The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

OIOIOIOI

Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews. If you leave a signed review, I'll do my best to get back to you. If not, you have my thanks anyway.

So, here it is…Chapter 43 – on my birthday as well. Aren't you lucky readers…

Enjoy…

OIOIOIOIOIOI

Chapter 43 – The White Wizard

"Oh for the love of peace!" Legolas muttered darkly under his breath as he stalked angrily away from his unrepentant ward.

"What?" Aragorn called innocently after him, arms spread out in a gesture of both surrender and confusion over his actions; although he wisely decided against going as far as chasing after his irritated guardian.

Legolas made no move to answer as he made his way through the camp so, defeated, Aragorn let his arms drop to his sides and slouched over to where Kinnale and the Rangers had set up their things to rest for the night. Before joining them around the newly lit fire, Aragorn cast a last expressive glance back to the retreating Elf then sat himself down with a deep sigh of resignation.

"What did you say this time?" Janor drawled in amusement.

"Nothing." All the Men around the fire immediately threw disbelieving looks his way, their lips quirking into smiles of knowing. At their reactions, Aragorn threw his hands up in the air. "Honestly, I didn't say anything wrong."

"I can't believe that," Ciaran grinned over at him.

"What?"

"No…Sorry. Nothing."

Casting another glance in the direction that Legolas had taken, even though the Elf was by now long out of his range of sight, Aragorn grumbled, "You know what Legolas is like lately. I can't seem to do anything right by him."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, lad. He'll be back soon. Apologise and move on," Kinnale advised dismissively, as he always did whenever Aragorn fell into a sulk over a minor argument with his guardian, which was happening more and more frequently now that the Elf was the one injured.

"Why is that always your advice when it comes to Legolas?" Aragorn demanded bluntly of his friend.

Kinnale shrugged. "Because it always works."

"Right, and in the meantime he's out there all on his own."

"On his own? There are a couple of hundred people spread all about the place. He is perfectly safe."

"You don't know that."

"Stop worrying," Kinnale told him, patting the boy on the back.

"I can't stop worrying, Kinnale. Legolas is not well."

"Maybe not but he is well enough right now to be able to walk at least a little way without supervision. As he has just proven."

"How would you know? Are you a healer?" Aragorn snapped irritably towards the Ranger.

With great patience, born from years of dealing with his own temperamental son, Kinnale answered, "No. But common sense dictates that Legolas would not push himself beyond his limits."

"Yes, well obviously you don't know Legolas all that well, do you?" the young man grumbled, frowning grumpily into the flames.

"Hey! I appreciate that you are concerned for your guardian and given all that has occurred that is understandable, admirable even, but it is no one's fault here so you should stop losing your temper with all of us!"

His anger flaring at the harsh telling off he had just received from his senior in front of the other Rangers, Aragorn yelled out the thing that had been niggling at the front of his mind for weeks now, unwilling to leave his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to banish it, "No. It is your fault!" All Men within hearing distance turned to stare at him at the loud, disrespectful exclamation towards the leader of the Rangers. Kinnale's eyes widened in shock but Aragorn continued on before the commander could intercede for the boy's own good. "And my fault too. If we hadn't all ostracised him, made him feel so cruelly unwelcome amongst us then we might have been able to help him before things got so bad and he ended up languishing in agony all on his own."

"Aragorn…"

"Don't you see that this is all my fault?" Aragorn yelled, interrupting the man's placating words that he suspected were coming.

"Your fault?"

"Not once has he ever abandoned me, in spite of all the danger I pose to him, no matter how many stupid, thoughtless words I speak to him. And the one time he does something I don't like, I push him away. And now look where we are. He's…"

Kinnale got to his feet and Aragorn realised that he too had at some point risen from his spot on the ground. The Ranger took Aragorn's arm as if worried that the younger man might attempt to flee before he had a chance to say his own piece in response.

