orc-soldier standing before him, "I will carry her myself."


A few days later, as they drew near to the lands about Angband (or whatever they might still find of it), Culnaur felt the approach of Thuringwethil. He looked up to the western sky and saw her flying there, distant and small as a speck but clear to his sight. Her long brown hair streamed behind her, blending with the color of her simple brown dress. Thuringwethil had never cared for adornments, disdaining them as unuseful. Yet she was a Maia, and her beauty needed no ornament, just as the rest of the Ainur's did not.

But such thoughts were not central to Culnaur's mind just then, though he noted them. Instead he quickly called a halt, laying down Alakë's limp but still-breathing form beneath a tree. As the others stopped around him, he stood eagerly awaiting Thuringwethil's tidings. His back was straight, and his eyes were fixed intently on her as she drew speedily nearer.

With a swift whirring of her great, leathery brown wings, she came to a smooth landing before him. She bowed quickly and matter-of-factly, but as always, the gesture was sincere. Fearlessly she met his smouldering yellow eyes.

"What news from Valinor?" Culnaur asked his winged messenger at once. "What news of our lord and leader Melkor? When last I saw him, he had just been thrown down by Tulkas and bound with the Valar's shameful chain." He spoke angrily, and if the eyes of some of his Quendi captives flashed at his mention of chains, he did not notice. All his attention was focused on his fellow Maia.

"They have doomed Melkor to three Ages of imprisonment in the dungeon called Mandos, which Námo rules," Thuringwethil said. "Though they have taken to addressing Námo himself as Mandos, recently." She shrugged. "The names are unimportant, I suppose, but you and Melkor have both always commanded me to tell you everything I discover."

Culnaur nodded once in agreement, not interrupting her report in spite of his dismay at the tidings she brought.

Then she gave a concise, detailed account of Melkor's trial and what had passed afterward. "I do not think that Melkor will escape," Thuringwethil concluded. "I tried to get into Mandos' prison in the form of a small bat, but I would not have been able to enter without being noticed. It seems to be entirely impregnable. There is only the one main entrance, which is very well guarded. And," she added, "he was still bound with Aulë's chain when Tulkas carried him inside."

This is a grievous blow, Culnaur thought in frustration. Then he took hold of his determination. "He will not want us to be idle during those ages," he told Thuringwethil. "I am returning to Angband. The Valar left suddenly before destroying all of its secret places. I will start in the depths and delve a new, hidden fortress that they will not find even if they return to search. When Lord Melkor is freed, he will find great strength waiting for him there."

Thuringwethil nodded calmly. Culnaur fixed his bright red-gold eyes on her. "I need to rely on you too," he said. "I want you to fly far and wide, searching out everything you can discover of what passes both in Middle-earth and in Valinor. If Melkor is being held in a prison cell, he will have no way of knowing what happens in the outside world during his imprisonment. We will need to be ready to tell him all we can when he returns." Giving his messenger and spy an even more intent look, Culnaur added a final command. "At no time and for no reason are you to reveal yourself as our servant, or allow the Valar to suspect you in any way! That is more important now than it has ever been. I cannot go to Valinor myself; I am far too well known, and would be recognized in any form I might take. You must remain free to observe what happens there, and to get word of our own doings to Melkor as soon as he is free."

"Of course," Thuringwethil said, so quietly assured that Culnaur realized he would not have needed to give her that command. She bowed gracefully before him, her wings half-spreading. Then she straightened and sprang into the air in the same movement, taking off in a silent flurry of flapping wings. I will report well to you, my Lord, she sent back to him as she flew off into the distance above the trees, for your sake and for Melkor's.


In the dungeons of Námo, Melkor lay clenched in his long iron chain, feeling far more like Culnaur's Quendi prisoners than he knew. It was an outrage to his soul to be bound thus, after all the time he had lived free since his creation. Even now, at times he still found himself wrenching at his chains again almost before he realized it, twisting and writhing as he jerked his body about in a vain attempt to free himself. But the heavy cuffs on his wrists and ankles held uncompromisingly, and the chains around his body did not loosen. His bonds were as unshakeable as the judgement of the Valar.

