THE TIME THAT IS GIVEN TO US
"White!' [Saruman] sneered. 'It serves as a beginning. White cloth may be dyed. The white page can be overwritten; and the white light can be broken.'
'In which case it is no longer white,' said I. 'And he that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.' - Gandalf"
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
Chapter 2: The Siege of Orthanc
"They are coming."
This one utterance did pass the lips of Gandalf the Grey, and his captor sneered; but he said not a word.
For Saruman swept his robes and marched forth from the high chamber in which his erstwhile colleague lay chained, ring yet held on the pinnacle of his staff, while Gandalf was left to think.
The dread screeches of the Nazgûl would pierce the tortured airs every spare moment as they raged against the will of the Many-coloured one. The terrible sorcery he had conjured from his song of power was manifest as a storm; not of flame, as was common among Aulë's folk, nor of shadows and darkness as was the inherent might of the One Ring, but of lightning- terrible, crackling lightning that would lash the airs as many-tongued whips.
For all the might he had ostensibly gained, the new Ring-Lord, as he had in his vainglory declared himself, was a complete and utter prisoner.
From the ground, he was surrounded; not a speck of the scorched soil of Nan Curunír was visible under the hordes of Rhûnic clansmen, the caravans of Haradrim tribesmen and the dreadful, squelching sea that was the tide of orcs.
The elite troops of Rhûn, Nár-rîm they were called, were bedecked in armour of gold that struck not quite as beautiful but as eerie, and in an odd way, draconic. With their many-pronged halberds they flanked the circle of Isengard, cutting off escape.
The Haradrim were come in their droves, and their horsemen rode in circles; even Mûmakil, few in number, had been compelled to make the long journey west with their palanquin-seats and scores of archers that shot barbed arrows with tips of a most vicious poison.
Most fearsome of all were the Black Núménoreans, for the sea-craft of Núménor was not yet lost, though it lived on in the vilest heirs. Their black ships had landed weeks prior at southern Tharbad, and their Black-clad troops, trained in the art of quenching lives from birth and given purpose and livelihood by war, had so bled the defending Men that all fled the trade-city; and soon Tharbad was left yet another desolate lair for the servants of Sauron.
Under the devouring might of all the east, the Dunlending puppets over whom Saruman held sway were annihilated without trace. Perhaps a few men and women escaped and yet preserved their way of life- none knew and would care to know.
He who held the One had no ally and no escape, for both the land and the airs were shadowed by his foes, and he could do naught but wait, and study.
The wills of the Nazgûl were weakening, that he knew- and yet they would hunt him, stand against him, so used were they to the yoke of Sauron alone. If Saruman himself was to wield the One, he knew it would betray him, knew it would have that one moment of power on his mind to silence his wards and slip his finger, falling into the awaiting grasp of the Witch-king.
He needed yet the full extent of his maiarin might to stand against the Nine, and that he would unlock piece by piece, breaking silently the bonds the Valar had placed on it. In this, his only fear was his father, his Atar- and he knew well that Eru Ilúvatar would not place his hand on a matter so significant. It would not do to have the mortals disbelieve their own world, would it?
It was painful, and tiresome indeed- and yet the pain felt almost sweet, as does the kind that precedes relief and reward. Whatever pain of the fëa he felt, however, he felt satisfied in inflicting upon Gandalf in greater degree.
Sauron was oddly hidden to him, no matter how strenuously one would search, and search he did, for long hours with his sole companion the Palantír.
There was no siege weapon that could breach the obsidian of Orthanc save the fires of Sauron himself, and as they were curiously absent, Saruman paid the great host of darkness no heed. His chief peril was to be found in the Ringwraiths, and against all nine he plotted and schemed with great fervour. He feared to use the fire to which he was so attuned- for it was said the Witch-King held mastery over it as well, and he knew of how the Ring might betray him, filled with Sauron's own fiery fëa as it was. Nay, there was too great a risk of seeing his own flames turned upon him.
It was to his fortune, then, that he had taken a certain liking to a new weapon, one far more precise and far more deadly.
Sparks of lightning crackled once again in his fingertips, and he enjoyed their crackle, revelled in their heat, for he knew of how it would bring his foes unto ruin. A shame he had not thought of it before- the domain of Manwë was not so trivially dismissed as he once thought it.
As for his own Uruks, thousands though he had bred by foul craft, it was but a meagre force when faced with Sauron's legions. The strongest among them, man-uruks and half-trolls he had sent to the Misty Mountains, to await his return.
