Chapter 21: Night over Isengard

Boromir kicked a shrieking Orc off the bridge, picking up his weapon before the next Orc could rush in. The two blades in his hands were still crude Orc weapons but fighting became easier when he had two blades in hand. The narrow bridge had forced the Orcs to storm in small groups so far and for some reason Mauhúr held back on his archers. Boromir could only guess that the Uruk-hai had orders to catch them alive. He heard a sharp crack and saw from the corner of his eye that Kíli threw a strangled Orc into the deeps, having grabbed the Orc's heavy axe. "Time to get out of this, don't you think?" The darf's deep voice was strong, fed by the sheer energy of the fight.

"How?" Boromir could not see a way to rush one of the bridge ends, they'd become embroiled into fighting a dozen Uruk-hai at once and still having some at their backs.

"Be ready to jump soon," Kíli advanced, pushing an Orc back and brought the axe down on the ropes holding the bridge in place, he moved backwards, exchanging places with Boromir and did the same on the other side.

The wood creaked loudly and only moments later the bridge bend to the side, as the support beam below them gave in. "Jump!" Boromir felt Kíli's hard grip at his arm as they let the bending bridge carry them down before they pushed off and landed on another catwalk below. They ran towards the left side, Kíli cutting the ropes of that catwalk the moment they were off. Behind them rose the angered shrieks of the Orcs.

After the first moment of near panic Boromir followed Kíli's lead – he had done something like that before, he remembered as much, and he let the memory guide him as they began their race against the Orcs. It was hard, he had to push past his own good sense for survival and allow this crazy style of fight to take over. Kíli displayed the absolute sense for underground surroundings his kind was blessed with here, along with the keen eye for structure; he seemed always to know which rope to cut or what structure to collapse to achieve which result.

At first Boromir had problems to keep up, to react as swiftly when it came to jumping or follow on an already swinging structure. Did dwarves ever lose their balance? Yet, the further they came the more he became at ease with it again. Not only his mind remembered a similar chaotic flight through a Goblin Town but his body began to accept the reflexes his mind tried to enforce and after a while he had found his footing again, acting in coordination with Kíli as they ran.

Their flight led them across parts of the barracks, again they passed the breeding pits and another barrack until they reached ladders leading up. Climbing up swiftly, they had to duck when an Orc sailed past them into the deeps. Above Boromir heard weapon's noise, the loud clanging of blades against armor and shrieks. Someone else fought the Orcs or they were fighting amongst themselves again. He hastened to made it up towards a broader wooden platform suspended between several bridges above them.

When he climbed up a man whirled around towards him, sword in hand. Boromir found himself with Anduril's tip aimed for his throat. Recognizing him Aragorn lowered the blade. "Boromir!" There was relief in his voice, when he turned to his companions. "Eadwine, we need to secure that bridge, they will have hunters after them."

"Easily done," Boromir turned to the bridge Aragorn had pointed to, it was the logical route the Orcs could use to cut them off and used his blades on the ropes, cutting the bridge end loose, it bend deep with a loud creak. Kíli had followed him up to the platform, kicking the ladder away.

Aragorn's glance fell on both of them. "When we found the cells empty, I had hoped you had managed to escape – I had hardly expected you to vandalize the pit."

Boromir cast a short glance over the men with Aragorn, they were doubtlessly warrior from Rohan, though they seemed to follow his lead. "What are you doing here? Did…" he took a slow breath, realizing he had to be careful with his words. "The mission?"

"The mission is well, and we are here to rescue you, or did you think we'd leave you to the Orcs? Elrohir is with another group over by the waterworks – we have to meet up with him. Hopefully Éomer will have found his prisoner as well." Boromir was surprised to hear those words, when they had stayed behind to distract the Orcs rescue had not been in the plan.

"Boromir – do you see the torches over there?" Kíli's words interrupted his speculations. There was a wordless We will find out later in his voice, something only Boromir could read in his tone.

