Liberation

by FractiousDay

A magical accident sends three people through a portal to Middle Earth. Much is familiar to them, but much is different. As they travel through this new world, they decide to change it. Reflects a lot of things I thought were wrong with the LotR universe. Cannon to start with, then steadily more AU. First story.

14. Behold the Horned King

Next chapter, and another literary discussion, skip if you want.

Another thing that came up in a conversation with fantasywind was the relationship between wargs and people (people as in anything reasonably intelligent – humans, Orcs, dwarves, elves, ents and possibly eagles) said relationship with be touched upon in further chapters, along with a number of other things. However now, I will address a different issue, fantasywind pointed, with many many examples (well researched by the way) of the different uses of magic on Arda, as a counter of this I would like to give my view of some of the narrative of the Lord of the Rings universe.

Namely, it is a historical narrative.

This means that it is greatly romanticised, similarly to many 'period' King Arthur stories, one example of this being a collection of stories available for free on Kindle by Sir James Knowles, I myself have said collection. Stories such as these and to a lesser extent LotR are very systematic in their telling. For instance, scenery is described in great detail but characters not so much, for instance, Éomer is introduced in the books very briefly, being a 'tall, clean limbed man with a horsetail plume'. Similarly, virtually every character ever mentioned in LotR either 'springs, bounds or leaps' about, they do not sprint, or run anywhere. Example: 'Aragorn sprang away through the trees' or 'Éomer leapt from his mount'.

These examples of vocabulary show the genre of the books. Instead of being an action/adventure story, they very focused on dialogue. For instance, Tolkein's writings tend toward characters describing events, rather than something happening and responding to it.

For instance; Tolkien would write –

"What is that thing over there Legolas, is it a large group of people? Wait no, I see it now, it is in fact something else entirely."

Whereas more modern and perhaps less institutionally educated and amateur writers would be more along the lines of –

"Hey what's that?" he said, *description of event* "*response of characters to events*".

Again, this was all leading to something, because the books are so romanticised the readers may be deceived. Though they are indeed a historical document (technically it's the Red Book of Westmarch) because of the genre we make many assumptions as the audience. Undoubtedly some of the things are fictionally true, for instance there was no doubt an Orc chieftain in the Chamber of Records in Moria who wounded Frodo with a spear. However, some other things are probably exaggerated, for instance according to the books after Sauron's downfall/destruction virtually every soldier in his employ 'threw themselves upon their swords' or 'slew themselves in their terror' and other such dramatic actions, that's 60,000 suicides. This is somewhat doubtful from a military perspective, however is prevalent in virtually every major battle on Middle Earth, at the Hornburg, the Morannon, Dagorlad and the Pelenor the forces of Evil outnumbered Good at least ten to one, in the War of Wrath there were millions of Orcs compared to the hundreds of thousands of elves and men. This is one of the aspects of LotR that I seek to address with Liberation. To make my own story reasonably realistic, at least, as realistic as a work of fiction in which trees wander about singing with tiny people can be.

Therefore, Evil will occasionally get a power up, like Good do in the books. If you look at the continuity of the books, nothing really changes for the worst for Good. The Fellowship only loses one member (but gets a massive level up for Gandalf), Théodred dies, but then again we never get introduced to him before Gandalf magic's him back to health, Denethor also dies, but was clearly coming to the end of his sanity, likewise Théoden was very old by the standards of his time for going into battle, so it was no surprise for him to be eventually killed.

Meanwhile, Evil is completely destroyed. All important characters die, all strongholds previously held by Evil are eventually (within a few years after Sauron's defeat) destroyed and there's happiness abounding. Oh and everyone gets married

That's kinda unfair?

For a start Orcs never have their situation resolved. In the epilogue section of the last books there's a passage about how the various nations like Umbar and Dunland who were defeated eventually send emissaries to Gondor to discuss terms, but this doesn't happen with the Orcs. If you'd been systematically hunted and vilified for ten thousand years, I'm pretty sure you would go with the first person to promise you power, as Sauron does. Maybe the behaviour of 'Good' is justified, but they might have resolved the situation without the inevitable 'kill them all'. But then again, if you've committed genocide against someone's people there isn't a need to take an emissary from them. It's not even as if you can use the whole 'they are animals' speech that conquerors usually use to justify their actions. We know Orcs have civilisation, as much civilisation as you can have when you're being hunted for sport. They have a sense of art for instance, as Aragorn finds a decorated knife in Two Towers.

Further examination into the 'Good' races shows them to be somewhat suspect as well. I'm not sure if this was a subtle bit of alternate interpretation by Tolkien or not, but the Men of Gondor particularly have conversation about how the downfall of their city is due to 'the mingling of lesser bloodlines in greater houses.'

So, the situation with 'Good' is that tall, blonde haired men who don't like women fighting, helped by their friends who dislike those of 'lesser bloodlines' and who imprisoned an entire race in a ghetto by building fortresses around it so said race couldn't get out.

Remind you of anyone?

Then again, could just be a coincidence.

P.S. Yes I'm exaggerating, but the point still stands.

Liberation

Chapter 13

By FractiousDay

The sun shone on the golden roof of Meduseld. The orb moved down into the west, its light gilding the peaks of Ered Nimrais. On the shadowed western face of the hall a shape moved up the wall. On closer examination it seemed a man, climbing unhurriedly up the wall. He hauled himself over the edge of the gutter and rolled onto the golden rushes. Then taking up a seat against the decorative gable he stretched his legs out, crossing them and folding his arms across his chest, preserving his heat in the face of chill winds blowing across the plains. He drew his hood over his head, and brushed a strand of dark hair out of his eyes. Then the man settled back into his position, allowing the last rays of sun to warm him.

The man heard a fluttering behind him, and craned his neck back.

"Afternoon." Nine said to the crow perching behind him. It 'warked' at him.

"Be like that then." He said, reclining back into his position. Wind whipped at his hood, the peak fluttering before his eyes, hair escaping from underneath it and falling across his forehead. The last few days had been…busy. First, the frantic planning and scheming with the woefully naïve Rohirrim, most of who had no idea even of spying and surveillance, one rider, apparently of the King's Guard, had proposed that the group simply go before the King and bring charges against his traitorous councillor. Given that Nine had made up the whole story about a troll and the gathering with the Dunlendings he found it amusing that they were so easy to go along with him. In fact, the only true part of the story was of the sword, though admittedly it was looted from a corpse rather than bequeathed upon dying breath.

Their little (technically) seditious meeting took place in the back rooms of the Hall of the Third Marshal, which in the Riddermark language was named 'Hrolfinala' and was between himself, Háma the Guard, Éomer, several captains under Éomer, and the King's son, Théodred, who joined them later, having heard about Nine from some other men in the hall previously. Nine's impression of Théodred was of a child, not in body, but more so in mind and thought. This impression came from the first conversation Nine had had with Théodred, and talks with Éomer about him. A day after Nine's recounting of his journey there came a hammering at the door, hands went to weapons, only knives, but good enough at a push, and soon a tall, thin fellow in a gaudy shirt tumbled in. After picking himself up he stood as tall as he could, Nine particularly noting his short chin, and the eyes that looked down a long nose at them. After a nudge from Éomer he bowed, and was introduced to the newcomer as 'The Lord Nine, A Ranger out of the North'. It eventually turned out that this gangly fellow was the King's Son, and was incredibly bored because Master Gríma would not allow him out of the city upon hunts, which were the popular thing for young fellows about the city to go on. Nine almost had to restrain himself from laughing at this point, Edoras was definitely not a city, there were barely four thousands contained within, maybe a few hundred in the surrounding fields of small villages.

Edoras itself was made up of several tiers, the highest and most important, mainly held the golden hall of Meduseld, then descending there was another level cramped with the halls and longhouses of the various court nobles and retainers of the King, then another tier for the richest citizens, craftsmen and merchants mainly, with a predominance of horse breeders. The last tier was set at the base of the rocky hill, and held the majority of the population, mostly based in wood and mud hovels, thatched with straw, these spilled out toward a large wall, made from tree trunks sharpened and driven into the ground, capped with a row of thorns and sharp vines. Overall, it was not a defensible city, and would quickly fall to fire, aerial attack, or even a short siege. Nine guessed that the strategy of Rohan was to meet your foe honourably on the field and charge him down, unless of course, your foe had pikes, fortifications, massed archers, or indeed, anything that would break a charge and keep it in disorder long enough so that infantry could engage it.

Nine was eventually assigned in the second tier to Éomer's service as an advisor of sorts, and was billeted near Éomer's hall in a barracks. Éomer also provided him with new garb, including several finely made tunics and a cape. They made for a colourful ensemble, chiefly composed of green with a gold trim in the shape of artful knots. Nine thanked him for it, and took to wearing a darker variant, with silver decoration, with his own leather jerkin on top, thus providing some protection, as well as a place to hide his knives.