"Aragorn, listen to me now. Legolas is going to be fine. Already he is recovering well. And, given some time, I have no doubt that your guardian will be once more back to his usual dour self." The young man opened his mouth to protest but, uncertain that another insult might well be resting on the tip of his tongue, Kinnale stopped him before so much as a syllable escaped him. "Now, Aragorn, I know that you are tired and I am going to ignore all that was just said and…"

Ripping his arm suddenly in anger from Kinnale's grasp, Aragorn glowered at the man. "You," the boy growled, pointing his finger accusingly at an astonished Kinnale, "have no right to speak to me in that way. I am your king."

"Indeed?"

"Yes."

Kinnale nodded, his face thunderous as he stared unflinchingly down at the younger man.

"Well then, Your Majesty," Kinnale began through gritted teeth, "in that case, might I respectfully request that you cease this behaviour before you lose all the friends you now have."

Once again, Aragorn went to speak but this time Kinnale turned his back on him, unwilling to let this go any further. It did not please the young king in the least and he slammed his hand down on the commander's shoulder to draw him back. It was not a sensible move.

Over the months they had been travelling together, Aragorn had forgotten just how huge in stature the Ranger was. Towering above him, face a mask of sheer anger, eyes flashing dangerously, Kinnale grabbed the young man's wrist in such a tight hold that Aragorn let out a yelp of surprise and pain and instinctively tried to wrench himself free. But it was no use. Kinnale was much too strong.

"Let me go," Aragorn wailed, contorting his body at an odd angle in a fruitless attempt to wrench his arm free, when Kinnale did not loosen his grip at all.

"Kinnale," Janor warned, getting up from his place by the fire, concerned by his commander's behaviour, because technically Aragorn was correct – he was their king.

"All I would ask for, my young king, is a little humility and an apology from you. Not too much to want I don't think."

"I'm sorry," Aragorn cried as a stabbing pain started to shoot up his arm and he ceased his movement for fear of making it worse.

"Was that apology sincere?"

"Yes." Kinnale's hand tightened on Aragorn's wrist and the boy mewled in pain, bending his knees so that he was almost knelt on the ground. "Yes, it was! I promise. Please let me go. Please."

For a moment longer Kinnale maintained his grip, searching Aragorn's eyes for signs of deceit. "Very well." Finally, he released the young man and Aragorn fell to the ground in relief. "Get some sleep now."

Rather than protesting, Aragorn regained his feet then slinked away, cradling his hurting hand against his chest.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" Janor demanded once the commander had returned to his place next to the fire.

"You just injured your future monarch," one of the twins, Veron, told him although his voice was surprisingly light-hearted. Apparently, the warrior had found the whole exchange rather amusing as he smirked approvingly at Kinnale from across the campfire.

"Thank you," the commander ground out sarcastically.

Shaking his head and still smiling, Veron added, "Legolas is not going to be happy with you."

Kinnale looked up at the big man in surprise then groaned. He had not given any thought to Aragorn's guardian.

OIOI

Kinnale was startled awake by strong hands literally dragging him up by the front of his shirt. Dazed from being woken so abruptly, the Ranger had little time to react to what was happening to him. He saw a flash of dull gold and then he was on his back on the ground, this time with pain blooming across his face and the taste of sharp copper in his mouth. Choking on a cough, Kinnale properly opened his eyes at last to find Legolas pinning him to the ground. One strong hand was holding him down, a remarkable show of strength from the still injured Elf. Shaking his head to clear away the dizziness brought on by the blow, Kinnale took Legolas' wrist in his grip, applying just as much pressure as he'd used earlier that evening on Aragorn. Legolas, however, did not so much as flinch at the contact.

"Legolas," Kinnale choked through a mouthful of blood.

Blue eyes, dark in the minimal illumination provided by the fire, flashed in anger. He did not let the man up even though fear was evident on that rugged face.