Melkor knew, to the last hour, exactly how many days had passed since he was first brought here. As a Vala, his sense of such things was absolute, and it did not desert him now; but never had such a short time felt so long to him. It had not been very many days at all, and now he was well and truly terrified of the remaining years.

Yet even as his fear grew day by day, his anger matched its pace and then outstripped it.

I wonder what my friends are doing. The calmer thought penetrated his rage and brought him cool consideration for a moment. I know that Thuringwethil will have told Culnaur of my doom, and that however long, it does have an end. His mind quickly shied away from the thought of the Valar not freeing him when the three Ages had ended.

When I am free, he continued resolutely inside his shaken, furious heart, they will be waiting. They are loyal to me; I know they will not be idle.

To his astonishment, he found himself smiling as his thought touched briefly on his unruly Valaraukar. My fire-scourges, he thought, may be another matter. Their hearts were always given more to destruction than to obedience. He laughed aloud, forgetting his pain for a second. Like mine! No wonder they were drawn to me of old. Still, some may prove faithful and some may not. But those who are not will feel my wrath when I return, and will find themselves once again constrained to my will.

Melkor's mirth faded, replaced by an icy realization. I also will not be idle, he vowed suddenly. There is one part of my being that they have not bound, nor can they; and that is my mind. Yet is that not the greatest part of who I truly am?

His eyes smouldered like coals for a long, timeless moment, then blazed forth with a fierce red fire. The things I will do in the next three Ages, he resolved, his thought's voice a deep, silent growl in the pit of his chest, will bring ruin to them all in the end.


After Thuringwethil had departed, Culnaur turned to his slaves. His eyes widened in surprise at an unexpected sight.

One of the slaves was crouched next to the still-unaware Alakë, clutching a handful of long leaves. Chewing up one of the leaves, he pressed the pulp onto the dark, ugly bruises that covered the left side of Alakë's face where Culnaur had struck her.

"What are you doing?" Culnaur demanded. "I gave you no such orders! Explain yourself quickly, slave."

The Orc, startled, dropped the leaves and quickly stood up. "Ya caught me 'round here, Lord," he said, scuffling his feet and looking up at Culnaur in fear but also with a cunning hope. "Y'like the brats ya get from this one, right? I've heard talk. So if I saves the gal for ya, maybe you'll reward me, that so?"

Fascinated, Culnaur bent over and picked up the dropped leaves. Ignoring the Orc who shrank back at his approach, he turned them over in his hand, examining them. They were not one of the varieties of poisons with which he was familiar, and that was where his expertise with Yavanna's plant life more or less ended.

He lifted his eyes to stare at the cringing Orc. "You remember this plant from before you were enslaved?" he asked. Completely absorbed in his own intellectual curiosity, he spoke to the pitiful creature almost as he would to an equal.

The Orc straightened watchfully, sensing no threat from Culnaur at the moment. "I think so," he said. "It's good for healin'. Fell out of a tree once, when I was little, and busted my leg. Mama -" A distant memory seemed to flash through his eyes for an instant at that word, and he paused. "Mama put some o' this stuff on my leg, an' it healed up quick. Figured maybe it'd do the same for your gal Alakë there."

He stared into Culnaur's eyes, hesitant but bold. "Maybe she oughta eat it, too. She's hit pretty bad or she'd a woken up by now." Suddenly he cowered down until he was bent almost double, throwing up his hands in a gesture of abject terror to shield his head, as he seemed to recall that it was Culnaur himself who had struck Alakë.

Culnaur laughed, his shoulders shaking with mirth as he tossed back his black-haired head. "I certainly did hit her hard!" he exclaimed. "I wanted to. Otherwise, as you said, she might have woken up and started that screaming of hers to bring our enemies down on us." As the Orc cautiously looked up between his slightly lowered hands, Culnaur smiled at him. "I surely will reward you," he said. "Go ahead and feed her the leaves! But call all the others over here first and teach them what you are doing. And when we reach Angband, I want you to find out if any of them knows any other healing tricks, and make sure that all of you learn everything of that kind that any one of you knows now."

He smiled again, more darkly. "If any of the females won't tell you, bring them to me. I will make sure they do as you say."

So they still have knowledge of healing abilities, as the free Quendi do, Culnaur thought as the elated Orc-soldier started to scurry around, gathering up his companions. That will make the Orcs even more valuable as slaves. Delighted, he began to ponder a suitable reward for the one who had revealed the idea to him. Culnaur had every intention of keeping his word.