The rest met a far darker fate- one of his own design.
Great sorcery had been unleashed a week ago- and far greater would be employed this night, if all went as he willed it. The black greatstaff thrummed with a terrible power which had given rise to a crack in its own obsidian, but a tapering line on the rounded edge… and yet the most of it was contained within the One Ring, which lay hot upon it, waves of heat and power arising in a crescendo Saruman found rather pleasant.
The Shadows of Melkor scarce answered any save their eternal master unless adequately compelled- and sacrifices had always been rather an efficient and effective means to that purpose.
Simple-minded creatures they yet remained, with fear and the lust for power ever at the forefront of their thought, despite the intelligence and intuition he had worked so very hard to build within his new Uruk-hai. It was a quick matter to summon all to the foot of the tower ere Sauron's armies reached, where he had set up great vessels of foul water to which he had claimed to add a tonic of 'wizardly enchantment' they could scarce comprehend.
This 'elixir of might' would apparently rouse in them a fervour of rage and might in which to bring ruin to the Lord of the Rings' armies and win spoils and infamy for themselves- in truth, it was but a quick-acting poison of nightshade that awaited them.
Upon culling a large enough part of his own armies thus, Saruman drained the might of their dying fëar and bound it within the Ring (for which he found another purpose; apart from holding Sauron's fëa, it could serve as a receptacle for nigh-limitless power). The orcs possessed little enough in authority and might, and very little could be drained effectively ere the fëar left the circles of Arda, and yet the sheer number of them was enough to afford Saruman a considerable fount.
The Uruks, upon the realisation that 'Lord Sharkû' had betrayed them, could do naught, for Saruman summoned his will and ruthlessly assailed every foul creature of his own creation within his sight, employing the power he had only then gained to crush their wills and crumple their bodies lifeless. No spectacle of flames, frost or tempest, for they but collapsed to the might of the Ring.
The great surge of power upon this terrible atrocity (perhaps deserved by the race, but an atrocity nonetheless) Saruman had used to unlock a little more might of his own, and then he sang a song of power as he never had sung since the elder days in which the world was fair.
This song, however, it was dark- it was tyrannous. Darkness shadowed the skies and blackened the clouds, and ever a ring of flame and lightning crowned the top of Orthanc, the only ward which yet kept the Nazgûl at bay and the innumerable host quaking in fear.
The time was come, however, that he should end his imprisonment of his own will.
The silent, deliberate step of the many-coloured Istar lead him to the cell where he remembered he had incarcerated in especial his two dear guests.
'Mr. Frodo? Mr. Frodo!'
Drained by carrying the weight of failure and dismayed at having the precious monotony of two hours' fitful sleep broken, the hobbit made to flail and slur his words as he told his dearest friend to leave him well alone, when he was greeted by the cruellest awakening any ever can receive.
A shriek of pain, choked and strangled by his inherent drowsiness left his throat which felt as if it had swallowed flame.
His limbs shook beyond his control and his teeth chattered, body wracked with terrible pain as he felt white-hot iron pokers being thrust into every pore of his skin.
Sam watched with fear but hatred greater still as a bolt of lightning struck his master and friend yet again, the path of which his eyes followed to a clawed, white hand belonging to a tall figure that stood at the door, robes changing hue with every shift and sweep.
The cry was this time not dulled by torpor, and the orcs of Sauron bayed and the men of the east steeled themselves as they heard evidence of effective torture.
A freezing rain had begun its torrent, borne by the fell winds of Saruman's conjuring, and the storms of lightning that struck outside were ever-persistent.
In harmony with the thunder-strokes were the thuds of the black greatstaff as he walked with purpose and menace to the former ring-bearer, flashes of light illuminating his fey features and expression of grim anticipation.
'If you touch him once more, wizard…"
A sentence left unfinished, for a strike of the staff met Sam's head, and the pain dulled his senses; and yet the hobbit found some reserve of strength to not fall to the ground and recover. Staggered though he was, he reacted quickly enough, moving to whack the wizard where he knew it would hurt terribly, when Saruman jerked his hand in alarm and he was thrown to the wall.
Surprised though he was at the erstwhile gardener's courage and the strength he derived from it, he proceeded as he planned to Frodo, who yet quaked from the tortuous lightning-stroke, and gently, deliberately, knelt on one knee.
From his robes he drew a sharp dagger, point wicked and grinning for blood upon it, and laid it almost softly upon the hobbit's neck.
A thrust of his will, and Sam was jerked awake, the sight that awaited him filling his eyes with tears.