On day three of his arrival Nine was brought before Théoden King, and introduced as a traveller, the meeting was uninteresting, though Nine did get a good look at the 'Worm' that was mentioned by Éowyn, he was a short, pale and wan man, with lank dark hair and a hooked nose. There was also a puzzling and somewhat unsettling lack of eyebrows on his face that made him look like a started fish. Said Worm had made a short and ironic speech about the dangers of possible spies before sneering at Nine, whereas Éowyn welcomed him happily, glowing in a silver dress in the dark hall.

Day four was a hunt, they could find nothing to kill, but Nine shared some stories of his own expeditions with his new friends, some of them were actually true. However, soon after noon one of the trackers had come across the a prints of a wolf pack, and advised going back, reasoning that their party was still small and could be overcome by a large number of animals.

Several more days had passed in similar fashion and Nine had taken to sitting on top of Meduseld to watch the sun go down, he found it relaxing, a change from the deceptions he held up as a mask for the rest of the time. Therefore, as he was now, he made the slow climb up the wall, then the rushes, then settled into his seat on the ridge of the hall. At length he heard the familiar clash of steel in the training yard below him. The noise had puzzled him on the first days, he being unsure why someone was fighting in full armour in a city, apparently absent cause, however, Nine had upon further investigation revealed that it was a training area at the back of the hall. He assumed that the person training was of noble birth, as they had access to the area in the first place. However, on the second day, to his surprise, he realised that the soldier was a woman. Of course, Nine was not sexist, in fact, women often made better operatives than men, as they were still seen as many cultures as vulnerable, and therefore targets were easier to eliminate. But from what Nine had observed from the local culture, a fighting woman would be frowned upon. Therefore, a highborn woman, fighting using a sword and shield. It was a mystery. An easily solvable one to be sure, but still a mystery.

OOOoooOOO

"So as I understand it, we have four thousand ready to march?" Vark asked.

"Yes Warchief" replied Lurtz, but hesitated.

"Speak"

"My two hundred scouts are the only battle worthy Uruk-hai in Isengard, if you marched the rest out to battle they would all be killed, they have no discipline, no grasp of tactics, more importantly, there are no officers, no chiefs." Replied Lurtz

"This will be a problem." Said Vark.

Lurtz nodded.

Vark sighed and leant out onto the balcony, they had found what looked like a conference room, deep in the wall of Pit One, looking out over the main training ground, a large square space levelled long ago into a rough plain. Several hundred Uruk-hai shot bolts from crossbows into straw filled dummies on the other side of the range. Goblins and other smaller breeds of Orc scampered about retrieving the bolts that missed, then made a wide circle back around to deliver them to the crossbowmen. Several of the goblins lay dead, having been inattentive and been struck by a bolt.

"What we need, is a command structure." Vark said, turning back to his Second. "Pass me that paper and a quill."

Lurtz did so, and Vark delicately took the stylus in his huge fingers, then dipped it in the ink pot and began writing. He stayed there for several minutes, often pausing and crossing out, but finally standing back, and gesturing to the document. Lurtz went forward and looked, his eyes drifting down columns and figures.

"Command is too centralised, but that is always the way with Orcs, the strongest lead, that cannot be helped, but centralisation tends toward micromanagement, which is not efficient. That is what we must avoid. I do not want my commanders asking me to check their every decision, Orcs are strong, and after all, we're not humans." Vark said with a smile.

Lurtz ginned, yellow fangs bared.

"Twenty Five Uruk-hai to a troop, a Sergeant to command, ten troops to a company, a Captain to command, ten companies in an Battalion, a Commander to command." Vark paused from his reading, "Do you think we need a different name for the 'Commander'?" he asked.

"Perhaps later, once the rest is done?" suggested Lurtz.

Vark shrugged. "A battalion being two and a half thousand will be sufficient for most large scale operations, at least, as a first army, but with the thousands the earth is birthing, there will be enough for a great host, ten thousand at least, I doubt any army here about is that large. Therefore, we must concentrate on training; otherwise they will run at the first sight of blood."

Lurtz looked at him, "You think so little of them?" he asked reproachfully.

Vark looked back down at the training Uruks, the crossbowmen had finished and now swordsmen trained in groups of two, a chaotic series of lines and manoeuvres overseen by several rugged looking men, veterans from wars brought by Saruman to train his armies.

"I think that they are a Horde. The Horde in the truest sense of the word, no civilians, no merchants, no elders, all warriors, bred for one purpose. War." Said Vark, still looking at the fighting lines, at Lurtz's silence he continued, "That is the problem, without the understanding of life that other races have as they grow, they will fall quickly, there are no commanders, no tribal chiefs to follow as the lesser Orcs, even goblins know who is in charge, it will be difficult to put one in charge over another, there will be infighting, and without the proper chain of command the army will fracture."

"Ironic that you are using a human military organisation though" said a voice from the shadows.

Lurtz growled and began to draw his sword, whirling about to face to voice. A soft laugh came from the shadows, and out stepped the red robed Taelan, his hair held at his neck in the silver clasp he had taken from the corpse of a recently deceased Tharbadian wizard. Inexplicably, the corner he stepped from was the one furthest from the door. Lurtz knew the door was still barred, and defended by two of his own guard outside, in fact, the door was in his sight the whole conversation. But his questions were stopped as the dialog continued without him.

"Human organisation because they do not have the organisation of Orcs, there are no clans, therefore no chiefs. More importantly there are no shamans." Said the Warchief.

"Well… there's one." said Taelan.

"Who?" Lurtz asked suddenly, Vark had spoken of shamans before when the Warchief told him of the Orcs, but he could not imagine an Orc wielding the same power Saruman did.

"Me." Replied Vark shortly.

Lurtz stood silent at that, the Warchief had not told him that.

Taelan laughed once again, and waved his hand airily at Lurtz, "Regardless, what of the troops not of the Uruk-hai?" he asked.

"They will form the auxiliary, attached to need to the main body of the armies." Said the Warchief.

"Fair enough." Replied Taelan, he walked forward and picked up the quill, "Give every officer Captain and above a warg, preferably a black one, and a different sort of helmet or something, that will help them with their authority."

The Warchief nodded, and then walked out to the balcony; Lurtz fell into step behind him, on the right, whilst the elf took his left.

"What of different types of troops?" asked Taelan, motioning to the crossbow and swordsmen below them.

"There are Swords, Pikes, Crossbows, Berserkers and Engineers." Replied Lurtz. "Among the Uruk-hai that is, the 'axillaries' as you call them are a different matter, Saruman liked to refer to the main troops by the names of their weapons, given that we are not men, the term 'swordsmen' cannot apply."

"Continue." Commanded the Warchief, waving his hand.

"The Swords are armoured with iron plates, and equipped with shield and longsword, like so." Lurtz drew his own sword, the metal rasping on the leather scabbard, and presented it hilt first to the Warchief. The larger Orc took it, his hand too large for the grip, Vark held it out at arms-length over the parapet.

"Sufficient, why the spike at the end?" asked Vark, handing the sword back.

"According to Saruman it is to pull riders off their horses, but it gets stuck in armour, and the curves are difficult to use properly when slashing at an enemy." Replied Lurtz.

"Will it be a problem?" asked Vark,

Lurtz shook his head. "A matter of technique only, it will pass with training, and should prove useful, the Swords are the base troop, they perform the manoeuvres and flank the enemy, but the Pikes are the real mainstay of the Uruk-hai, they are armoured similarly, but with heavier armour on the left arm, forming a small shield, but they do not carry a separate shield like the Swords do. They carry pikes, as their name suggests, eighteen feet long, of various woods, with a curved head. The Pikes operate in blocks, to stop the enemy charges, they hold the enemy while the Swords flank and kill. They have proven especially useful during simulated cavalry charges. Behind them are the Crossbows, they shoot bolts faster and stronger than arrows, but of a lesser range, and slower to loose, they are usually in ranks of three, and both the Pikes and the Crossbows carry a short sword. They operate in tandem, whereas the Swords can fight alone and fulfil most roles if necessary."

"Crossbows similarly armoured?" asked Vark.

"Similarly, but not the same, Crossbows have lighter armour, with the breastplate and helmet only made from metal, the bracers and shin guards of leather." Replied Lurtz

"These Berserkers and Engineers?" asked Taelan after a moments silence.

"The Wizard made many experiments into the Uruk-hai when he was creating them, the Berserkers, from what I read of his notes when I glanced at them once, were one of them. They are Uruk-hai, but they are unstable, they take the simplest of commands, but are larger than normal Uruk-hai." Said Lurtz, "Engineers manage the siege weapons and sapping, as well as the Fire of Orthanc."

"Taelan, find out for certain what this 'Fire of Orthanc' is," he paused, holding his chin in one hand, "I am suspicious." Said Vark.

"Of what Warchief?" asked Lurtz.

"Speak more of these berserkers." Taelan told him, he looked at Vark, who waved his hand again.

"They go into battle unarmoured, but heal faster than usual, shallower cuts being healed within days rather than weeks, and larger injuries taking weeks instead of months. They wear only a loincloth and a helmet, their swords are longer than ours, but have two spikes on the end. They are the line breakers, and charge into the fray heedless of danger, using their fangs to bite the throats of their enemies. Before battle they fill their helms with blood and then put them on, the blood drips down as they fight." Lurtz said dispassionately.