Growling in a low voice so as not to alert any other as to what he was saying, Legolas leaned close to Kinnale and warned, "If you ever lay a hand on my ward again, I'll kill you." There was no lie, no exaggeration in Legolas' voice as he spoke these words, low and threatening. Only truth. "Do you understand me, Ranger?"

Kinnale nodded, eyes wide as he stared up at the Elf. "Yes."

For a long, tense moment, Legolas stared unflinchingly into the eyes of the Human commander until Kinnale began to squirm uncomfortably under his attentions. Finally, Legolas nodded curtly, confident that he had gotten his message across effectively enough. He loosened his hold on the Ranger but looked down pointedly at Kinnale's hand, which was still wrapped instinctively around the Elf's thin wrist. Upon seeing his stern glare, Kinnale hastily released the Elf's arm and Legolas finally let him up, although offered the man no help to regain his feet.

As Legolas left him, the Rangers and Rohirrim who had been awoken by the commotion, stood aside to let the Elf pass. None stepped forward to help Kinnale up, all were too stunned to make any move at all. Kinnale, meanwhile, struggled to regain his feet, wiping blood from his lip, pride wounded more than he was hurt physically.

Through the stunned silence, a confident voice jested, "I told you he would be annoyed."

Glaring in the direction of the tall man and his twin, Kinnale ground out, "Thank you, Veron."

Legolas was fuming. He knew he had been wrong to threaten the Ranger as he had, to be so rough with one of the few men he called 'friend'. He'd always been fond of Kinnale ever since they had first met on Weathertop. He had thought him level-headed and sensible and caring right from the beginning. But when he had returned from his cooling off walk around the camp and found his ward miserably cradling his bruised arm on the outskirts of the Ranger's camp and Aragorn had told him in detail of what had occurred between him and the commander, he'd immediately lost his temper. Someone he trusted had hurt his ward and that he could not abide.

The walk back to where Aragorn was waiting for him, still apart from the other Men, cooled Legolas' anger somewhat and he felt regret beginning to leech through him. Feeling worn out from the additional exertion of his attack, he was immensely grateful when he reached their small fire.

Aragorn looked up expectantly when his mentor came into view. No marks visibly marred Legolas and he started to think that perhaps the Elf had settled for merely vocalising his annoyance rather than carrying out his impulsive threat to make the Ranger sorely regret so severely disciplining his ward.

"Legolas?" the boy asked when Legolas sat down without so much as a word. Smiling awkwardly, Aragorn asked partially in jest, "Does Kinnale still draw breath or did you really make good on your threat?"

Cold blue eyes glared at the young man from across the fire and despite the heat provided by the flames, Aragorn shuddered.

"It was…a joke," Aragorn justified lamely.

Still Legolas glared, unflinching. He knew fully well that Aragorn found that look almost impossible to endure. And as always, the boy bowed his head in shame.

A small bow of shame was not satisfactory in this case, however. Legolas wanted Aragorn to feel genuine remorse. Of course, when Legolas had asked what had precipitated Kinnale's reaction, Aragorn had been truthful with his severe guardian and told Legolas of his anger-fuelled words to the Ranger. At the time, the Elf prince had been so infuriated with Kinnale that he hadn't taken the time to punish his ward for his actions and words.

"So, that the most respectful way you know how to treat the Commander of the Rangers, is it?"

"I…No, of course not."

"Then do you want to explain yourself?"

Aragorn cast his eyes back down to the ground. "I…don't know," he mumbled under his breath, cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment.

"Excuse me?" Legolas snapped. "Speak up," he barked in anger.

"I said I don't know."

"And yet it seems you had plenty to say earlier this evening."

"I just…lost my temper."

Legolas sighed, rubbing at his eyes wearily. Whenever he came across a situation like this with his unpredictable young charge, Legolas tried to think upon what his father, King Thranduil, would say to him when he disappointed his often disapproving father. Unfortunately, the memories hurt too much to focus on; even those awkward moments between stern father and always eager to please son in Legolas' mind now felt immensely precious. Besides, he didn't think he could be quite as stern with Aragorn as Thranduil had been with him during his youth. It wasn't in his nature – as Thranduil had often cautioned him.