"No… no, you c-cannot… How dare you threaten him? How… how could you?"
The phrase, both warning and plea, slipped his mouth and Samwise knew of how the wizard scoffed in distaste at his garbled choice of words, yet he felt compelled to speak for Frodo's sake, for the Shire's sake, dry throat and running words be damned.
The knife's edge pressed ever more gently and yet ever more firmly onto the skin of Frodo's neck, near enough to draw a thin line of blood. Saruman allowed Frodo the room to turn his neck and gaze at Sam, but would not allow his mouth to move, forbidding his whisper to let him die, to never bow to Saruman's will.
His gaze, however, told of it as powerfully as it could, a silent, knowing expression of calm acceptance and determination in the face of his own demise.
The Ring-master's teeth bared in a snarl, and he pressed the knife ever closer, drawing a faint trickle of blood, and yet the hobbit did not lower his gaze.
Poor Samwise broke.
"Let him go… let Mr. Frodo go and I… I shall do whatever you would have of me. Yes, you fiend, whatever you would have of this gardener, but you let him go!"
A full-toothed smile that glinted like a dagger crossed Saruman's face, and he lowered the dagger to stand, moving behind Frodo and placing the tip upon his nape.
"Rise." he said imperiously, commanding Sam to walk in front of him, as he led Frodo onward by knife-tip.
Frodo sighed for what he felt was the thousandth time- yet again, it was all in vain. Was that to be ever his doom? His searching, burning glance struck the eye of Sam for a moment, after which the latter lowered his own and turned away, unable to bear Frodo's gaze.
The monotony of silence was broken by the same deliberate, heavy footfall he had come to hate with all his fury, accompanied as ever by the rhythmic thuds of the black greatstaff.
"So you have come at last, Saruman… it seems, for all your rotten plots and foul schemes, you can scarce bear to leave me to my thoughts, so desperate that you are to inflict your stench upon others. I daresay… ah!"
Gandalf's eyes widened and he blinked them, tears welling in them inevitably at the sight of the two hobbits being prodded to the chamber by Saruman's knife. His senses, robbed as they were of their fine edge, did not detect the light footfalls of the Hobbits. They smelled not of rolling hills and streamlets and Longbottom leaf as they ought- but of the dank odour of imprisonment.
Sam was once again brought to avoid the wizard's gaze, for he could not bear it, and at this Gandalf's wrath rose greater than before. He found he could not rise, for his feet were chained, and yet raised himself to sit to the effect of clawing viciously at Saruman's face.
The many-coloured one stood a safe distance from his colleague, and did not seek to restrain him, for the greater the wrath aroused in Gandalf, the further his design reached its object.
The Grey Wizard found finally the sense and strength to roar "Ururuinë Entuluva!" and fire born of Narya's power leapt from his hand, a terrible flame, wrathful in intent, aimed directly and lethally at Saruman's face, but a barrier of force beyond sight rose and quelled the flames ere they reached the Ring-Lord.
Saruman amused himself with the idea of directing the flames at the hobbits if only to see the fear and shock on his old friend's visage, but thought little of enacting it for it would compel Gandalf to cease the spell. He stood, therefore, calmly and nonchalantly abating Gandalf's wrath as he spent his strength, laughing in that terrible, evil cackle that came now so naturally to him after the Grey Istar eventually collapsed.
He moved thereafter to the pillar to which Gandalf was chained, and with a word of command he silenced the spell of strength he had laid upon the chains themselves. He drew a key from his robes, and commanded Sam to remove Gandalf's restraints, keeping Frodo at the knife's tip should aught be attempted that was beyond his will.
He circled silently then, walking insidiously around the wizard, nearing him gradually with each passing step. It continued, Gandalf unchained yet helpless, until Saruman stood right above his prone form. He stooped to whisper:
"A pity, is it not, that your power should spread itself thin thus? That the bonds of restraint the Valar laid upon you stand to obstruct the justice you would bring?"
And Gandalf could do little but nod, for blasphemous though the words were, he was… brought… to recognise what he felt was truth in them.
"Do I not deserve your judgment, Gandalf the Grey, beyond it though I am? Are you not reduced- is not your will demeaned by this failure to summon forth the might that is rightfully yours, given by Eru, inherent in your fëa ere time began?"
Here yet another tremor of wrath rose within him, and Gandalf nodded silently, for he indeed thought the same.
It would take another caress of poisoned honey, and as a coiled viper, he struck.