"Now I am very suspicious." Repeated Vark, he turned to Taelan, "What do you think?" he asked.

"I think that Saruman the White may have been trafficking with demons." Replied Taelan slowly.

From what Lurtz had heard, demons were not good news at all.

"Lurtz, later on, take Taelan to where ever these Berserkers are billeted, Taelan, I want a full examination of them. I will not have the Blood Curse infecting my Horde." Said Vark forcefully.

Lurtz thumped his chest, "Yes Warchief!", and Taelan nodded his head.

OOoOoOO

Taelan took another look at the metal plate before him, the black steel glinting in the candlelight. Without taking his eyes off it he reached out with one hand to an earthenware bowl next to the metal, he dipped his fingers in the cool liquid in it, and drew his hand back toward the plate, and daubed a circular shield shaped rune on it. The blood dripped down the edges of the metal, but the base rune stayed, in defiance of gravity.

"Blood has been shed so that blood may not be shed." Taelan intoned, and the rune shone red, then evaporated into the air.

On the subject of blood, it had turned out there was no Blood Curse about Isengard, Taelan had made a magical and basic chemical examination of some of the Uruk-hai Berserkers, formidable specimens all of them, but there was not a trace of demonic activity. 'Still suspicious' Vark had maintained.

The young warlock sat back, the cool air of the cave around him sat still, the occasional gust of wind whistled in his hair. The full moon shone above, silver light filtering down. Taelan looked around him, on all sides he was surrounded by rudely worked plates of steel, not polished or painted, but fresh out of the forge and from under the hammer. He moved the breastplate from in front of him, and took up the two bracers and shin guards from the pile beside him, and laid them out before him. He took up the bowl again, and painted three parallel lines on each of the pieces.

"Blood flows as water so that limbs flow as water." He intoned again, and one by one the runes disappeared.

Taelan panted, the last rune would be more demanding. He took the last piece of armour and set it in front of him, then he checked the bowl. As he thought, the bowl was empty, the price of this particular brand of magic. He threw the bowl over his shoulder, hearing it smash on the stone floor.

"Now for the last." The elf murmured, he took his dagger and held it over his hand. One fast slash and pain swept up his arm, the sting of metal slicing open his palm.

"Blood of mine upon this earth, that this earth will protect He of mine Blood. Blood of mine body, that the Blood of the earth, Iron, may protect He of mine blood. Blood of mine body, upon this earth." Taelan chanted, growing steadily louder, he reached forward and smeared his hand on the final piece of armour. The Elf looked up, a cloud passed over the moon, the world was dark for a second, and when light returned, all traces of the blood was gone. Taelan looked once again on the last piece of armour.

"Behold the Horned King and his Iron Crown" he said, looking up at the moon, then keeled over backwards and passed out.

OOOoOoOoOOO

Nine walked about Edoras at ease, he had recently returned from a scouting mission taking several days with Éomer and some men of his house. Among them was an unpleasant and untrusting fellow be the name of Éothain who made constant remarks mostly to the effect of "My Lord Éomer, is it wise to keep this Dúnadan about?"

However, such remarks had stopped after Nine sliced his stirrup strap on a break, leading to him falling from his horse, rolling down a slope and being knocked out. Even better, upon inspection of his gear Éothain was royally told off for not keeping his equipment in proper order, and instructed to service the rest of the éored's riding gear for a week.

A good day's work in Nine opinion.

The cheerful spy made his way up the city, visiting a tanner briefly to purchase some pieces of leather he was planning on reinforcing his armour with. Éomer had provided him with a modest stipend for the purposes of such things after extracting an oath not to abuse the privilege. Luckily the local merchants operated on more of a barter system than monetary reimbursement, meaning that only nobles used coins, each one made of gold or silver with a horse's head on it. As such Nine made sure he brought back a brace of rabbits, or other such fresh meat each time he went out, and traded them to the people of Edoras.

As Nine wandered through the low gate to the higher tiers of the city he nodded to the guards. His opinion of the guards of the city was not a good one. They relied on their enemies to do the same things they would do themselves. This meant therefore that they never considered an enemy scaling the large rocky hill that Meduseld was built on. Nine also noticed that they had no aerial capability, but assumed that, as he had not seen anyone with aerial capability yet, that would not be an issue. Alternatively that it was rare enough not to worry about.

Nine pushed open the side doors of Meduseld, slipping inside with his bag. Unconsciously keeping to the shadows he progressed through the hall, and eventually reached the Royal Library. According to Éomer, (who Nine had briefly questioned) the Rohirrim did not write books, and instead went in more for singing songs following the tradition of oral history. Regardless, the spy had found the library on the third day of his arrival, whilst looking for Éowyn at the request of her brother, who desired to speak with her.

The small library was only two rooms, and was overseen by a very old man from Gondor, Araval by name, who had come to Rohan with the current King, who had also been born in Gondor, or something similar. The librarian was old and his story confused, so Nine had understood little of what he said. Nine had in fact found the Lady reading in a shaft of sunlight, he returned many times, ostensibly to learn more of the Rohimmirm's culture, but in reality to spend more time around the more important players of Rohan's political scene.

Of course, the fact that Éowyn was very attractive was beside the point.

"Good hmm Day, Lord Nine." Came a rasping voice from the shelves.

Nine turned to see a pair of shining eyes peering out between the piles of scrolls. "Master Araval." Replied Nine, making a short bow.

The librarian shuffled out from behind his documents, his musty robes shedding dust slowly as he walked. He balanced on a stick propped under his shoulder, relic of a leg wound never properly healed. Nine went to pull out a chair for him, and the librarian sat.

"Was your ride, mm, profitable?" asked Araval, clearing his throat periodically.

"Éothain fell from his horse in pursuit of a deer." Remarked Nine, taking a seat opposite Araval.

The librarian chuckled, "A bad business, a Horse Lord falling from his steed."

"Indeed," replied Nine ironically, "But profitable for you as well." He said, handing over the small sack of herbs he had collected at the request of the librarian.

"Ah, mm, yes, thank you, most kind." Replied Araval, drawing the sack towards him and feeling inside for the plants. He brought one out, a purple flower with roots intact, and smelt it. "The Wolfsbane," he lightly touched the roots, his eyes looking at it keenly, "intact as I requested, you surprise me Lord Nine, I did not expect you to be a herb master."

Nine smiled, "Nothing so grand, you alone hold that title I think, merely that, as a ranger I am often in the wild, and oftimes it is good to know what around you is safe to eat, and what one might coat ones arrows with to slay one's enemies."

Araval's hands shook, he dropped the plant and looked at the door, nodding his head toward it. Nine understood, and went to shut it, then sat again.

"You know of the poisons?" asked Araval carefully.

"The Ranger's way is the way of shadows, of the single blade in the dark, not of the warrior in the sun, his mail bright." Replied Nine, repeating a statement to him made by Mathias Shaw in his training.

"Yes, yes," said Araval, now looking at Nine more carefully, his herbs abandoned. "But how much do you know of them, eh?"

"I know that that one's roots, mashed and their juices extracted over a fire will kill a man within minutes if consumed, or introduced to the blood stream." Said Nine, indicating the purple flower.

"Yes, this is so, but now to it, do you swear that you have done no hurt to the people of Rohan? Or to their King?" the Librarian asked, one of his hands disappearing into the folds of his robe. Nine noticed the move, but was confident that he could move fast enough to avoid whatever Araval might do.

"I do so swear." Replied Nine, it was true, in fact, he had warned them of Saruman's treachery seemingly months in advance of Saruman's planned move against them.

Araval was silent for a few moments, Then removed his hand from his sleeve, "It is as the Lady Éowyn has, informed me, you are a man of honour."

Of a sort, thought Nine privately.

"What think you of the King's health?" asked Araval softly, wary of eavesdroppers.

"I think more of sorcery than of poison." Replied Nine equally softly. "But it is not unheard of, for some toxins to fog the mind."

"Yes, this is my belief also, and the villain being who?"

Nine heard footsteps outside, "It is not only snakes that have venom, but Worms also." He said as the door opened.

Araval nodded sagely, and they both sat back, Araval picking up a herb at random and pretending to be very interested in it. Nine looked about and saw the golden hair of Éowyn as she pushed the door open with her back, backing into the room holding a tray of food, presumably for Araval, as he rarely left his sanctum.

"Good Day, mm, Lady, Mmhm, Éowyn." Called Araval softly. "I fear I may have to share your, mmm, gift with our guest here though." He said, his eyes twinkling.

Nine suddenly noticed that Araval only cleared his throat at certain times, it was very off putting to a conversation, and Nine realised that it was probably a deliberate tactic, to put people off their thoughts around him, as he had not used the sounds when he had spoken to Nine a moment ago. He realised also that he had seriously underestimated the old man, instead of the scatter-brained librarian he now seemed to be a sly spy-master and potioneer, understanding many things, but speaking rarely of them. The old man was also surprisingly forward with Nine, possibly finding a kindred spirit. However, Nine was inclined to be wary on such matters.