Nevertheless, years of pain and desperation had roughened his outlook somewhat and he wasn't going to gloss over the truth to spare his ward.

"And you think you behaved appropriately for a soon-to-be king?" the Elf demanded to know.

"Of course not."

"Yet you spoke to Kinnale with no respect. You used your title to threaten and intimidate. That is not kingly behaviour, Aragorn."

"I know that."

"Really? Then do you care to explain yourself?"

Getting annoyed again, Aragorn snapped, "I've already told you that I can't."

Legolas sighed, turning his eyes away from his ward and instead looking into the crackling flames of their small fire. He was really too tired for this. After a full day of travelling, he was thoroughly exhausted and the confrontation with the strong Kinnale, no matter how brief it had been, had inflamed the pain in his side, bringing it to the point where it was starting to get unbearable again.

After a moment, Aragorn broke the tense silence with a small voice. "I'm sorry, Legolas."

"It is not me you ought to be apologising to."

"Kinnale?" At Legolas' sharp nod of confirmation, Aragorn groaned. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"You don't think that might be a show of weakness on my part?"

"No. It is a mark of respect for your elder; something you would do well to learn."

"And what about you?" Aragorn asked, a hint of amusement now creeping into his tone.

"What about me?"

"You roughed up Kinnale. Don't you think you should apologise as well?"

"I did not rough up Kinnale," Legolas corrected him quickly.

"Oh? Then what did you do?"

Legolas considered his answer for a moment and then in a level, cautious voice, said, "I…very politely reminded him that the punishment of my ward is mine alone to dish out."

"Politely?"

Sighing heavily, realising that Aragorn was never going to believe his claims of a reasonable exchange with the Ranger, Legolas snapped, "Fine, I too will speak with Kinnale in the morning." The boy smiled at him across the fire then nodded in almost mock seriousness. "For tonight though…I am going to sleep."

The Elf lowered his weary body to the ground, carefully disguising a moan of pain behind a feigned cough.

"Goodnight," Aragorn smiled to his guardian, cheery even though Legolas had not fooled him one bit. "I really am sorry, Legolas. I let my anger cloud my judgement. I will apologise to Kinnale tomorrow as well."

Without opening his eyes, Legolas mumbled, "Too right you will."

"Sleep well." For a while after his guardian had fallen asleep, Aragorn sat up, idly prodding at the fire with a stick as he pondered his earlier actions. They had been mainly born of concern for Legolas – not that he would ever tell the Elf that. In truth, he was envious of the Ranger's ability to be so completely nonchalant about everything. Kinnale did not worry for Legolas, did not fear the path they were now treading nor their destination. Nothing seemed to trouble the man and Aragorn wished that he could be the same way.

He worried constantly. He worried at his guardian pushing himself too far too soon after being hurt, he worried that danger might lie ahead, he worried for the innocents who travelled alongside the warriors, he worried for those still left behind in Bree.

Individually, perhaps these concerns would have been easy to bear. Combined, they were overwhelming at times. On top of all that was the nagging self-doubt that still constantly gnawed at his mind and heart. He may have easily thrown this title of king at Kinnale that evening but its meaning still weighed heavily on him. Every day he came closer to his eventual destiny. He was being dragged inexorably towards that which he feared the most of all and there was none other among his companions – not even Legolas – who could understand that.

Brooding upon the matter, however, was not going to make it go away nor was it going to bring him any peace. So, Aragorn dragged his blanket from his bag and wrapped it around himself and closed his eyes to try to sleep before the dawn brought inevitable humiliation along with it.

OIOI

The vast chamber in the heart of the Tower of Orthanc stood oddly silent. Its high, dark walls, obsidian black, shone with orange torchlight, although at the moment there was no one present to appreciate the flickering light.