"Behold yourself, Olórin! Brought low by another, unable to effect a rescue of your pathetic friends whom I will slay upon my whims! A maia should never be laid thusly low! Rise, rise beyond your shackles, accept my gift of might! For otherwise you are helpless and your friends shall suffer a doom more terrible than the most agonising death."
This was blasphemy. Utter blasphemy, and he knew it. He was aware Saruman sought to manipulate him, but truth be damned, he was right!
He raised himself to his feet, hands curling to fists, beholding Saruman in wrath, holding his gaze with fiery eyes- and the Ring-master was pleased.
Within an instant, Saruman had taken the Ring from the top of his staff and worn it upon his hand, and this act was heralded by the screeches of the Nazgûl. The Morgûl Storm ceased, and the clouds abated, and the fell steeds of the Nazgûl flew with sweeping wing, hook and claw towards the pinnacle of Orthanc.
And yet the Wizard would do something far more terrible, for ignoring entirely the nine, he thrust the full might of his will at Gandalf's fëa, tearing at his core and searching, searching relentlessly for the bonds the Valar had laid upon him.
The power of the Valar was great and their devices subtle, but they held no influence over Middle-earth by choice, for they had laid down its guardianship. It was, then, inevitable, that some restraints and shrouds would be found- and with an efficient ruthlessness, Saruman struck them off.
"Argh!" cried Gandalf in pain, for with the restraint went part of his fëa. Silver-grey it glinted, a beautiful hue- and then some unseen darkness came for him, filling the entirety of the void it left.
Saruman was well-pleased- it seemed the shadows of Melkor had taken a liking to his old friend- but the sheer magnitude of the shadow that leapt into Gandalf startled him.
Struck with a terrible pain, an incurable pain of the fëa, Gandalf felt suddenly a rush of power, great power that was both his own, and a new, dark power that begged for release.
Without meaning to, he unleashed it, and Saruman was flung to the wall, Frodo with him.
Recognising the opportunity, Gandalf cleared his mind and rushed to annihilate Saruman's fëa, but saw to his dismay that Frodo had fallen with him- and the ever-present guile of the former White Wizard yet endured, for his hands had found once again the knife, and he had laid it once again upon the hobbit's throat.
Seething then, Gandalf strove for control, as it was all he could do. Even in this darkness, struck by this pain and shadowed as his will was, he reined in the darkness, and his palms were hued no longer black as they had been.
Saruman, meanwhile, had risen, and walked immediately to where the Ring lay.
"The hand of Saruman is not so lightly betrayed." he muttered softly, for he had expected the Ring to take its first opportunity, and thanked his presence of mind after the eventuality occurred.
Gandalf, then, saw three figures- a Saruman he had yet again failed to foil, a Frodo whom he would not let die, opportunities be damned, and a Sam who quaked with fear.
The last of those sights he saw caused a throb in him, and he lowered his palm, filled with regret and shame.
"It tastes wonderful, does it not? Are you not exhilarated? Cease your contemptible sanctimony, Olórin, and tell me truthfully- do you not feel again… young?"
He had fallen for it before. He would not this time deign Saruman with an answer.
The silence was met with but a small twitch of frustration, and regally arraying his many-hued cloak about him, Saruman grandly pronounced "If it is to you of any satisfaction that you succeeded in forcing my hand, pray savour it now- for when I am left with no choice, it is wise for one to fear."
And with that he ascended the winding stair of Orthanc, hobbits forced to lead by knife-point, with a gait slow and filled with such silent menace that Gandalf had naught of choice but to follow steadily and in his own time.
He wished to raise his voice in protest, to do all within his power to stay the hand of Saruman, but did not, for he knew it would be as for nothing.
And so Saruman Ring-master ascended the highest stair and threw open the iron door, hobbits made to quake at the living nightmare that awaited them.
Nine there were, in Black Raiment and on Black Steeds, with Nine black gauntlets raised into the night- and at the fore, the Witch-king of Angmar.
They saw naught of his face for it remained no more visible to the unshadowed eye, and all that remained for one to behold was an iron helm, resting upon a fell flame.
The Fell Beasts they rode, corruptions of the wyrms of the Withered Heath, stood perched with talon and claw, and black wings fouler than fumes of coal-ash. On these creatures of Mordor did the Nazgûl fly, and they did not now dismount- for much to Saruman's wrath yet to his expectation as well, they did not afford him the least reverence, still bowing to Sauron above all.
Precisely an alteration that was of the essence.