Éowyn turned and noticed Nine. "Good Day My Lord Nine" she said, smiling, "I apologise, I did not know you were here, Éomer has only recently returned, and I believed you still about the city."

Nine stood, bowed, greeted her, and offered her his own chair, which she took with a smile. He then went off to find another for himself. As he returned he thought frantically for an excuse not to eat Éowyn's food, he had tried it once and almost gagged, it was commonly thought of among the other Rohirrim to be overly flavoured and undercooked, and they avoided it at all costs, Éomer regularly making many apologies for his sister's cooking.

"Nay Lady," he replied, sitting, "I had eaten not an hour ago after arriving at the city gates. Araval looked at him sidelong, one wrinkled corner of his mouth upturned in amusement. How the old man could stomach the food Nine did not know, and assumed his taste buds had long ago wasted away.

Araval finished a mouthful and wiped his hands on a cloth, "I was just instructing the Lord Nine on the many herbs and, mmm, flowers of this fair land." He said.

"Just so," said Nine picking up on the hint, "I had collected some for the librarian here, to use for his joints, for they hurt him at night."

Araval nodded at him magnanimously, "And the roots of this flower," he said, picking up the Wolfsbane, "Will ease palpitations of the heart."

Ease them permanently that is, thought Nine, but said nothing, only raising his eyebrows at the old man.

Araval motioned two fingers at him, asking for silence, Nine did so, and the three continued in amicable conversation for several minutes, till a hammering at the door interrupted them. Nine restrained himself from going for his knife, but noticed Araval's hand neared each other, one resting on top of the other, whilst he pushed his chair back.

"Mm, Enter." Said the Librarian.

A dark haired boy came scurrying in and bowed, then noticing the others in the room bowed again. "Gríma the Wormtongue demands the Lord Nine's presence." He said, "I was told that he was here."

"The Lord Nine could not be found here." Nine told him, picking a silver penny out of his pocket, "He is still about the town, you may tell the Wormtongue that." He flipped the coin to the boy, who caught it deftly and bit it. Then he bowed and scurried out again.

"What was the purpose of that my Lord?" asked Éowyn after the messenger had departed.

"None other than an aversion to Wormtongue himself, he is an ill favoured man." Replied Nine lightly, Araval laughed, Éowyn said nothing, Nine noticed a momentary melancholy pass across her face.

Éowyn stood up, "I must bid you farewell my Lords, I have business elsewhere and the day wears away."

It was true, the light from the window falling on the table was less bright now, and Nine could no longer make out some of the corners of the room, it was coming on to dusk.

Éowyn nodded to them, then walked away, drawing the door closed behind her.

Araval looked back to his plants, replacing them in the bag. "Would you do me a service Lord Nine?" he asked, looking up at the spy.

"It would depend on the service." Replied Nine wryly.

Araval smiled, "Rare is the man who responds as such when asked."

Nine did not know quite whether that was a compliment or an insult.

"It is nothing arduous I assure you." Araval said, his voice now easily audible, and without the normal rasping quality. "Follow her, she has been withdrawn in recent days, perhaps fearing for her uncle or brother, and I fear for her."

"Of course." Replied Nine, standing, "Shall we speak later?" he asked.

"I think it would be well if we did." Replied Araval. "Thank you for the herbs."

Nine bowed shortly to his new friend and conspirator, and walked out.

OOoooOO

"You killed my sons!" screamed the elf, sweeping his sword forward. A ring shone on his hand, and a circlet of silver glinted about his brow as it held back the raven hair. "You slew them as your kind slew their mother! Too long have my people waited, we shall never leave now! Not until all of your kind has been exterminated, Estel is gone, yet I defy you!" The elf's timeless face had rage written upon it, and great sorrow, and he ran forward again, his sword streaming with black blood as his eyes streamed with tears. All around him his home burned.

A deep laugh echoed about the courtyard, and through the slits of his crested helm Vark saw the flames leap from the pyre of the elvenkind. "Your defiance is at an end, Elf Lord, you are the last, scattered bands are all that is left of the elves, skulking in their forests. The rest have fled into the west, running back to their Gods, but those I serve are higher still." He said, readying his hammer.

"Elbereth!" cried the elf, sweeping his sword down, Vark raised an arm, and the blade skittered off his vambrace, leaving a scratch, but doing no damage. Vark smiled.

"Blood and Thunder!" he shouted back, bringing his hammer round in an arc, the elf raised a hand, and light spilled from the blue jewel in his ring, creating a shield that intercepted Vark strike. Vark hammered at it again, and it cracked, the elf staggering backwards with each hit. Finally it shattered, a sound like a thunderclap echoing through the courtyard. The elf was thrown back, and Vark staggered. After the dust cleared, Vark looked about him, a crater had been left in the ground, and in it, were littered fragments of silver and glinting blue crystal.

"Your trinkets cannot save you now Elf! That was the last ring!" yelled Vark to the devastation, striding forward, one iron shod boot crushing the remaining fragments of crystal. He caught a flash of golden armour, and a whip of cape rushing round a pile of rubble. He ran after it, his footsteps sounding loud in the ruins. Behind him he could still hear the sounds of battle, shouted oaths and battle cries, along with the incessant drumming of war.

He found the elf climbing a staircase, open to the world, his cloak streaming in the wind, the elf mounted the stair, pausing only to hurl a dagger at Vark before running up the stairs to an open sided building on the mount of the valley. Vark pursued him, smashing his hammer into the wall, narrowly missing the elf's head. His opponent swept his sword backhanded at his waist, hoping to bisect him, but Vark blocked with the haft of his hammer. The elf scrambled away again, gaining the top of the stair, and turned to face him.

Vark advanced, swinging his weapon slowly from side to side.

"Nowhere to run elf." He said. "The green fields of Rohan are red with flame, Erebor under siege, even Mordor, where you may have looked to escape from me, is destroyed. There is nowhere to run now."

The elf made to attack again, but Vark caught his sword stroke and tore it from his grasp, then threw it over the edge, the blade tumbling down the cliff. Vark advanced further, both their feet were in the stream now, it flowed over the edge in a glimmering waterfall, but the river below was tainted with blood.

At the last, the elf raised his fists, bared his teeth, and ran forward for a last desperate assault. Vark pulled back his hammer, then threw it forward.

"Doomhammer!" Vark roared, his voice booming across the valley, thunder rumbled and bellowed, and the air crackled around the two, and infinitely slowly it seemed, the mace flew across the divide, imbued with lightning the weapon crashed into the elf's chest, a thunderclap in and of itself. The elf was thrown backwards, his limbs crumpling around the projectile, the force of the throw carrying body and weapon across into the darkness.

Vark walked up on the edge of the waterfall, and looked below him. The city burned in the night, lighting the land with its conflagration, he could see the black field and red emblem of the Horde displayed proudly from stone towers. Many looked up as he stood there, and began to speak, their clamour almost eclipsing the sound of the fires burning.

He held up a hand, his army interpreted it as a call for silence, but that was not it. A whistling sound came from the other end of the valley, steadily growing in magnitude as the object of his desire neared. A blur flew out of the dark, over the heads of the army, and into his hand, and Vark the Warchief brandished aloft Doomhammer. Thunder rolled in applause and triple-forked lightening crashed across the mountains in tribute.

Vark awoke, panting, covered in a sheen of sweat.

He rolled out of his bed, gasping on all fours on the stone floor. He brought his head up, but the vision was gone, in its place an inoffensive bedside table. He struggled to his feet, and threw his cloak over his shoulders and staggered out the door, making his way quickly down the corridor toward the central staircase. He climbed up it, hundreds of steps to the top and throwing open the door he came out to the Pinnacle of Orthanc. Twenty feet squared of carved stone, four daggers reaching out from each of the corners. The Orc went to the middle and sat, still breathing heavily. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes, facing toward the peaks of the Misty Mountains. Vark felt the wind gusting around him, the smell of snow was in the air, and the cry of the eagle on the breeze. His breathing calmed, and he opened himself to the elements.

OOOoOoOoOOO

Taelan awoke on the floor. He groaned, and rolled over, pushing himself into a seating position. It was then when his nerves caught up with his brain and he hissed in pain, cradling his hand to his chest. He looked around him, the pit was one of the smaller ones he had seen, and he remembered stealing into it after dusk the previous day.

From the red bloom coming from the east, and the length of the shadows Taelan thought that it was probably only shortly after dawn. Meaning the elf had slept for about five hours. He was therefore exhausted; now, normally five hours would be fine, especially given his unique and predominantly magical physiology. But combined with effects of the ritual he was feeling the effects.

However, this was easily fixed, with the liberal applications of mana gems and a rather awkward-to-cast reverse life tap on himself. As such, he pulled out a blue gem from his pocket, looking like a sapphire, but that was where the appearances ended. He pressed it to his lips and inhaled, the gem turning into motes of pure mana, and inhaling them. He then drew a purple sigil in the air, and then walked through it. Coming out of the other side, he shook himself violently, wringing his hands and hopping from one foot to the other, waiting for the tingling to fade.