Normally, the tower would be bustling with activity but at present it had fallen quiet. It was not often that silence descended so completely over the great engine of war. But it was proving to be a tense time, as Orthanc's master's favour with the allied Mordor had notably dissipated somewhat in recent weeks. The Lord of Isengard, the turn-coat Wizard Saruman had, for the past four days, been holed up in his private chambers, vowing not to emerge until he had come up with an answer for the quandary posed by the Dark Lord Sauron. For those days, he had sat in silent meditation and in his absence, the work of Isengard had all but ground to a halt.

However, the relative peace of the Black Tower was shattered on the eve of the fifth day of contemplative quiet. Nine huge black horses came upon the home of Saruman, eyes glowing faintly red in the twilight as they galloped, pounding without resistance through the invisible ringed wall of protection, entirely untouched by the dark magic of the Istar. They did not slow as they passed the White Wizard's curious contraptions of war, scattered around the pits from which had been created the Uruk-hai. The Nine had no interest in such earthly creations, cruelly inventive and advantageous to their master's cause though they may have been. This night their sights were set on one thing only and it was not wood and stone.

Bringing their fearsome, other-worldly steeds to a skidding halt on the gravel before the tall steps leading into the tower, the robed Wraiths dismounted with surprising grace given their size.

They did not pause. They ascended the steps like ghosts, gliding up to the high doors, which opened for them as if they could command the cold stone by sheer force of will.

Led by the Witchking himself, the Wraiths swept through Orthanc's grand entrance hall, knowing where they had to go already. They could sense their destination and would not be deviated from their mission.

Upon feeling their presence, a multitude of creatures were drawn out. Orcs, Uruk-hai, Goblins, lowly Human servants, all attracted to the evil emanating from the most powerful servants of the Shadow as a moth might be attracted to a flame. Unlike the insects of the night, however, the subservient creatures of the Darkness were still deeply afraid of the objects of their curiosity. Intense as it was, the Darkness inside these Wraiths scared the lesser servants and as quickly as they came, they shrank back away, back into the Shadows where they felt most at home.

For their part, the Nazgul ignored this attention. Orcs and their twisted brethren were not their concern either. They had come for something far more important.

Saruman felt the presence of the Shadow long before a startled Orc servant banged on the door to inform him of the coming of the Nazgul to Orthanc. Jumping from his seat, he strode to the door in an urgent flurry of fine white robes, dragging it open to find his Orc messenger bowed so low to the floor that its nose nearly touched the cold flagstone. Before him stood the Nine, an impressive sight to the uninitiated. Flanked by eight heavily robed Wraiths, the Witchking himself stared down at him, intimidating in his mere presence.

The Wizard took his time to look at each, seeing more than any other being in Isengard could see upon inspecting the Shadows. And the Nine allowed the scrutiny, standing still as he stared. It was a show of strength. Other, lesser beings might have quailed under the black, listless stare of the seemingly unflappable dark Wizard. But the Wraiths stood unafraid. And that fact riled Saruman greatly.

Breaking his gaze away from the Nine, Saruman smiled thinly at the, almost as if in grim welcome.

Taking a bold step forwards, giving his cowering slave a hard kick to remove him as he passed, the White Wizard of the Tower of black stone demanded in the firmest voice he could muster, "Why have you come, Cursed Ones?"

For a long moment, the creatures did not speak, as if they were trying to intimidate the Wizard simply with their silence. But then, growing tired of that small diversion, the Witchking spoke in a low hiss, "We have been sent."

Resisting the urge to sigh at the meaningless remark – they had no will of their own, of course they had been sent – Saruman asked, "Sent by whom?"

"By the one we all serve."

Understanding had already dawned on Saruman, for the Nine, he knew, would not be ordered on a whim. "And why would Sauron send you to me?" He smirked slightly and added, "Does he not think I have an adequate number of servants here at my disposal and seeks to provide me with nine more?"