He followed the gesture with his eyes, the Orcs rarely had used torches in the deeper levels, they saw well enough in the darkness, but here on the upper levels there were torches and even some braziers placed along the platforms. He understood at once what Kíli was thinking. "Every Goblin Town needs a scorching now and then," he grabbed two long torches, they would need to reach Elrohir first to make sure none of their friends would be trapped in the fire. His words elicited a true smile from Kíli, maybe the first Boromir had seen from him since the day Fíli died.

TRB

The bedrock levels of Isengard were dark and dank, a cold seemingly seeped from the walls, draining any warmth from the otherwise stuffy air of Isengard's pit. Anvari had to try hard to hide his tension the closer they came to the foot of the Tower – there was a strength, a sheer power that radiated off the stone, it sung to him, tugging at the senses he had learned to keep under control from childhood on. Something, or someone strong and powerful, with a presence stronger than almost all he had ever seen, resided inside this Tower and he was not veiling his strength at the moment.

"Can you truly find a door in this stone?" Éomer asked softly, the Rohirrim leader was sneaking through the pit beside Anvari, having made swift work of the few Orcs they had encountered. For some reason there was chaos in the pit. "There seems nothing but one stone root from which this Tower was grown."

Anvari smiled, that sounded almost poetic and the idea of growing a tower out of stone was certainly an appealing one. "It is stone, Éomer, a root of the deep stone surprisingly close to the surface. There are several doors in these deeps – but one will lead us to a stair linking with the higher levels of the Tower." He could see Éomer frown and eye him sharply, like many Rohirrim Éomer distrusted anything that he believed to be 'wizardry', if he knew what Anvari already sensed from the Tower he would put him into one pot with Saruman without thinking. "I am a dwarf, Éomer," Anvari said softly. "I am a stone creature – in the deep stone I never lose my way."

Éomer nodded at that, but froze a moment later. "Duck down," he hissed, crouching behind what cover some heavy wooden beams, holding the upper structures, could provide.

Anvari had retreated to the darkness near the wall, watching as an entire fist of Orcs raced past them and towards the ladders leading up. What their destination was, they could not even begin to guess, far too many fighting sounds echoed through the pits – be it from their friends or from the Orcs fighting amongst themselves. When the last Orcs were past them and out of sight, they left their cover and sneaked on, following the circular path leading around the roots of the Tower.

Not much further Anvari stopped. "Here it is," he said, pointing to the wall they stood before. It was an Orc door, disguised to look like rock and while they certainly had some skill in hiding their traps and trapdoors, it was painfully obvious. The mechanism was controlled by a steel lever in the ground. When Anvari pulled it, the stone door opened for them, revealing a long dark staircase. Cool air emerged from the entrance and the suddenly strengthening aura made Anvari's neck hair stand on end. Something was happening inside the Tower.

Éomer waved Ingvar close. "You have our back, no heroics, Ingvar – once you spot a danger you shout." He said to their silent companion. They were only three, because it would be easier to hide a small group inside the Tower than a large one.

They slipped inside the Tower and Anvari closed the door again, a similar lever was on the inside, it was made for Orcs, so there was no finesse to their hidden doors. Now all they had to do was to find the cells.

TRB

Shakurán felt the presence in the Tower push against him like a dark wind, it was not the natural darkness of a deep night in his homeland, nor the majestic shadow of Minas Morgul – it was a colder, stifling darkness but it still alerted his senses almost immediately. The effect he felt was not entirely foreign to him – if a Nazgûl chose to shed his disguise and unveil his full power the effect could be reminiscent of this, only here it was stronger. Could it be that Saruman was doing something – something that took extreme focus from him? Or did he prepare himself for a confrontation already and could not hide his true extend of power at the same time? It was a thought the Easterling did not like. He had to find Gríma – the Rohirrim might know more and might know a way to end this. More than once powerful man had fallen from the wrong poison slipped into this wine and Saruman certainly was someone who could do with a little forktongue-root in his tea.