As he stood there his long ears picked up the distant noises of toil and work going on in the further pits across the plain of Isengard. He looked back, then walked back to the ritual circle from the night before and took the armour from where it lay. Picking the six pieces up, he wrapped them in a cloth and put them under his arm. As he walked away he made sure to scuff the circle thoroughly before leaving. Striding toward the door he dispelled the lock he had put on the night before, absorbing the remaining power in the spell. The outside was empty, and Taelan took the longer route away from the more populated areas of the Pit, over the walkways high above the forges. Reaching the largest forge he replaced the armour he had been carrying on its mannequin and slipped away. He then stood in the shadows of a corner for the quartermaster to arrive. The man did so shortly, apparently realising that his newest work had been tampered with, and checked it over. Not finding anything overt, the man went over to his forge, and to a wooden board standing up with the plans of the armour on it.

It was a good thing the armourer had not looked on the insides of the pieces, otherwise he would have noticed the extensive runes, both preparatory and active ones covering the insides of the metal, dark red lines seared into the surface.

Taelan stepped out of the shadows, and slinked forward, his feet leaving no marks of his passage. He got behind the man and peered over his shoulder, hearing the heavy sound of his breathing.

"You will finish the main pieces by noon." He said in the man's ear.

The man spun round, an ink pot brandished as a weapon. Seeing who it was he regained himself and swallowed. "Why by then?" he asked.

"That you do not need to know." Taelan replied. "The helm, breastplate and pauldrons, braces and greaves will be finish by noon. Then then Warchief will come for them. Understand? You will bring red paint as well."

The man nodded.

Taelan walked away.

OOoOoOoOO

Bronn was shaken. He watched the elf walk away, his hand on the knife at his belt. Ironmongery was not his profession, he was a provisioner, an overseer, he wished the Warchief would go through the proper channels to have his armour made. It had already thrown off a whole wagon full of swords for the Orcs. But he was being paid well, so he would have to deal with it.

The elf was a different matter entirely, there was madness in his eyes, a crazed look that saw a least one man burned alive already. The Warchief wasn't so bad, quite reasonable actually, for an Orc. The elf on the other hand.

He put down his work and strode off, passing the casting bays, molten iron being poured in, filling the molds of swords. Then there was the sharpening of the blades, and then the finishing touches, the handles of two halves of wood wrapped in leather.

Bronn grabbed the shoulder of a dwarf speaking with another dwarf, both had beady eyes, ruddy skin, and coarse black hair on head and chin.

"Oi, Frear!" he shouted over the sound of the bellows, "Get some of your bearded midgets over to Pit One! The Warchief's armour needs finishing and your lot are the fastest, otherwise I'm telling the Orc you were slacking, and the Mad Elf will burn you to death!" Frear tried to protest but Bronn was already gone to find more people to bully into helping him. One of the bracers wasn't even cast yet! And he still had to check the padding, he was sure the elf had been messing about with something.

OOooooOO

Sometime later, Taelan, having spoken with several quite frightened servants, was climbing the steps of Orthanc. He had felt the tension building in the air for several hours, and a storm was gathering outside. Worryingly it was centred on the tower; with a powerful shaman in the vicinity the conclusion was self-evident.

With Vark, this occurrence was rare. From what his friend had told him, in shamanic communities there was often a storm above the settlement, as shaman's connections with the elements could be affected by their emotional state. If they were happy, flowers would bloom, and sometimes spontaneously erupt from the floor. If they were sad, rain would fall, if they were frustrated or angry the air would grow heavy and the heat would be oppressive. Only the strongest of emotions or the strongest of shamans had the power to call up a lightning storm on their own. Therefore, from the signs of the weather, Taelan could tell his friend's mood.

First there was a pressure in the air, but it was yet cool. This was confusion. Then there was the dark clouds and overcast sky, this was frustration or anger, but not rage, more a sense of helplessness. That was particularly rare for Vark to experience; he was usually the master of his emotions, and always had a plan. Sometimes said plan was to act spontaneously and go with his feelings, but that was still a plan.

Taelan's surroundings were filled with light suddenly from one of the windows, and thunder rolled outside. Lightening could mean many things, most of them not good. Taelan hurried up the stairs. After a few minutes his legs had begun to burn, but he had reached the top, the door was thrown open, and swung on its hinges.

Taelan walked out into the storm; luckily it hadn't started raining yet. He never enjoyed the rain. Taelan came across the roof and to the seated figure. Predictably, it was Vark, less now of the Warchief, more of the Shaman, the spiritual leader of his people, rather than the martial one.

The most unusual aspect of the picture before him was the large raptor sitting on Vark's shoulder. As Taelan came closer the bird turned round, and was revealed to be an eagle. The bird twisted round in its perch, taking its head out from under its wing, and screeched at him, extending its wings threateningly.

"Be at peace." He told it, "I am here as a watcher for him also."

The eagle nodded at him, then went back to preening itself.

Taelan looked at it again, then went over to the edge and looked down. Sufficed to say, it was a long drop. He walked back around his friend, making sure not to break his line of sight with to the mountains and went to sit against one of the tall spiky pillars on the corners, this one let him sit within sight of Vark when he awoke from his trance, but in reach of the door if anyone tried to get in. A shaman using his Far Sight was sometimes a dangerous one, not knowing friend from foe in their altered state of mind, and was usually not in control of their powers.

Well, not so much, they were so much in control that every whim was fulfilled by the elements, meaning that if they willed a person to be gone, as an annoyance perhaps, the person would catch on fire and be incinerated, or in one cautionary tale told of Draenor, be hit by an improbably and unfortunately accurate meteor.

Happily Taelan did not have long to wait, and busied himself in making an account of all his regents for his various spells. When he had done this he started creating more mana gems, keeping five of them, he imbued the last two with higher levels of energy to make them last longer, and left the other three out in front of Vark, knowing his friend would be magically drained after drawing energy from within himself for such a long spell.

Taelan heard footfalls coming up the steps. He got up and went to the door and inside, and saw Lurtz being led up by a visibly shaking human servant.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

Lurtz dismissed the servant, who edged round the large Uruk-hai and back down the stairs. "I have prepared a list of candidates for the positions of leadership the Warchief was discussing with us yesterday." He recounted.

"Come up." Taelan said and beckoned him forward.

They went up and stood on one of the corners, a slight breeze blowing, but not enough to make reading difficult. Taelan looked over the list, twenty three names, mainly Uruk-hai, or what sounded like it, with a plethora of names from Grazgha to Mauhúr to Uglúk, but two human names, Umbaron 'the Black' and Cahill 'Darkwood', or so the scrawl said.

"Who are these two?" asked Taelan, indicating the two seemingly human names.

Lurtz squinted down, "Cahill's a Dunlending, an exiled chief some say, Umbaron is one of these black men, out of the south, he wears a cloth about his head."

"And they are trustworthy?" asked Taelan, not being surprised, after all, all people have the same colour skin once you char it enough with a good fireball.

"They are true enough." Responded Lurtz. "If the rumours are right, Cahill has nowhere else to go, and Umbaron came here years ago as a slave in service of a trader or traveller, the story is unclear, but escaped when the trader stopped here, so with either this is their only home."

"Very well." Said Taelan, "The rest?"

Lurtz swept one hand over the paper, "Mauhúr and Uglúk are of my own cohort, we trained together and they are good for leading raids and suchlike. The rest are of the newer breeds, all showing promise at command, big and strong, natural leaders."

Taelan nodded slowly, "Who do you raid? The Dunlendings are our allies, and Rohan has not been attacked yet."

"Not all the Dunlanders are on our side, as I heard Saruman say once, for he was fond of talking to himself, it was an 'alliance of convenience', they want Rohan gone, we want more land, attacking Rohan is good for both parties." Lurtz explained, "Also, Saruman planned on inviting the Dunland Chiefs here and controlling them with spells, to appoint a puppet on the throne of Rohan and Dunland both. That or he planned on just slaughtering them at a feast, he could never decide which. But anyway, Saruman let us raid the tribes living in Dunland that the Dunland King couldn't control, so we have so experience in fighting men, other than mock battles."

Taelan digested this. "Fair enough." He said, he had no particular issue with treachery as long as it didn't adversely affect him or Vark.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, Lurtz studying their mutual superior. "What is the Warchief doing?" he asked quietly.

"It is part of being a shaman, he is the one creating this storm I should think." Said Taelan back to him, a little awe never hurt.

Lurtz glanced up at the black clouds, then back to the larger Orc, looking suitably impressed.

"He is in a trance, sometimes the more powerful Orcs get visions of the future, or of the past, or indeed, of the present." Continued Taelan. "He should wake soon, but it is better not to disturb him. As shown by our friend there." He said, indicating the eagle.

Lurtz nodded quickly, and edged back slightly behind Taelan. Taelan laughed at that.

They stood there a while longer, Lurtz having put away his paper. However, the eagle started to look around it, then hopped off of Vark's shoulder and flew away west, the wind carrying it far away from the black tower. Taelan looked back to Vark, knowing he would stir soon.

"You are injured." Came the deep voice.

"It is nothing," replied Taelan "Take the gems." He said, indicating the three stones.