To hold it yet upon his staff would be foolish, and he then wore it openly, offering no words of scorn as was his wont, for they would have little effect on foes nigh-emotionless.
"Surrender to thy true master the Nazg, nuristar, and be slain by his will in turn; for if thou shouldst dare resist the Will of Barad-dûr, we will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, where thy mind shall be flayed beyond recognition, and thy fëa shall be broken piece by piece under the gaze of the Dark Lord!"
This the Witch-king pronounced, with a voice terrible and sinister, shrill and deep, in a whisper utterly deafening.
And Saruman laughed, laughed in a haughty scoff- a full laugh, not that evil cackle born of machination.
"So be it, then- for thou hast chosen thine end. Thou fool- thou shalt not hinder us, as have none."
A silent command of the Witch-king, and the steeds of the others rose as one- for sword-formed teeth and spearlike claws, and a tempest of wings were upon Saruman within an instant, and the wizard would surely be rent with a thousand wounds. They would take from him the Ring, and they would carry his fallen form to Barad-dûr, where he would die a thousand deaths… but not.
For the Ring was deceptive in its make, deceptive even to its true master.
A storm of benighted sorcery had arisen, and enveloped Orthanc in gloom that was darker than night. The Nazgûl were struck down by their own shadows, as the might of Morgoth rose from the deep cracks of the world to answer the command of the new Dark Lord.
The might he had drained from the dying fëar of several thousand Uruk-hai contained within it the ancient sorcery that Morgoth bound within the orcs' corrupted forms when he first created them; and diluted by years and blood though it was, it still maintained its full potency, and a wall of shadows rose to crown Saruman and hold the Nazgûl at bay.
Alone among the Nine, the Witch-king advanced. His will was great, as was his dark might in his proximity to the One. He rose as the fell phantom he was, discarding mace in favour of sword and Morgûl-dagger held within his robes, and at once holes were ripped in his beast's unfeathered wings, and it was blown away to where the shadows cast it.
Saruman threw at the Morgûl-lord illusions of a hundred blades, of a hundred dark warriors ostensibly greater than he in stature and strength, but the Lord of the Nazgûl knew but one aim.
The swords of those in front he parried aside with his crossguard and flat, never counter-cutting for it would amount to wasted time and thought, and the blades of those behind struck his armour and pierced even the dark iron of Sauron's forge, but he cared not, for he felt not his undead sinew, and he knew it to be the work of a song of power, of an illusion cast in the world of shadows in which he abode.
And so he advanced as a dread phantom of the Night, and Saruman felt an inkling of fear, thoughts anchored by how useful the Witch-king would undoubtedly prove as a servant.
The Storm of the Night ceased, and the other Nazgûl made to dismount, for beasts, no matter how fearsome, would be no more use- but Saruman had stripped them of their shadows and terror, and all that remained to them was the Black Breath they breathed and their existence as nine undying Kings of Men.
And now he would use his mightiest weapon, his voice.
"Come now- Kings ye were, great kings of great lands, and surely ye have not last all ye sight? I am master and I am lord; the Ring is mine, and so shall it be forevermore. Bow now to me, for ye wills I hold in thrall by right- and if ye doth not- ye purpose is forfeit, as is ye will. For ye can do naught, naught in summation 'gainst me. Bound in darkness to ye service of the Lord of the Rings ye are, and that I am, for that is I."
He threw then a great plume of flame into the air, most likely yet another sorcerous illusion for summoning true flame could be done by virtue of only a song of power, and the Nazgûl beheld as the Great Eye was formed, but the symbol weakened, it was quelled by stronger flames to become the White Hand, the insignia of Saruman.
And then it was broken.
The surge of a black will from the east, and a dark proclamation of will from the ever-present voice in the mind of each Ringwraith-
"Be ye not swayed by the words of this craven impostor, for bound to my service and mine alone ye shall ever remain. Forth now, and claim from him what is mine!"
Beyond all his thought, Sauron still endured. His voice- the voice of Saruman, for Arda's sake- had failed. He therefore employed the one weapon that remained to him.
Streams of Shadow and Lightning shot from each finger of his palm, eight streams for each Nazgûl and his two thumbs to the Witch-king.
The Will of Sauron, however, propelled them on. The Nazgûl drained might, as well, from the armies of Mordor below, but Saruman's power was too great, and they were propelled to the edge of Orthanc, where they strove with all their shadowed will- yet the Witch-King advanced ever onward, unmindful of the lightning, and as a coiled viper, he struck.