Nine hooded heads were raised in unison at the insinuation that they would ever be slaves of the lesser being and Saruman could tell that they were offended – he took great pleasure in that. However, they were not here to exchange petty words with the Istar.

"We have come because the Dark Lord is displeased," the Witchking spoke in his usual flat tone.

"Displeased?" Saruman feigned shock as he began to edge past them. "With me?"

"Yes." An apparently empty hood followed the Wizard's slow progress past the Nine.

"I see. And what I have done to so displease the implacable one?" Saruman strode down the corridor, knowing the Wraiths would follow; like trained dogs, he thought in amusement.

"Rohan is unsettled," the Witchking said from directly behind the Wizard even though Saruman had not heard a single footstep on the pale flagstones.

"Yes. That is unfortunate indeed, although I am unclear as to what it has to do with me."

"The lands of Rohan are under your purview, Wizard."

Saruman nodded shortly, stepping into the main chamber of Orthanc and going to sit in his high-backed, elaborately decorated chair – a throne some might say – to gaze down at his unwelcome guests. "They are."

"And yet the fortress of the Deep has been taken."

The grey-bearded Wizard looked up sharply at this, pale blue eyes widening in shock. The Nine remained completely unruffled stood before him as he let this news sink in. "Taken? Impossible."

"And yet the Dark Lord has seen it."

"He has seen wrongly," Saruman told the Wraith coolly. Never would such an oversight occur in lands controlled by the White Wizard. "That fortress is impenetrable and the people of Rohan are a weak, subdued race scratching out a living from their desolate lands. The Deep cannot be taken by any mortal."

"It has been so, Wizard. Explain this."

Thinking quickly, a feat difficult under the almost psychic pressure applied by the Nazgul, Saruman ground out reasonably, "How can I explain what I do not know?"

"It is your not knowing that you must explain."

Standing abruptly from his throne, Saruman paced back to the window in another flurry of white robes then after taking a beat to look out onto the grey landscape paced back again. "Things have been quiet in Rohan for decades. I could not possibly have predicted…"

"The Deep has been taken," the Witchking repeated his accusation calmly. It was not interested in excuses.

"I heard you the first time," ground out the increasingly nervous Istar to cover just how terrified of these creatures he was.

Surely it could not be true. The Dark Lord must have fallen foul of some dark trickery. That was certainly a more plausible explanation than him, the all-powerful Wizard, missing such a happening in his own lands. And yet the Nine were here on his doorstep demanding an explanation for his wrong-doings. They would not leave the Black Lands and Sauron's guard without good reason.

Saruman twitched at the thought of rebellion in Rohan and for such an uprising to have gone entirely unnoticed by his lands in the closely neighbouring Isengard. He may have been in league with the Shadow, lured to Sauron's allegiance with the promise of power and wealth beyond his wildest imaginings, but the Dark Lord's mood was capricious at best and he was not hesitant in removing those allies who disappointed him, no matter how powerful they may have been in their own right.

"Hm. Helm's Deep. The ancient fortress of the Rohirrim. May I ask how it was taken?" the Wizard mused as nonchalantly as he could manage, pouring himself a glass of potent red wine with what he thought to be an admirably steady hand given his nerves.

The Witchking lowered his hooded head – a quirk of amusement. "That should be within your knowledge, Wizard."

"And yet it is not. Tell me, are the Nine so poorly informed?"

Lifting its chin at the insult, the Witchking answered testily, "Our spies are not so ineffectual. The Orcs who survived the assault say that a child was at the heart of the attack."

"Ah, yes. The supposed King," Saruman drawled, sipping at his goblet of wine in the vain hope that it might soothe him. Of course he had heard of the descendant of Isildur. All those allied to the Shadow had heard. That the most hated of the Shadow's enemies had been right under his nose the whole time and yet had not been seen or captured made Saruman want to squirm. So set on doing right by the Dark Lord had he been that he had not taken note of the goings-on in the dormant land belonging to the remaining dregs of the meddlesome Horselords. Infuriating and embarrassing in equal measure. He was beginning to understand Sauron's hatred of the Human king.