Vark held out his hand and they floated into his palm, orbiting around each other and around his hand. They dissolved into a fine sparkling blue dust, and settled on his skin. Vark formed his fingers into a fist, and stood. He turned towards them. "I have Seen." He said.

"What was it?" asked Taelan.

"I was fighting a dark haired elf in a burning city." Vark replied. "I was victorious. Also there was a contest between a white tree, a horse, and a black snake with red eyes."

Taelan shrugged, as long as Vark hadn't Seen anything bad he didn't really care what the vision was, it might even just be a dream, one that felt like a vision. "Your armour is ready by the way." He said, changing the subject.

"Good, I have been waiting." Replied the Warchief. "Fetch the wargs and meet us at the bottom." He told Taelan, "Lurtz, tell me of this list you were speaking about."

Taelan bowed sardonically and turned round. Lurtz watched him confusedly, his expression turned alarmed as Taelan casually walked off of the tower.

Taelan held out his arms wide and rocked off the edge, his stomach flipping as he toppled forward. As the air whipped his hood off and his hair streamed in the wind, Taelan reminisced on how amazing flying really was. He had never truly flown, but Vark had made it a habit every week to throw him off a cliff near the camp, it was all in good fun, and Taelan had eventually developed the ability to dispense with the regents needed to slow his fall. The spell took more mana, but was very useful when used in conjunction with 'lineal instantaneous short range teleportation' as the book had said, commonly known in the mage community as 'Blink'. Taelan was somewhat of an outcast of the community, given his status as a warlock, literally an 'oathbreaker', the fact that he had made no such oath apparently did not bother anyone. However, he was also outcast from the warlock community, for stealing from his master, as well as still practicing some mage spells.

However, this was not a problem, because Taelan simply did not care. He had Vark, and Vark appreciated him, and his skills, and that was enough.

Come to think of it the ground was coming up awfully fast.

Taelan threw his arms our, fingers splayed, imagining himself soaring on the wind, just as the eagle had minutes before. He felt the wind decrease rapidly, or rather, the speed at which he was falling. He brought his feet round, his head up, and shot a wave of fire out of his hands to slow his fall further; given the backfire of throwing spells about he was pushed upwards at a similar velocity as the fire was pushed downwards.

Vark had called this a 'Fire Drop'. The trees around Ashenvale tended to be very high, and Vark would lurk on the edge of the battlefield, seemingly alone and an easy target, then, when ganged up on by several enemies, Taelan would drop out of a tree, throwing fire as he went, and then throw a fireblast downwards, impacting on the floor. At best, this fried several enemies, at worst, it distracted them long enough for Vark to kill them himself, and blinded them long enough so that they wouldn't immediately turn round and stab him in the face.

They had perfected the technique during their second year at Mor'shan, and used it to great effect in battle, earning Taelan the epitaph 'the Lightening' about the camp, Vark was 'the Thunder'. Lightening came down first out of the sky, killing a few, and Thunder followed, killing the rest.

Regents made spells easier, but were not essential. One memorable incident occurred on his and Vark's leave in Orgrimmar, a haughty blood elf mage spat at him in the street, probably because Taelan was a warlock, so Taelan had challenged him to a simple magical duel. As the offended party he got to choose weapons and venue, which was decided to be the new zeppelin tower in the centre of Orgrimmar, and the Slow Fall spell. Taelan had invited the mage to go first. Little did the mage know, Taelan had replaced the mage's regents, specifically his feathers, with those of a flightless bird. Therefore, when the mage had stepped from the tower, a sudden look of terror had crossed his face, and his spell had assumed the qualities of the regent he was using. Namely, the quality of going splat when dropped from a large height. Taelan had thought it was hilarious, and learned much to his profit from the mage's books after he had ransacked his house.

'The Lightening' dusted himself off, rearranged his robes, and went to fetch the wargs. However, before he had gotten to the new kennels, actually dens dug out of the foothills of the mountains to the north, he was almost run down by three wargs. One was his own female, Silverflood, the others two large blacks, Blackbite, and one unfamiliar to Taelan. He sent a questioning thought to his mount, who sent back a set of images and feeling associated with subservient leadership. Taelan surmised it as the position of 'Beta' and assumed this was the mount of Lurtz.

Taking Silverflood's rough mane he pulled himself up, his robes making riding awkward, he would have to sort that out soon. The wargs seemed to know where they were going, and he let them walk at their own pace. Arriving at the steps of Orthanc with a about a minute to spare, he climbed off and made a cut in the middle of his robes, leaving two separate pieces of fabric covering his legs. This would be the prototype of his new robes he decided, and he would visit a seamstress soon to finalise the design.

Interrupting his musings on fashion, the doors of Orthanc were opened, and the two Orcs came out, Vark walking slowly along, his great animal pelt swinging with each step, Lurtz walking slightly faster to keep up with his Warchief's longer strides. Vark nodded to him and walked off the third step instead of going all the way to the bottom, using the high of the step to climb onto his mount faster. Lurtz followed his example, and Taelan waited for Vark to start before guiding Silverflood to walk at the left paw of Blackbite.

They rode at a reasonable pace down into Pit One, this time taking a wide wooden ramp down the side of the pit wall and through a tunnel roughly hewn out of the rock, the tunnel forked, the right passage heading down to the training ground, whilst the ramp they had just left lead away back up the wall where people quarried the rock, expanding the pits to form new, many tiered areas.

"Who does all this?" mused Taelan aloud.

"Goblins mainly," replied Lurtz, "Some humans carry the rock out, and dwarves oversee it all."

"Dwarves?" asked a surprised Taelan, turning in his seat, the tunnel was too narrow to ride abreast.

"Mostly outcasts and exiles from Erebor in the North, or out of the White Mountains before the Dragon's fall. Many lured by the promise of gold, they came here, there was much work to be done, and Dwarven-Goblin alliances are not unheard of, both live underground and work best in hard rock, goblins can even tunnel as straight and good as dwarves if they set their minds to it." Replied Lurtz helpfully.

They came to a wide archway, and dismounted, leaving their wargs to wander about on their own business, presumably to feed and water themselves, safe in the knowledge that they would be there when they got back. After all, who would want to, or indeed, could steal a warg?

They followed Vark to the quartermaster; Bronn, the man was speaking with a bent-backed goblin, and watching several goblins making arrows sitting at benches. The man looked up when they walked in, and raised a hand in greeting.

"Hail Warchief." He called across the space, dismissing the goblin next to him away with a whispered word.

Vark raised a hand, and walked over. Bronn raised a hand, and another goblin delivered a quiver of arrows to him. "Lurtz," he said, "I have the arrows you requested made, interesting design, I have not seen it's like before, tell be how they perform, I have some more ideas about this if they work." He passed over the quiver, Lurtz took it and unbuckled his own, unthreading it from his hip and threading the leather straps of the belt into the tabs on the back of the new quiver. The Uruk took one of the arrows, and held it up; the tip was broad, sharp, and cruelly barbed, the back edges being serrated. Lurtz smiled sinisterly and replaced it, nodding at the man.

Bronn turned to Vark. "Your armour is ready Warchief, the work went faster than expected and we have virtually all of it done. The elf told me it had to be done by noon, so I put more of the workers on it." He said, indicating Taelan.

Vark turned his head to raise an eyebrow at Taelan. Taelan grinned at him disarmingly. Vark shrugged and walked toward a tall shape covered in an old cloth. Bronn joined him and dramatically pulled away the covering. Revealed stood an imposing suit of black plate, trimmed in places with gold. From the bottom, rectangular shin guards, extending over the knee, then greaves of a similar fashion, covering the front and sides of the thighs. Underneath was chainmail at the back and inner thigh. On the arms, a huge pair of vambraces, smooth with a raised edge, again in gold, and three four sided spikes running down the length. In the middle was a breastplate, one solid plate protecting the pectorals and thorax with several smaller plates like a crab's armour protecting the abdomen. These, Taelan guessed would ensure proper protection by making any strikes slide off the plates, but also allowing movement by separating the plates, covering the shoulders were equally massive pardons, similarly worked to the bracers they were trimmed with gold and covered in spikes. Finally, a high helm, narrow eyeslits, and stimulated cheekbones, the mouth part came forward, ending in a slightly elongated snout like a boar's. Finally, the most imposing aspect, the five horns extending out of the top of the helmet, Taelan remember the helm in the moonlight, hours ago, the thing made for war also representing majesty, command.

Power.

Taelan looked to the new owner of the armour. Vark's mouth was open in a smile, his tusks bared, his face alight with the red fire of the forges around him.

"Armour me." The Warchief ordered, and pulled off his pelt and gave it to a waiting goblin. Bronn motioned to several other goblins loitering nearby, they ran forward and took the pieces, each vambrace taking two to carry, the breastplate and attached backplate taking four goblins each. Taelan himself seized the helm in one hand, shocked looks were directed at him at this show of strength, and Taelan dragged a table toward his Warchief and stood on it, eye to eye with the Orc. Vark removed the remains of his leather trousers and stood bare but for a loincloth, Bronn passed him a new pair of leather trews, and stout boots reinforced with strips of iron to prevent attacks to the ankles. Vark dressed himself in both, but needed no upper covering or padding on his arms of legs as the armour was already padded with a black cloth trimmed with fur. Goblins tightened the leather straps on the limb armour, whilst others lifted the breastplate with some difficulty over Vark's head, buckling the separate breast and back plates together with other straps. Vark then flexed and moved, nodded once to Bronn, and approached Taelan on his table. Taelan brought the helm up, then lifted it onto Vark's head.