Culnaur began to feel more agitated as they approached the ruined heap that had been Angband. Tumbled hills of rubble stood in place of his proud and beautiful fortress. Even from far away, the lingering smoke of its destruction trailed in slender wisps up into the unforgiving starlit sky.

From up close, the damage was even more wretched to see. There was no sign of the great, armored gates that had once led into the palace. All was broken, jagged pieces of wall and fragments of twisted metal. Culnaur seethed inside, snarling aloud at the sheer waste of his beautiful creation.

"And yet," he said under his breath, "we still have our most valuable creations." He glanced down at Alakë sleeping in his arms, then back at the other Orcs. "At least, some of them. Enough to recover in time. And who knows how much more of our work I may find undamaged far below this wretched heap?"

With an unerring knowledge of the ways of his own home, Culnaur led the Orc-slaves to a spot that looked no different than any other part of the ruin. Their way was blocked by a horse-tall slab of rock, canted on an angle across the smaller pieces behind it. Culnaur stopped before it and stood still for a moment, then turned around to hand Alakë over to another slave. Facing forward again, he gazed in brief concentration at the stone.

"Stand back," he warned. The patter of running feet told him that his Orcs had obeyed almost before he finished speaking. Placing his hands flat against the angled surface of the stone, he called forth his power that had slept for a time. The stone glowed in two orange patches around his hands, then hissed and steamed. Gradually the entire slab turned orange and then melted into yellow-gold liquid. The lava slid away before his hands, leaving them poised in midair. In seconds it flowed away, sizzling harmlessly, across his feet and down into the pitted ground.

Culnaur dropped his hands. Before him there now gaped a dark hole, into which his fierce eyes could see perfectly, leading away through the jagged rubble. He knew it by heart, and recognized it on sight, however damaged; it was the front entry hall of his great castle.

"Come now," he said, stepping quickly through with his Orcs a pace behind him. After leading them a short way inside, he motioned them to stop. Then he walked back alone for several long paces and put his hands against the cracked and leaning walls. With a swift push against the stone, he brought the whole section of the hallway crashing down to seal the entrance they had just used. Small rocks shivered and thudded down around him, but the collapse was small and well-contained. Culnaur and his slaves and helpers had built Angband well.

He looked in faint amusement at his slaves, seeing them gape in astonishment at him. "Next time we leave this place," he told them, "it will be through new tunnels we will delve in other directions. There is to be no hint to any searchers that we have ever come back here, let alone that we are building a force again." With that he turned once more and led them resolutely down into the shattered remains of his home.


"What are you doing to me?" Alakë screamed, fighting aganst her bonds in total disorientation. "Stop it! I haven't done anything, why are you hurting me?"

Culnaur stared at her in dismay. She had finally regained awareness moments earlier, as he and the Orcs were descending through the rubble-choked hallways of what had been Angband, searching for any areas that were still sound. Her strength seemed to have returned, but her mind was confused. She had also gone suddenly into labor, almost a month early.

"No one is tormenting you, fool girl!" Culnaur snapped. Frustration - at his and Melkor's crushing defeat, Melkor's capture, and the ruin of the kingdom they had worked so hard to build - was taking its toll on his spirit. "You're giving birth."

Alakë gave him a wild glare, panting for breath as the contractions of her belly muscles paused for a moment. "Stop it!" she said again, clearly having understood none of what he said.

Culnaur shook his head, giving up on the idea of reasoning with the rebellious, half-mad slave. He turned his attention to the problem of how to handle the actual delivery of her Orc-whelp. She can't give birth with her feet tied together! he thought. But there were no birthing posts in Angband, which had originally been built as a mere outpost of Melkor's kingdom. Elven prisoners had indeed been tormented there, at times, to break their wills or to twist the spirits of the other slaves who were forced to harm them, but the actual breeding of the Orcs had always taken place at Utumno.

Sighing in weary irritation, Culnaur signaled his slaves to resume their slow, uneven downward march. They picked their way through the ruins of his home, heading in a slightly different direction now as Culnaur led them towards the place where one of the deepest halls of torment had been. He hoped it was still there; some place would need to be found at once with chains that could be used to hold Alakë while she delivered her child.