Navigating the Tower was a strange experience, of the seven Tower the Sea-Kings had built upon their arrival in Middle-Earth Orthanc was certainly the most mysterious. Like the other Towers Orthanc had been built to house one of the Palantrî and as a seat of power over the surrounding regions, but while other towers, like the towers of Minas Arnor, Annúminas, Elostirion or Minas Morgul… Minas Ithil, could be attributed to having been built according to the wishes and designs of Elendil or one of his sons, who had been planning Orthanc remained unknown. No historical book recorded the name of architect, nor of the first Lord to rule there.

The longer Shakurán walked Orthanc's halls the more he wondered who had built this Tower. During one of the times when his troops had held three quarters of Osgiliath Shakurán had gone to the ruined Dome of the Stars, like many other Easterlings he had been wondering if the legend of the lost Osgiliath stone could be true at all, and he had come away impressed by the beautiful building and with serious doubts that the stone could have fallen into the river. He had also seen the Tower of Minas Ithil, which was now the ruling seat of the Witch King. The tower shared many traits with the Dome of the Stars and he was sure that the Tower of Minas Arnor would be similar. But Orthanc was nothing like them – it lacked the clear lines, the bright and airy architecture that the Faithful had employed in all their buildings and that most certainly had been inspired by the elven architecture of the time.

Not to say the Tower was not of Numenóran design, the carvings in the walls, the writings in the black stone – the shape of the halls and sweeping stairs were clear traits of their style but… Suddenly Shakurán stopped in his tracks, his eyes seeing the Tower more clearly and he knew what the Tower reminded him of – the black tower of Orthanc shared more than just a few traits with the Black Temple on Numenór itself. Carefully he touched the glistening black walls – had the builder of this Tower been one of the dark Numenórans? Hiding amongst the faithful when he recognized his King's folly and surviving in the way all followers of the Shadow had since the dawn of time? Had he secretly built this Tower according to a knowledge none of the Faithful had ever been able to decipher?

Shakurán wished he had the time to explore the Tower more fully, to see if there were traces that could confirm his theory. Or maybe at least to try and see if the carvings in the walls were not carvings at all but secret writings only to be deciphered by those initiated. He truly wished he could spend at least a few days on this secret – what old stories might this place hold? What surviving secrets of Numenor? No, he told himself. Poking around in Numenor's ancient darkness would only be enjoyable with at least one Numenoran present to debate anything he found.

"You should not sneak through these halls in such a night," a cool voice came from his back. "the Tower is dangerous in such hours."

Shakurán had already recognized Gríma's voice. "You do not seem to fear the darkness," he said turning around to the other man, who carried a simple steel candlestick with one burning candle spending sparse light into the nightly hall.

"I have been walking these halls for more than twenty years," Gríma gestured him to follow, "and I have nothing left to fear. Though I am surprised that you came here at such an hour."

Shakurán shrugged, he would certainly not tell Gríma of Shagrat and his report. "I promised you to free your Rohirric boy Prince, and as you had him moved from the forges back to the Tower, I had to come back here." They walked into a small library, a room full of shelves and books, through the mist shrouded windows fell the vague light of the reborn moon.

"Strange that you would keep your word," Gríma mused, placing the candlestick on the windowsill. "Usually your kind is keen to use a tool and discard it quickly. Why? I cannot be of further use to you – as Saruman has revealed his changed allegiances to me now."

So Saruman had finally caught up on not leaving his servant on the dark, it was not surprising but it came at an inconvenient time. "You serve him and you hate him," Shakurán observed, stepping closer to meet Gríma's eyes. "for whatever reasons you entered his service, it was certainly not because you wished to be one of his creatures."

Gríma pushed away from him and walked to the window, his eyes on the window. "You wouldn't understand, Easterling, my servitude is the price I paid… for saving a friend. And I knew what I it would mean."

There was a stronger person underneath the cloak of the servant, the creature, than most people would ever see, Shakurán noticed, and it made Gríma all the more dangerous. "You are serving two masters, Gríma," he said, speaking without any judgement, after navigating the rule and strife of the Nazgûl Lords he understood how easily any man could end up in such a position. "and in the end we always must choose where we stand. Are you strong enough to break free of him?"

