It was clear to Talion whomever this 'giant' Erik had been referring to was winning the fight between Erik's people and it. At the edge of his hearing Talion could hear deep roars emanating from further inland and the low dim of men shouting followed the roars. The fight had gone on long enough for Erik to assume it was lost in his own mind and from the worried looks the young warrior kept casting inland. Judging by what Talion had pulled from the warrior's mind, Erik Angsbornsson was not one to admit defeat easily.
So the sight of womenfolk and younglings crowding in a frightened mass around a few small berths informed Talion that this struggle was not going Clan Tordarroch's way. Every person carried a bundled sack of whatever worldly possessions could be gathered in time before the family had to flee their homes. Perhaps more daming were the guards of this exodus: the withered greybeards, pimply and lanky youths, and wounded warriors like Erik, who had escaped or retreated from the giant's onslaught, re-manning their posts.
There was a shout of exertion as one of the long and many oared ships pulled away from a pier, Talion could easily see that it was dangerous over capacity, seeming to be on the verge of capsizing, but the skilled hands of the sailors saw the boat through the waves and out towards the dark mass of fellow refugee ships on the horizon. All of them fleeing their ancestral homes.
A small part of Talion could sympathize with the plight before him. The rest of Talion dismissed the crowd as another part of the environment around him, he had greater things to attend to. Unfortunately, his guide did not.
Erik of Undvik scrambled over to one of the wounded warriors and managed a discernible greeting over the shouting and crying of women and children. The warrior Erik had addressed hurriedly, in spite of his leg wound, turned to stare at Erik. Talion took the chance to skulk behind Erik's profile and pulled at a few drops of power from the now finite power he could focus on to make the edges of his profile blur away from mortal eyes. He'd make sure that Erik did not try something…unwise before talking to any of this crowd himself.
"Hail Erik! Thought we'd lost you in Urskar lad!" Erik's friend gestured up into the interior. "
"Not for lack of trying, Ulf." Utter tiredness dominated Erik's words. "Where is the monster now?"
Ulf's eyes shifted from side to side, seemingly confirming that none of the women and children around them had crept close enough to overhear his words. "Advancing towards Dorve, last I heard. Jarl Harald and his huscarls, along with anyone still in fighting shape, are holding there."
"Freya's bouncing tits." spat Erik. It was the most animated Talion had seen the warrior since he had opened up his head. "What are we to do without the Jarl? We'd be leaderless, just a buncha vidkaarls in the eyes of the other clans."
"Aye, not good." Ulf eyed the flow of longships and tugged at the braids in his beard. "Nary an idea where the clan is heading. The Jarl has buggered off to die fighting, so the ancestors don't cast him for da shame o' being the last Jarl of Clan Tordarroch. An' I heard the winds might force us by the Elf Tower." Ulf spit to the side, a common gesture to ward off bad luck that Talion was familiar with. "But what in all the arse buggering else can we do?"
"Shite. Bad seas near the Elf Tower, especially with the tide right now." The two men nattered about sea jargon that had little interest to Talion, but the elven tower… Now that interested him a great deal. As he skulked in Erik's shadow, Talion reached into the swamp that could be called his memories and began to hunt.
Where had he heard about northern islands with elven ruins? More importantly, when had he learned about them? Talion felt like he was submerged in the sticky tar that the machine tribe had so favored for their pits and traps and siege defenses. Talion grimace, it was never pleasant to be reminded of his encounters with that substance. But then he, like a smith dragging the core of their latest work from the depths of the blaze, Talion managed to remember.
It had been in the years of his endeavors with Celebrimbor, maybe the early days maybe not, and it had been one of the rare talks of peace they had had in those times. Perhaps it had been around a campfire in Nurnen or looking out over the crags of Udon. Maybe it had been in the depths of night or the bright -for Mordor- light of the day, or perhaps he had been stalking through the twisted mists that lurked at the bottom of the Morgul Pass on another run to rescue Gondorian soldiers from the orkish slave caravans.
But, regardless of the circumstance that Talion was now painfully aware could not be revealed, he could remember a tale Celebrimbor had let slip. No doubt, Talion reckoned, an attempt by the elf to further bring Talion over to his way of thinking. A way of thinking that spat in the spirit of men.
Details of Celebrimbor's tale fluttered around. The distant western land that Celebrimbor and his kin had crossed into during the oldest of times, back when even the evil of Middle-Earth was young and vigorous in its attempts to enslave the Free People. A land that overflowed with hills, forests and rivers and elven kingdoms a plenty. The tribes of native men that had needed elven guidance to truly blossom into civilized peoples. The once great landmass that, as Celebrimbor had maybe said, had been reduced to nothing more than the surviving slivers of once great peaks and highlands sticking above waves that had come to wipe the filth of the land away.
Talion was, through long experience with the natural misdirection and withheld context of elvish words, able to reveal the truth of his situation. And he was surprised. The eruption of Mount Doom had truly blown him to the shattered island remains of the old elven homeland? Over the lands of Gondor and the horse lords of the Gap and empty and barren Eriador?