"Yes. Led by the Elf born of Mirkwood."

"Mirkwood. Cursed place." Saruman glanced to the faded map pinned to his wall, more specifically to the black mass of trees that made up the now desolate lands of Mirkwood. He sighed then and looked back to the unmoving creatures stood solemnly with infinite patience before him. "Well, I suppose that what is done is done. Surely the loss of the Deep is of no terrible significance to our Lord."

"No. And yet he is grieved."

"Why? I can create more servants in the depths of Isengard if he requires and take back the Deep for him. It is no trouble. Little has been lost in that respect."

"Much has been lost. To lose any more ground to the boy or his guardian is unacceptable."

"Of course," Saruman quickly changed direction to align himself with the Dark Lord's own views. Best to remain on Sauron's good side in these uncertain and increasingly turbulent times. He knew for certain that the Wraiths would deliver a full and explicit report of his reactions. Best stay on the side of safety. Saruman the White was no fool. "Yes, of course. But what should be done to rectify the situation?" The Wraith shifted its head to the side in silent inquiry. "That is why you have come, is it not?"

"Your fate is of no consequence to us."

Sighing heavily, Saruman laid his goblet down on the table. He could well believe that. "Well, then, why are you here? Surely you did not come all this way simply to gloat at my oversights."

"No. The Deep must be retaken."

"Turning out a handful of rebels will pose no difficulty to the might of Isengard."

"Might will not be necessary. The fortress has since been abandoned."

Getting tired of this seemingly pointless visit, Saruman stood up in one sharp movement, ignoring the fact that all nine Wraiths towered over him menacingly, and he asked, "Then I ask again: What is the purpose of your coming?"

The Witchking stood silent and still for a long moment, enjoying the Wizard's squirming at the delay. The he spoke slowly, drawing out the torture for as long as possible even though Saruman kept up the pretence of indifference. "We came to remind you, old man, that neglect of the Dark Lord's interests will not be tolerated."

"I am no old man," Saruman ground out, stepping towards the Witchking, trying to appear as threatening as he possibly could in this cursed age-ravaged body. "And you would do well to remember that, Cursed One."

The threat was useless; all present in the room knew that very well. Saruman may have been head of the Order of the Istari and Lord of Isengard, powerful in his own right, but in no way was he any match for the Sorcerer of Angmar. His magic was dwarfed by that of the Wraiths. But he also knew that he still had some use to the Dark Lord or he would not still be alive. The Nazgul had not the patience to toy with their prey. That gave him some small shred of power. And he wasn't easily going to let go of that advantage.

Typically untroubled, the Witchking continued, "You have become complacent, old man."

Scowling at the Wraiths, Saruman growled, "You are no longer welcome here."

"We are servants of the Shadow. We go where we choose."

"Not here. Leave and do not return." The command may have been ultimately futile, the Wraiths would indeed come and go as they pleased, such was their power, but it made Saruman feel marginally better to be able to exert some kind of authority over the Nine. The land of Isengard had been given to him by Sauron as a gift for his loyalty and he was confident enough that the Dark Lord had not authorised the Nazgul to now take it from him. Saruman's allegiance cost little. A little ego boost was all that was ever required; small price indeed. He was certain that the Dark Lord of Mordor would not threaten this particular alliance. They were more partners in actuality; Saruman would have agreed to no less. And Sauron needed him.

He smiled then at the Nine, who stood unmoving before him, defiant as ever. "What has happened will never be allowed to occur again, you have my assurance."

"Do not disappoint again, old man," the Witchking warned in a growl.

The use of the hated words 'old man' made Saruman twitch in annoyance. He was no mere man – although old did seem an apt description for the body he had been burdened with on this Middle Earth. He had indeed lived for millennia and those wretched Blessed Ones had deigned to send him to Arda in the form of an ancient, white-haired old human. But he was not a man; he was a Wizard, endowed with great power and now second only to the Master of All himself.