Gríma laughed, it was a rough, bitter sound. "I swore a blood oath, Easterling, I am bound to him in ways you might not even begin to understand."

Why was it that people believing themselves doomed always thought their situation was unique? He walked to the window too, leaning against the stone frame. "The oaths taken to the Great Lord of the Dark are of Blood, Soul and Flesh," he said, speaking like he would to someone he was training. "they are taken in the Temple of Night, engraven on your bones, etched into your soul and sealed with your flesh – binding your entire being into the service of the Night. I could not knowingly betray my oaths without dying, or suffering a penalty of pain few men survive for long." He had skittered on the edge of the oaths a number of times and knew how it felt.

"So you are as bound as I am," Gríma eyed him thoughtfully. "and either proud of it or chafing under it as I do." There was an echo of understanding in his voice.

"In a way," Shakurán said, "yet sometimes throughout the history of my people it became necessary to cut someone loose, to revoke his oaths and send him away. The first was Ulfang the Black – he and his sons were faithful servants of the Great Lord of Shadows and…"

"… and they pretended to serve the elven King Caranthir until finally betraying him," Gríma finished the line. "I know the ballads about them."

"And you never wondered how it was achieved?" Shakurán asked. "The Noldor King would have sensed someone with the Shadow's Oaths upon him within a mile's distance. Thus he and his sons was given two blades each – the blades of Ulfang as they are known, to allow their original oaths to be lifted off them, though in their hearts they kept the loyalty to the Great Lord, they were free to swear whatever allegiance the elves asked of them – and they used the Blades of Ulfang to break free of that oath prior the Nirnaeth Arnoediad to accomplish their true goal."

Shakurán did not mention the other Easterling leader Bór and his sons, who had used the blades he had been given to break free of Shadow and had remained faithful to the elven King he had sworn to. It was a chapter of Easterling history that was little discussed even inside the Empire, and luckily the light side had failed to make a true point of it either. He leaned back and drew the blade from his belt. "Two of these blades are kept inside the Empire – they were used to cut loose the twelve thousand after the loss of Dagorlad, they were used to revoke the Oaths of Jancarai when he was sent South to destroy the Southern Harad Kingdom and they are still kept by the Empire for days to come. The other blades were lost, falling into elven hands, some ending up in Numenorán possession, the Tower of Minas Tirith should still hold one, only they have no idea what they are having. And… Orthanc too had one."

Gríma's eyes widened when he saw the blade, the bloodstone hilt softly shimmering in the light of the candle. "You cannot mean this – an oath is an oath, and it will be broken when not kept, no matter what strange magics you work betwixt it." He said firmly.

Inwardly Shakurán wondered if the strict belief in keeping one's word was a trait deeply bred into all Rohirrim, even halfbloods like Gríma. "It is a broken oath – and you will have to live with that for the rest of your life," he agreed, "but it will give back the ability to act to you, you would be able to do what the blood oath prevents you from doing. You will still be an Oathbreaker, but you will be able to do what you wish to do – if you are strong enough to bear such a fate."

"It would truly lift the effects of the blood oath?" Gríma asked hesitantly. "I would be able to act against Saruman… because the Oath would truly be broken?"

The Oath would be lifted, but Shakurán did not waste time to explain that to Gríma. "It lifted the effects the oaths to a much greater Lord have, Gríma, it can lift that blood oath of yours as well. If you… if your Prince is worth such a sacrifice."

Angrily Gríma took the blade from his hand, his face set determinedly. "What do I do?" he asked.

"You cut with the blade through both of your palms, until the entire blade and the runes on it are covered by your blood," Shakurán gave him the instructions, they had been described most clearly in the stories of the lost twelve thousand. "then you take the hilt between your bleeding hands and raise it above your head. The words are simple. Under the Night that guards me and before the earth that carries me, I Foreswear all Oaths that bind me."