The presence of Man on these islands, if the rock they lived on was indeed old elf land as Talion suspected, did not surprise Talion. After all he could remember that tribes had been native to Mordor itself, even when the land had been darkened by Annat… by Sauron's renewed hold over it. So elves had once been on this island. Good.
Good. Their work would once again serve Talion's purpose like the burial chambers had in Mordor.
Talion, stil stepping in the shadow of Erik and intangible to the mortal eye, leaned forward and said, "I will go to assist the warriors of your people in slaying this giant. You will sail to this Tower of Elves and if you find a hammer of any kind there, bring it back to me."
Erik stiffened in his irrelevant chatter with Ulf. Talion's burning eyes narrowed. "Remember what I am capable of, and do what I say."
And then, still cloaked in the Unseen, Talion sprinted away from the crowded piers that had once been home to the vast array of boats that this Clan Tordarroch would have needed to sustain their existence. He knew that Erik of Clan Tordarroch would do what he had been told to, so complete an understanding of the man that he now possessed. The young fighter believed Talion to be a being of some power -which Talion war- in the local customs. The drip drip drop of the slow death wound Isildur's ring had suffered drove Talion to cast aside any notion of what the locals considered important. If these Wraiths of Morhogg were truly as powerful as Erik's reaction had led Talion to believe, then Talion would bring these wraiths to heel in servitude to him. All that and more would be at his fingertips, once his ring was restored to its rightful power.
So Talion ran, the power needed to wraith step through the waking and unseen world barely affecting the pool of the ring's power. He ran towards the center of Undvik, using dirt 'roads' that he felt confident in saying that not even orks would ascribe that name to the hunting trails he sprinted along. A darkness twisted inside of Talion, once he had secured his ring of power, then he could begin to bring these people out of the darkness and into the light of civilization.
In a short time Talion had left the coast and the reek of the sea behind for the cleaner smell of pine trees. But the cold was crueler here, it chilled Talion's undying body in a way that not even the coldest peaks of Mordor had been able to. Still, Talion pushed on, loosening Urfael from its sheath as he advanced. The metal wire that formed the grip of the deadly blade was a very comforting presence for Talion. Despite the ever growing uncertainty of just what had happened to him, Talion had been in a worse state, he knew this to be true down to his bones. It was nothing that he would not fight his way out of.
Then, just when the cacophony of blinding snow, biting ice and billowing wind reached their apex, when it seemed like Talion would be forced to fall back, Talion broke through. And he entered a space where the storm was almost completely absent. This pocket took the shape of an egg, encompassing the village, Dorve, that Talion has finally arrived at. Unfortunately for Clan Tordarroch, this village of theirs was in the process of being destroyed, by fire ironically enough. Talion quickly took in the scene of the village as he stood under the wood and stone gateway to the villager.
The Skelligers must have thought to use fire against the giant, and Talion did not need to be told that it hadn't worked. The few burning dwellings, single story structures made of wood with oddly peaked roofs, told the story of failure well enough. The other houses that were partially crunched and encrusted with ice did the rest.
A bestial roar rang out from the center of the village, the earth under Talion's armored feet shook, and Talion heard the answering battle cries of the Skelligers make their reply.
Good, he thought, There is nowhere for the giant to run. Then Talion sprinted forward, leaving behind the gateway of the village and moving into the village green which probably would be a marketplace when it wasn't hosting the final stand of the men of Undvik. Now Talion could clearly see the giant that had sent an entire people to the winds.
It certainly looked like an Olog. The incredibly broad shoulders and stout torso with arms that hung low. The round head that bore a thick brow, positioned at a forward bizarre angle that made Ologs very able living siege engines. But the Ologs Talion knew did not have hair or a head capable of balding, and they were most certainly not blue in color. An ice giant indeed.
At the very least this not-Olog had the similar brutish intelligence that Talion was familiar with. Crudely cured furs with wooden plants strapped over them served as armor against the hacking and slashing of the Skelliger's axes. In a strained shield wall the fighting men of Undvik made war against the monster that had laid uncaring waste to their homes. They looked like all the other Skelliger warriors Talion had seen earlier: wielding painted wooden shields and axes; dressed in thick gamibsons, ringmail and shaggy furs with helmets, some adorned with goat horns. To the orders of a bare-headed warrior armored in scale mail and bearing the only sword among his company, this 'Jarl' Ulf had spoken of, the last and best hope of Undvik strove against the ice giant with axe and shield, spear and sword, hammer and fists. It was not enough, Talion knew it at a glance and surely the men knew it too. But they were determined to die as free men in the home of their ancestors and for that they had Talion's respect, for what that was worth these days.
In the battered and darkened place that his psyche had dwelled in while under the torment of Sauron and the Witch-King, issue forth a foreign feeling to the wraith: hope. Talion had done evil things, maybe not of his own will but by his own hands. Maybe even that justification was a falsehood, for what difference had there been between him and the other Nazgûl, in appearance and behavior, in those last years of his defiance? But Talion could feel, really feel, that here was a chance to begin to make amends.