"Here is crowned Vark, Warchief of the Horde." He intoned, and then thinking upon it some more, decided not to repeat his words of the night before, thinking that it was far to ominous. Bronn, seeing Taelan looking at him, brought forward a bowl filled with red paint, and Taelan took it in his left hand, and dipped two fingers into it. He raised them, flicked them at the ground for the spirits, and drew the symbol of the Horde on Vark's chest, a line coming up from the left, then bending round in a wide circle and finishing on the right, a similar line going down from it, longer than the left side's. The elf drew on the finishing touches, four raised points on the line like thorns from a branch, and one red spot in the middle.

Taelan looked into Vark's eyes, he could tell he was smiling.

OOOOoooooooOOOO

When they came up the ramp out of the pit, Vark's new armour clinked together, he had thrown his old bear pelt over it, as he had unarmoured, and the bushy fur stood out about his shoulders, he had also doffed his helm and hung it on his belt by a helpful buckle. Vark did not seem to have any particular destination in mind, but began to speak as he rode, presumably for Taelan's benefit to understand what he had discussed with Lurtz on their way down, Taelan assumed he had waited as he didn't want his plans overheard by anyone.

He and the Uruk drew their mounts closer Vark spoke. "I have decided to let each possible commander choose twenty five men or Uruk-hai, and send them into Rohan under the White Hand of Saruman, they will raid the villages and smaller towns, making it appear that Saruman has attacked Rohan. Then, after the Rohirrim respond, we will form all the unworthy and untrusty elements in Isengard into one army and order them to invade Rohan as well. Lurtz suspects this will be some of the Uruk-hai more loyal to the late Wizard, as well as some of the Men he brought with coin. After they have invaded, and Rohan's army is gathered, assassins I will seed in the army will kill its commanders, meaning the army is in disarray, they will be defeated by the forces of Rohan and will flee, once they reach the Isen they will come upon the new forts we will construct at the Fords, and they will be slaughtered. This will rid us of the traitors here, appease the Dunlendings, and test the new military organisation we have formulated, as well as showing the Rohirrim that Saruman's power is broken and we are not necessarily an enemy."

Taelan was silent, considering the plan, it really was quite brilliant he thought, and wondered how long Vark had been considering it. "What of Grand Strategy?" he asked, "Why do we not assail Rohan, and if we do not, what use will the thousands in your army be put to?" he asked, he knew Vark's immense pride well, and knew it would be good for the Warchief to hear that it was 'his army'. "Also, omitting myself, we are Orcs you know. From Saruman's notes on the people of Rohan they will not likely consider Orcs allies!" he scoffed.

Vark nodded, considering Taelan's point. "I'm sure many said the same of Thrall and Proudmore during the Third War." He pointed out, "We can burn that bridge when we come to it, anyway, Grand Strategy will consist of consolidating out place in the world. At the moment we are hemmed in by the mountains, Lurtz has informed me of tunnels Saruman ordered dug decades ago; said tunnels lead out to the north and to the west, one going under the mountains into the fells of Dunland. The other, in many sections, leading through the Misty Mountains and stopping in a great dale or valley of sorts far to the north, many leagues away. Apparently these tunnels were either a means of escape if the Wizard's Dale was cut off, or a means to attack Dunland secretly. The northern one's ending location is unclear, but is apparently near enough to both the Dwarven stronghold of Moria, and the elven forest of Lórien, I do not intend to attack those places. Not yet anyway. But we will use the western tunnel in time to conquer the land of Edenwaith, up to the Greyflood, the ruined city of Tharbad and the port of Lond Daer. Both will be garrisoned and rebuilt and at Lond Daer ships will be made, then sent out to trade in the name of the Horde."

"And Rohan?" Taelan asked, after considering the plans and finding no fault in them.

Lurtz spoke this time. "The Warchief has shared his Sight with me." He recounted. "He was Seen a great battle on a plain before a white city, where a white horse will battle a black snake, and a great evil be destroyed. A white horse running on a green field is the symbol of Rohan, therefore, if we assail the country of Rohan in force, this battle will likely not come to pass, and the great evil will not be thrown down and destroyed. The city I think, is Minas Tirith, of Gondor in the East, and they have great friendship with the men of Rohan, who have aided them often in war. Therefore I guess that when the Dark Lord of Mordor advances on Gondor, the King of Rohan will go to war there, and if his strength is too small, that city will fall, and Mordor be triumphant. The Warchief has foreseen that if this comes to pass evil will reign in Middle Earth."

"And obviously this is a bad thing." Taelan said.

"Indeed." Remarked Vark with a twitch of his lip.

"Will we be taking part in this battle?" Taelan asked, his eyes going from Lurtz to Vark.

"It is uncertain." Replied the Warchief slowly.

Helpful, thought Taelan. "I fear we will over extend ourselves." He said out loud.

"True," said Vark, "The Uruk-hai are superior to the lesser breeds, they will form the heavy infantry and core of the armies, not the armies entire. Once the mountain tribes of Orcs and goblins, as well as the neutral Dunland groups see our power they will flock to the banner of the Horde." He said confidently.

Maybe they will, maybe they won't. Thought Taelan. "Perhaps we should send them an emissary?" he suggested.

"Perhaps." Said Vark.

They halted at the edge of devastation. What looked to be a forest, or the beginnings of one had been cut down for firewood. However, what was obviously so offensive to Vark, from the look on his face, was the amount of branches and boughs still left on the ground.

They rode through the tree stumps, changing direction several times to avoid obstacles. Taelan noticed one grey coloured tree standing out several yards from the tree line and wondered how it had survived being cut down. As they neared it Vark stopped and dismounted. He waked forward and raised a hand.

"I greet you in the name of Earth, Ancient One." He called to the tree.

Taelan briefly wondered what Vark was talking about; however; his musing was put to rest as the tree turned toward them. Its trunk separated to reveal a pair of legs, and two more limbs separated from the main body into long arms, almost reaching to the ground. The tree was tall, but quite thin, and Taelan identified it as a silver birch. The only thing he knew about them was that they burned well, because of resin in their outer bark.

The Ancient, for that was what it was, was at least sixteen feet tall Taelan thought, though some of it may have been branches. It was thinner than Azerothian ancients, but was a different breed of tree, which would account for it. It had few facial features, but a great mossy grey beard and deep green eyes. They seemed great wells of wisdom. Or might if they were not narrowed in anger and directed toward the group.

"Burárum!" the Ancient growled at them, taking a step forward angrily and raising a fist.

Vark slowly held out a hand. "I greet you in the name of Earth." He repeated slowly.

The Ancient rumbled deep in its trunk, sounding like a landslide falling down a hill, it was a voice of rocks and boulders grinding together, a voice of ages. The Ancient took another step forward, but stopped short of striking, in two steps it had covered ten feet and now towered over the three.

"Hoom!" The Ancient trumpeted, "Why can I not strike you?!" it demanded, its fist still drawn back.

"Because I am a shaman, the forest called and I answered." Responded Vark in an even tone, careful not to upset the large tree.

"Burárum do not care for living things!" the Ancient said loudly, its eyes still narrowed and its beard bristling.

"I am the storm, and I feel your spirit, elemental, as well as the spirits of the forest." Replied Vark, quite cryptically Taelan thought, but the elf supposed that a certain degree of poetry was necessary in speaking with an elemental.

"Hoom!" the Ancient said again, but slightly less angrily, and it lowered its fist. "You are the one the forest speaks of?" it asked.

"I am." Replied Vark.

Who else would it be? Taelan thought to himself sardonically.

"You will come with me." The Ancient said, still sounding angry, but then walked away, its long legs opening like a scissor with each stride, bending very little at the knee.

Vark looked back at his companions. "It would seem I am summoned." He said, smiling. "Take Blackbite back with you, I have a feeling this is something I must do alone. If I do not return by tomorrow at noon, proceed without me, I will return eventually. Whilst I am gone I expect all this," he indicated the leftover wood, "to be harvested, I will not tolerate wastage."

Vark then walked away following the tree, disappearing into the shadowed depths of Fangorn Forest.

"Where has the Warchief gone?" asked Lurtz uncertainly after a few moments.

"You heard the tree," replied Taelan, gesturing to the forest dramatically, "He has been 'summoned'" Seeing the continuing look of confusion on Lurtz's face he continued, "It happens occasionally to shamans, a place's spirits are out of balance and one of them will be chosen to mediate, and bring back balance. Odd thing is," the elf continued, "I was under the impression this world didn't have sentient spirits, might bear thinking about."

With that he nudged Silverflood with his leg and turned her around, padding over the ground back to Isengard.