He watched as Gríma followed the instructions without wincing, and without hesitation. When he spoke the words the blade glowed in sheer red flame, sending a spark of pain through the man, he almost collapsed. So there had been a truly binding component to that oath, Shakuran mused, otherwise such a reaction would not happen.

Gríma panted, struggling back to his feet, handing back the bloodied blade. He was pale, but his face was composed, though the reality of being an Oathbreaker only began to sink in. Shakurán took the blade back and cleaned it swiftly. He would keep it, who knew when it might be needed? "What will you do now?" he asked Gríma.

"I will do what I should have done from the beginning of all this," the other man replied. "there is a secret exit on the far end of this library – it should allow you to get away before Saruman realizes what is happening."

While he still had answers to find, Shakurán was satisfied with the mission so far – he had freed Boromir to oppose Saruman and he had turned one of Saurman's close servants against him – it might not be enough to destroy the wizard but it would slow him down.

TRB

When the dark figure appeared first before them in the corridor, Anvari heard a low grumble from Éomer. "Gríma… I knew he was a traitor…" the Rohirrim warrior noiselessly drew his sword, ready to advance on the back of the dark man.

Anvari reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "No," he whispered, "he can maybe lead us where we need to go." It was only a hunch, but after trying to navigate this maze of a Tower for two hours he was ready to try something crazy.

Éomer's eyes narrowed, then the warrior nodded grimly, accepting the suggestion. Anvari let go and bit back a relieved exhale. Éomer was used to be a leader, to make decisions and he certainly was not used to someone of the men telling him otherwise. Anvari had never more clearly realized how much he too had been raised to speak up, to not simply follow but to think ahead. And while he often held back and let Kíli take the lead, he could not deny the trait that was there.

They followed Gríma as he hastened along several cold and dark halls of the Tower, he had no eyes for anything and the silence of the Tower swallowed their steps behind him. He went down a flight of stairs and towards a hall looking much like all the halls they had passed before. He stopped before one of the many stone doors in the wall, opening it with the key he carried. Inside they heard the clinking of a chain that was loosened.

Anvari followed Éomer as he advanced and saw Gríma letting another Rohirrim out of the cell – he was maybe four or five years younger than Éomer and looked like had a hard day in the forge behind him. Éomer raised his sword and this time pushed Gríma down to the ground. "This is enough, worm," he lowered the blade to Gríma's throat before looking to the other man. "Theodred, are you alright?"

"I am alive, thanks to the help of…" Theodred's voice trailed off when his gaze fell on Anvari. "you must be here for him – he called himself Kíli."

"The others will find him," Éomer said confidently, though he was glad to hear that Anvari's father was still alive. "let us dispose of this snake and get out of here."

"No," Theodred shook his head. "let Gríma go, Éomer. He came to free me too."

Éomer's eyes narrowed. "After betraying you in the first place, Theodred. He was the one who handed you over to Saruman's servants, he is a traitor."

"Even if it were so, Éomer, he came to free me – to make up for his crimes." Theodred's voice was firm. "And I will not kill a man without hearing him first, or judging him properly. You let him go now!"

With a sharp exhale Éomer stepped back from Gríma sheathing his sword. "Still, we should not take him with us, who knows his mind and what treacheries he is planning next?"

A loud noise, like a cracking sound rang through the silence of the Tower, and the first tickle of warmth seeped back into the air. Gríma pulled himself up to his feet. "You have not much time to flee; the Tower… the night is almost over. There is an exit from the Tower in the hall above."

Éomer's mien made clear that he did not trust one word Gríma said, but Theodred silence him with the raising of his hand. "I do not know why you are doing this, Gríma, but you have my thanks – if you ever wish to return to our people, I will hear you out."

Gríma's smile was sad, and more than a little grim. "Maybe that day will come, Prince Theodred," he said his voice calmer and without the silky tones they all knew too well of him. "if you return home, be warned – I may have been the most obvious of Saruman's servants in your father's household but I am not the only one. There are at least two more, and I do not know what their instructions are."