The chamber was still there, and undamaged. At Culnaur's direction, two of the Orc-warriors waited until one of Alakë's contractions started, then quickly untied her hands and locked them into a pair of chains that were attached to one wall about a foot above her head. Helplessly trapped in the grip of her birthing-pains and screaming with agony, she had no opportunity to struggle before she was once again firmly bound.

One of the Orcs held Alakë's legs down while the other untied her ankles. Then they both backed away in a hurry, narrowly avoiding her furious kicks even though they had expected no less.

Shaking his head, Culnaur led the other slaves away towards the labyrinth of passages on the other side of the chamber. Alakë's mad screams of "Stop it! You monster..." dwindled behind them as they went. Culnaur dismissed the slave-woman temporarily from his mind, searching through his memories of this deepest part of Angband to try and think up the best areas to use as temporary quarters for his slaves.


Two hours later, the males were settled in an open cavern with a stream of water running through it where they could drink, and the pregnant females had been unbound and left in a large, barred prison cell that was at least able to be locked and therefore secure against any chance of escape. Culnaur, his spirit much less weary and discouraged now that he was at least starting to reclaim his home, instructed the slave who had first healed Alakë to accompany him and returned to the chamber where they had left her.

Alakë's screams of pain and fury were audible long before they reached the actual torture cavern. At least she is still alive, Culnaur thought. It was good news, especially if she could be kept that way. As for her child, there would be no way to know until after the birth if it would survive.

That is less important, though. She has given birth to hundreds of whelps, and there will be many more if she survives, regardless of what happens to this one.

Culnaur and the Orc-healer kept watch over the confused, screaming Alakë for the rest of the hours of her labor, ignoring her raving shrieks of accusation as she continued to believe that she was being put through some kind of deliberate torture. Now that they had arrived and there was nothing else pressing that needed to be done, the master of Angband could afford the time to make sure - if possible - that he did not lose this valuable breeding slave.

Finally, the healer stood with a living infant in his hands. The Orc-child was much smaller than most, but it was quite strong and bawling loudly. Culnaur was pleased; it was a promising beginning for his efforts to rebuild what the Valar had destroyed of his and Melkor's realm.

Alakë, breathing heavily, looked up as she heard the infant's wails. "No..." she breathed in suddenly clear-eyed horror, looking at the child. "Not my baby, again!" Sounding more defeated than Culnaur had ever heard her, she whispered, "Please..." Her eyes, usually so fiercely rebellious, sought out Culnaur's face and seemed to beseech him desperately for mercy. "Don't take him."

Culnaur laughed in disbelief. He jerked his head to the side, signaling the Orc-healer to carry the whelp away. The healer shot Alakë a quick look of helpless pity, then did as Culnaur had ordered.

"No!" Alakë threw herself against her chains, fighting wildly as her child and the soldier who held him disappeared into the shadows at the far end of the cavern. "No! No! Bring him back!" Sobbing, she let her entire body go limp as they vanished from sight. A moment later, though, she pushed herself upright again. Tears were running freely down her face.

"Don't you know how to care?" she asked Culnaur plaintively in an oddly quiet voice. "You have a heart, don't you?"

Culnaur stared at her in some confusion. "Yes, I have a heart!" he said. "Ilúvatar created me with one, the same as every creature. But why does that mean that I should care about the likes of you?" he asked disdainfully. "You're nothing but a pathetic Orc."

"I'm not an Orc!" she spat, glaring fearlessly at him. "My children may be, but I am Alakë of the Quendi! And if I was free," she added viciously, her voice filled with pure hatred, "I'd gut you where you stand and rip your body to shreds, stinkin' devil that you are or not."

Looking into the enraged, savage face in front of him, as Alakë bared her teeth in a wordless snarl, Culnaur had no doubt that she would try.


Author's Note: This chapter is offered, with utmost respect, for the historical memory - and for the modern truth around our world in 2012 - of all the human slaves and oppressed people who have been, and still are, held imprisoned and used in such shameful and evil ways. May we as a species finally grow up and stop doing such things. Forever.

On a far less sober note, keep watch for my Chapter 12: Deep Forges! I don't know how long it will take me, but it will be forthcoming.