Talion moved. He cleared the space between him and the shield wall in a blink. He vaulted over one of the warriors, ignoring the shouts of alarm around him, then slid under and between the giant's legs, slashing at poorly armored shins as he did so. He broke the slide early and leapt to his feet, launching a series of stabs and slashed into the calves and lower thighs of the giant with Urfael's cruel edge.
A sky blue hand swept around from the front and blindly swatted at him. Talion dodged backwards and flipped the edge of Urfael around, and hacked with the portion of Urfael's back that he had serrated. A gigantic pinky and ring finger spun away after the second and third hack. Then Talion sprinted to gain distance as the giant fully turned, a slew of guttural noises issuing from its mouth. The skelligers behind them edged backwards at the blur that had suddenly struck at their foe.
As the giant began to start a thundering charge, which Talion judged to have amazing speed if allowed to happen, Talion dug a foot into the frozen dirt and spun to face the giant. He drew back his empty hand and summoned Helm's hammer. The giant's balding blue head rang like an Easterling gong as two thrown spectral hammers hammered home. The essence of the wraith weapon visibly stunning the monster, as any of Talion's Unseen weapons did to the fully mortal.
Talion darted forward, intent on bringing the giant to its knees for the killing blow, bringing Urael up into a thrust. But the giant wasn't as stunning as Talion had believed, for it lashed out with stunning speed. Not with the maimed free hand of before, but with the hand holding a weapon.
For the first time in quite a while, Talion was utterly baffled. In the giant's right hand wasn't a club or ax or anything one might expect a lumbering beast to wield but a four pronged ship's anchor. A chain of crude iron connected the anchor to the hand weidling it.
Talion could not dodge the weapon as gigantic as its wielder, he simply wasn't that quick. He just managed to bring Urfael into a block before his vision went blurry and the feeling of flying came over him. Oh and the pain, but Talion's nature made even mortal wounds feel like a nuisance. Talion opened his eyes, he must have reflexively closed them before impact, and saw nothing but darkness.
Was he dead?!
The Skelligers shouted and the giant roared. No, he wasn't dead. Talion tested his limbs, and felt them brushing up against something. Wood.
Anger dripped into Talion. That damned giant had swatted him into a house! A furtive effort to escape with just his arms and legs proved futile. Well, he had wanted to conserve the power of the ring until he had fixed the marr that had cruelly been struck against something so beautiful, but Talion reckoned that being buried under wooden beams was worthy enough for him to expend precious magicks on it.
With a flex of his will, the spectral form of Turánn, the forger of rings, appeared in his free hand. Despite Talion preferring to use Helm's hammer, this was the tool he called up to work the power of magic and the unseen. Talion swept the hammer before him and the wooden beams around him exploded.
As shards of wood encased in ice fell upon the startled Skelligers, the hunchback form of the giant lowered the anchor he raised and turned to face the ruined house Talion had been smacked into.
Out of the darkness of the now half destroyed domicile emerged two gauntleted hands that grasped onto the wood of the house. Silence fell upon the village green as its occupants saw a visage of war and cruelty emerge. Armored from head to toe in black metal, with a face formed of crude metal spikes, the figures walked out into the light, misty green whorls dripping off his dread form and sword. Among the Skelligers, men whispered 'Mörhogg' and a few of the more religious began to pray to their gods. For if the Wraiths of Mörhogg now walked the land itself unopposed by the gods, then surely the Ragh nar Roog was upon them.
The giant who called himself Myri-fleggi-krar in the tongue of giants, also known to the Skelligers he made war against as Myrhyff, bellowed a proper giant challenge and beat his chest with the hand the figure had wounded. The injury would be repaid.
Now Talion drew up all the power he dared to spare, leaving the rest to continue to nurse the wound the ring had suffered. He had wanted to kill the giant without having to make extravagant use of his powers, uses that he could ill afford. But the ice giant was made of sterner stuff than Ologs it seemed. He gripped his hammer and sword firmly and a malicious grin stretched beneath the iron mask of a Nazgûl Talion had yet to discard. He would have to be a bit more…impressive in killing this foe.
It had been a while since he'd gone all out. The Ring of Isildur seemed to pulse in twine with Talion's desire to flex his supernatural muscles.
Then the ice giant charged with a lumbering gait that had deceptive speed to it, sweeping aside the Skelligers that had made to jap their spears into its shins with ease, bellowing unceasingly at Talion.
Talion threw back his shoulders and met the bellow of an ice giant with the spirit-destroying shriek of a Nazgûl.
And then he vanished in a flash of green light.
A/N: Been another hot minute but finals, graduation and moving back home surprisingly take up a lot of time. At least I have more free time while I search for this mystical 'job' that falls into all college grads' laps. Shouldn't be that hard to find, Right.
Right?
Anyway, we get to that nice old ring forging moment next chapter. An act which definitely won't have profound negative effects for a world with as unstable of a world barrier as this and has already suffered a well known otherworldly crossover event. Surely nothing similar will happen.