"Who are they?" Theodred asked, his eyes focused on Gríma.

"I once saw a man judged, sentenced and hanged because the wrong person uttered his name in the wrong context," Gríma said coolly. "and I will not do the same to any other man – I do not know what their price was nor what guilt they carry towards your House, Prince Theodred. So I must keep my silence."

A tension rose through the tower, like the presence that filled its halls was suddenly approaching. Anvari could feel it, like a pulse quickening further and further. "We need to run, he is coming," he snapped, turning in the direction Gríma had pointed them in. He saw that Theodred had turned as well, and Éomer followed his lead. They ran through the halls that lost their nightly chill in favor of an almost unnatural warmth, up the stairwell they headed and into a hall that truly had a large gate leading out of the tower.

"Do you truly wish to leave the tower in such company, Prince Theodred?" A smooth voice cut through the hall as a figure appeared at the other end of the hall. It was Saruman – but not the cold, calculating wizard they knew of – the bright figure appearing at the far end of the hall was majestic, a man of power watching them with patient amusement.

"I would leave in any company, as long as I can leave," Theodred replied, his voice a rough, uncouth echo of the smooth words from before. He further approached the door, step by step.

Saruman laughed, a musical, benignly amused laughter. "You have much to learn, young Prince. No one leaves this Tower without my consent – for I am the Tower and the Tower is I."

Anvari's every sense tingled from the sheer power the wizard exuded, not even in Rú had he sensed such a well of power and the elven warrior had certainly been one of the most powerful beings he had ever encountered. Still – power did not suffer distraction, or so Canó had drilled into him from childhood on. "Éomer… go – I'll distract him," he whispered to the Rohirrim warrior standing beside him. He saw the blink of the eyes, confirming his words had been heard and advanced at Saruman.

The wizard stood unmoving as Anvari stepped forward, watching him with detached interest. "I assume you are one of Prince Fíli's manifold offspring…" he spoke like a man classifying an insignificant insect to whatever species it might belong. "one of the many who's blood will be spilled uselessly."

Anvari let the words wash over himself like the waves of the far off ocean as he focused inside, when he had been young he had learned to maintain a strong wall inside his own mind, shielding his flame, to keep his talents suppressed most of the time. Now he reached behind it, opening his mind to the flame, becoming the flame. His senses began to more than tingle, suddenly he felt the charged up air, the crackling of power in every breath and cold humidity of the night air clinging to the windows. He reached out to the cold humid breeze and drew it towards himself, more to shield himself than to attack, as he drew his blade. "Let's see who is bleeding today," he knew he could win this fight, but if Saruman was distracted only for a little the others could get away.

Saruman only swiped his hand through the air and Anvari felt the protective shell of air crumble as he was tossed across the floor and smashed against the wall. "You do not truly think that a little tainted, twisted dwarf can resist me?" Saruman asked coldly. He raised his staff, the sharp tip approaching Anvari's throat.

Anvari focused, trying to raise the sword but he was unable to move, nothing he tried worked, like he was cut off from himself. He saw the sharp spike of the staff and new it would impale him. He bared his throat, daring Saruman to do his worst, from the corner of his eye he saw the others had reached the door. Only a little further.

"You are nothing but a twisted little creature – so far beneath me that you cannot resist my least will." Saruman said, raising the staff to strike, but before the strike could fall the ground of the hall shook as the door burst open in a bright ray of light.

"But I can resist you, old friend." A gravelly voice spoke into the silence of the hall.

Anvari raised his hand, able to move again, to shield his eyes against the brightness – the figure standing inside the doorway was pale and oh so bright – a radiance of true light standing in the doorway.

Author's note

Okay… who ordered so much nasty heat?! It's so hot and stuff, it gets hard to think. :P

Ulfang and Bór can be found in the Silmarrillion, or be looked up at Tolkiengateway – their stories are rather short, and things around it are my interpretation. (As always).