OOoooOO

Nine followed Éowyn down the corridors, her green dress easily visible despite the growing darkness. Greeting several passing sentries he kept his distance, as the Lady kept looking behind her.

As she should, thought Nine, After all, I could have more sinister motives than my current entirely virtuous ones.

Éowyn proceeded quickly to her quarters, how she managed to keep up such a furious pace was a mystery to Nine, when he wore a dress he always found it hard to move it.

Robes! He berated himself after he realised what he just thought. They're robes when you're disguised as a caster!

It was something to do with how on the forward step the front hem got under the toe, leading to an embarrassing fall. Good thing the Stormwind canals didn't have crocolisks, regardless of what that little brat said.

Éowyn disappeared round a corner, when Nine got there she had vanished. He saw a door close by and looked round for a place to hide, finding none he braced himself between the two walls, vaulting up and over a barrel and placing one foot on each wall. If anyone saw him like this it would be very difficult to explain. Luckily Éowyn didn't take long, and came out in a hooded cloak in an effort to disguise herself. Presumably she didn't consider that in the more classy areas of the city a raised hood would in fact attract more attention, rather than preserving the identity of the person.

Nine dropped lightly down, briefly noting just how fun his job was sometimes. Not the 'running from a pack of dogs and almost being savaged by them times', or the 'being captured and having to watch your team eaten alive by jungle trolls' times either, now he came to think of it, but the joy of the chase, the pursuit across rooftops, even the sense of self-serving pride at the well-aimed crossbow bolt sticking out of the neck of your target.

Though Nine certainly wasn't planning anything of that sort any time soon.

The Lady Éowyn eventually walked through another door, if Nine's bearings were right it would lead to the outside, south if he was not mistaken.

Then again, seeing the dark sky before him as he went through the door, east would do as well.

Éowyn went to another building across the square, based at the back of Meduseld, she threw off her cloak and picked up a sword and shield, donned a helm, then proceeded to start battering away at a wooden post. Occasionally she would dodge to the side, or raise the shield to ward off an imaginary blow.

Nine had found the mystery shield maiden.

However, no sooner had Nine settled down to admire the form of Éowyn's swordplay, and indeed, admire the form of Éowyn's body; the door he had been standing next to was thrown open.

Nine sprang back on instinct, luckily the door opened on his side, meaning he was hidden from view by the wood. Out walked a large, burly, bald man, with a short beard. Nine marked him down as a thug. Then came another of his ilk, this one with a copious amount of black hair, and then a shorter man, with shoulder length hair, smoothed to his scalp. Nine couldn't tell who it was from the back, and soon after a third thug walked out, and took up station by the door, legs apart, thick arms folded, expression no doubt stern.

Nine stuck his head out, intrigued by the proceedings.

The first two thugs flanked the shorter man, and took up stances similar to their friend by the door. By this time Éowyn had realised she was not alone, and turned to face the three, taking off her helm her long hair spilled put like sunlight on corn.

Where had that come from? Nine wondered to himself. He usually didn't go in for spontaneous poetry.

The short man in the middle was gesturing animatedly, and evidently had a great sense of his own importance, Nine caught a few words over the gusting wind.

"…Councillor!...woman…obey!" were some of them. It was at the last word that the oily fellow, who Nine now realised to be none other than Gríma 'Wormtongue', made a move against Éowyn, he stepped forward, and reached out to grasp her hand, or would have done, if Éowyn's sword hadn't snaked out to rest its point at his throat.

Nine opinion of Éowyn went up by several notches, whilst his opinion of Wormtounge went down, already quite low, as was Nine's opinion of all men who wore a dress, he found it amusing that Wormtongue needed three bodyguards, all to converse with a 'mere woman'. But now was not the time for mocking those too unfortunate to have been gifted with eyebrows at birth, Nine would save the day!

After he got past the guard.

And he was a very big fellow.

Going for the simple but unexpected option, Nine reached out and tapped the burly man on the shoulder. He turned slowly, an expression of stupefied wonderment on his face, and Nine sucker punched him on the jaw, then kicked him in the crotch for good measure and walked swiftly to save the damsel. Said damsel was doing quite well by herself, having still got her sword at the neck of Wormtongue, but would inevitably loose against the two larger men, who had hands on knives at their belts.

"I say!" called out Nine as he got nearer, "Is that any way to treat a Lady?" he asked mockingly.

Wormtongue span round with a hiss, seeing Nine and the guard lying on the floor behind him he ordered his remaining guards forward, "Get him you oafs!"

The ensuing fight was brief, and rather brutal, Nine needed leverage for the next part of his plan. He caught the first punch from Tweedledum, and hit his wrist, causing the fist to open, then Nine pulled his fat fingers back, hearing several cracks and snaps from the man's hand. He ducked another punch from Tweedledee and brought his foot up between his legs, then taking a little half step forward kneed him in the face as he toppled over in pain. This all occurred in the space of roughly seven seconds.

Gríma stood there with open mouth. His henchmen having been dispatched or immobilised and himself having an enemy both before and behind him. Nine looked over his shoulder and winked at Éowyn, who first looked shocked, then blushed and smiled brilliantly. She gave Wormtongue a kick in the small of the back, sending him careening forward into Nine's fist.

"Oh dear." Remarked Nine to the groaning men on the floor. "Your master appears to have run into my fist." Said master span around completely and then half again and landed in a heap in front of Éowyn.

"In his proper place before you My Lady," Nine said, bowing low.

"Thank you Lord Nine." Replied the Lady of Rohan. "This is the second time you have saved me."

Nine saw Gríma trying to get away, and out his foot down on his neck, pressing his face into the dust. "From nothing you couldn't have handled I'm sure My Lady, I've seen you practice." Nine said back to her, applying a little more pressure.

Éowyn smiled again, completely ignoring Wormtongue.

Nine noticed a convenient brazier at the foot of the steps going up to Meduseld. He excused himself and hauled Wormtongue up by his robes. Frogmarching the man over he got one hand around the nape of the man's neck and one on his shoulder and thrust his head toward the burning embers. Wormtongue writhed and squirmed at the heat, and began sweating more into his already oily hair and skin.

Nine leant down, "Listen here Worm" he growled, "Saruman wants you back in Isengard, your reports have been lacking of late he says, I'm to take over, if you done leave by morning I'm to kill you, if you don't get to Isengard within a week and new assurance are sent back, I'm to declare you a spy with certain documents and proofs I have hidden." Nine could feel the man's breathing go ragged at the heat and his own fear. He hoped the Worm wouldn't soil himself. "Then again," he breather down the man's neck, "I might just kill you now."

Then the man did soil himself, Nine stepped back in disgust. "Remove yourself from the Lady's presence." He commanded haughtily, gesturing extravagantly with a finger toward Meduseld. "And remember," he called just loud enough for Wormtongue to hear, "If you speak a word to anyone, you'll die in your sleep."

Gríma the Wormtongue took one look back at Nine's innocently smiling face and fled away up the steps, brushing past his now recovered guards.

The guards didn't seem to know what to think as Nine brushed minute particles of dust off his clothes, but they congregated at the foot of the steps. "How is it that a man with such a name as of 'Wormtongue' can achieve an office such as King's advisor?" he asked sidelong to Éowyn, who had stepped forward to Nine's side and he smiled at her, then gave his attention to the three in front of him.

"How would you three like a new job?" he asked them cheerily.

They looked stupidly at each other.

"We're Dunlendings, the Horse Lords hate us." Said the apparently mutually elected spokesman standing in the middle.

"I am not a Horse Lord." Replied Nine plainly.

"You will pay us?" asked the middle one.

"Of course." Replied Nine. "I'll leave you to think about it shall I?" he said patronisingly, "Come see me about arrangements later on if you accept."

The three looked at each other, then coming to a consensus; they nodded simultaneously and ambled off together. Nine smiled, this day was turning out even more profitably than he had thought it would this morning. He now had himself three band new minions.

"That was...Impressive." said the soft voice of Éowyn behind him.

Nine turned. "Thank you Lady Éowyn," he said, and bowed theatrically.

Éowyn laughed again. "It would appear you are more deserving of your name than I thought." She said, "Your reach is as long as your ears."

That confused Nine, and he reach up and checked that he had not suddenly turned into an elf. He had not. His ears were the same, on the sides of his head, and rather small.

"You have a new name among the Rohirrim Lord Nine," continued Éowyn, smiling at his confusion. "Did you now know? My brother started it I think, and named you 'Daeghir', for your skill with a bow, and the surety of your enemy's deaths."

"What does it mean?" asked Nine, as a spy he had usually tried to avoid notoriety, it did not go well with secrecy.

"In Rohirric it is 'He of the Long Arm'" Éowyn told him. "I think it rather suits you."

Nine thought for a moment. "In that case, I am honoured to bear a name of your own fair tongue Lady."

Éowyn blushed again, the colour looking most out of place in the heavy mail and armour she was wearing.

"Shall we go back indoors Lady Éowyn? He asked, indicating the hall. "It is growing cold out." She nodded again and took Nine's proffered arm and they walked back inside. The last thing he noticed as he walked back in was the flashes of lightening from the west, somewhere in the vicinity of Fangorn Forest.