However, this time he chose to hold his tongue, wanting only for the Wraiths of Shadow to leave his home. So, he smiled blandly at them and simply nodded.

"All will be well. You can tell your master that Rohan will be closely observed from now on."

"I will be sure to do so." The Nazgul stood taller, then the eight who stood behind the Witchking turned slowly as one then began to file out. However, the Witchking remained. "I will return. When you fail again, I shall return."

Cocking a smile, Saruman assured, "I will not fail my Lord again, Cursed One."

The Witchking breathed a rattling sigh of disappointment. "Pity," the creature grumbled beneath its vast hood. "I would so enjoy ending your wretched life, old man."

Moving closer still to the tall black being, Saruman retorted, "You are the wretched one. Return to your tower of shadow and darken my door no longer."

"Do not think you can so easily dismiss me, Sorcerer."

Once again, Saruman chose not to respond. In spite of the fact that he was closely allied to the Dark Lord Sauron himself, the Wizard was also sensible of the dark powers of the beasts stood before him. It would probably be best not to get on their bad side if he could at all help it.

"Go now." Saruman boldly turned his back on the remaining Wraith, twisting the delicate glass around in his fingers as he stared out of the tall window of his tower.

He didn't hear the creature go or feel it even, yet when he turned around he found himself alone once again, the great doors shut tightly as if nothing had ever darkened his halls. In spite of his bravado before the wretched servants of Shadow, their visit had left him shaken and now in their absence he felt a great weight lifted from his mind. It felt almost as if a fog had descended over the Tower of Orthanc at the coming of the Nine and that it had lifted with their leaving and Saruman found his mind suddenly mulling over all that had been said.

Rohan. Those damned peasants were getting above themselves and it would not do.

In truth, Saruman had long ago grown tired of the people of Rohan. At the time, there had been better things to do than set his newly created Uruk-hai on them to exterminate them completely. Certainly he had worked to keep them in line. Killing a few here and there, bringing them back to Orthanc for questioning and experimentation. It had kept them cowed and impassive – as Men should be. And all this time they had been almost pathetically inactive. Yes, there had still been the odd incident – Uruk patrols reporting attacks being made upon them by the 'straw-heads' as the blonde-haired men of Rohan had been termed, but nothing of any great concern.

Yet now, after so many years lying dormant, the people of Rohan seemed to be intent on causing trouble. And Sauron was angry. Not at the Rohirrim, but at his ally. Saruman could not allow that.

Settled upon his plan now, he strode out through the doors and made his way down the great tower into its very bowels. As he descended it grew darker, the tunnels, hastily constructed by the Orcs for the purpose of privacy and darkness at the very start of his heinous experiments, became narrower. Normally, he would not deign to venture down here amongst the noise and stench, but today he needed to meet with his servants.

"My master," a voice sneered as he approached the pit that had been dug deep into the earth at the very lowest point of Orthanc. The foul creature bowed awkwardly. It rarely saw its master and certainly had never seen the Wizard down here in the domain of the monsters. "What can I do for my master?"

Distastefully lowering the white handkerchief from where he had had it pressed against his delicate nose to ward off the reek of the pits, Saruman said in a low voice, "Are they ready?"

"Ready, they are, my master," the snivelling Orc answered with a foul grin.

"Excellent."

With great care, Saruman peered over the edge of the deep pit and was immediately met by the most vicious growling he had ever heard. He drew back quickly even though he knew that the beasts below could not reach him. Blood-thirsty creatures, born, as so many other horrors had been created, in the depths of Orthanc; a cross between the Wargs and terrible wolves from the woods of Fangorn Forest, they would be more than a match for weak Rohan steel.

"Good. Very good," he smiled down into the pit of snarling teeth and razor-sharp claws.

The men of Rohan would very soon regret their new alliance, would regret making a fool of the White Wizard.

To Be Continued…