A thrust of his will, and his sword had lit with a fell flame, a wave of sudden power silencing Saruman's lightning, and with deadly precision, he struck.
Saruman held his staff in a primitive guard to defend, and the Witch-King knocked it aside with a crooked strike, and as the self-proclaimed Ring-lord recoiled, he raised his blade to slay…
"Ai Elbereth! Ai Gilthoniel!"
The name stymied his strike, for a Hobbit now stood before him, ferried into the path of his blade by the long arm of Saruman, and he had uttered the Star-Kindler's name.
For the mention of the Lady of the Stars halts all black thought, and there they stood for a moment, Nazgûl-lord, Treacherous Istar and the quaking hobbit between them.
It was too much.
"NAY! YOU WILL NOT TAKE HIM!"
A burst of terrible flame, greater by far than any of Saruman's illusions and mightier in heat than even his lightning, and the Witch-king was cast from where he stood, robes set aflame. The Sword of Terror he wielded was struck by the same flame, and it melted, for even the Iron of Barad-dûr, forged in doom-fire and tempered by dark sorcery could not stand against the wrath of Gandalf the Corrupted.
He emerged then, eyes glowing a terrible red from the grey they were, smoke rising from his blackened palms, mouth cracked from speaking Dark Words of power.
His visage, old and lined with care, seemed at once more terrible to behold than an eruption of Orodruin. His form appeared to rise, towering above and shadowing all about him.
His wrath rose again, befouling and twisting the air around him, and mouth tainted by the poisonous power he unleashed, spewing blood, he spat:
"Machān- aiya akašān, rušur dušamanūðhān!"
A veritable firestorm of rage and hatred struck the Nazgûl, as their robes were burned and their fëar were cast from their shells, even their undead sinew and flesh burnt to metaphysical ash as their shadows were ripped from them. Their screeches were cast into the shadowed night illuminated by Gandalf's explosion of might.
The Witch-King himself was cast from his form, and with one last gaze he conveyed his thought of pure malice- and Saruman twitched, as if an unknown and very terrible chill had struck him, but not Gandalf, who annihilated all in the fires of his wrath.
"None may touch those for whom I am given to care." pronounced he, and the storm ceased- the obsidian spikes that crowned Orthanc's summit were now naught but mere ash.
Gandalf had not called forth the flame of Anor, nay- for it answered in acts of offense and calls of wrath and darkness. Nay, it had been a very different flame that had come forth from him- and it was a flame born of the darkest shadow. The flame of Udûn.
He knew of the shame, of the utter dread he should feel- of having failed completely in his duty and of having unleashed the full might of a maia upon Middle-earth.
It was, however- intoxicating. Rewarding, relieving, and freeing.
And then he looked upon Frodo, poor Frodo- the one who had stood bravely before all the Nazgûl while being used as a shield by Saruman himself- and he had fainted, unable to bear this one thing.
Instead of remorse, however, hatred and anger filled him yet again- hatred against Saruman for hurting him so, for using him thus.
Ruler of the Ring he may have been, but Gandalf cared not. Saruman would perish by his hand, devoured by an endless storm of flame, his pleas of mercy ignored-
And a bolt of terrible lightning struck his temple, forcing him, by physical law, to unconsciousness.
Saruman was glad- for his every last plot and machination had come unto fruition. Gandalf was turned to Darkness, and he had wielded it- and with such terror that a part of Saruman feared what far greater destruction Gandalf could unleash should he seize the ring from him- but that part, and whatever reason came with it, was silenced in the triumph of his victory.
Sheer terror should keep the armies from firing bolts of iron from the many cruel ballistae of Mordor's forges, and he wrested control of the will one of the Fell Steeds the Nazgûl rode.
Throwing Gandalf onto its ridged, horned back, Saruman himself assumed an imperious seat, if such a thing were possible, and forced it by imposing his will to fly towards the Misty Mountains.
Orthanc would fall, for sooner or later, the dark host would break perhaps a window and construct a ramp to enter it, or choose to rain all they had at their disposal to finally break the obsidian wall if they had devices of such capability- it would be a necessary sacrifice. He needed another piece of his plan to stand against that army of innumerable count, however.
His will prodded the beast's with the same relentless direction- 'To Moria, to Khazâd-dûm!'
The two hobbits were left- Frodo unconscious and poor Sam weeping- for they would now find their own fate as specks of light in a sea of darkness.
GLOSSARY
One may notice that I employ the adjective 'obsidian' time and again to describe Orthanc. That is due to it being (ostensibly) constructed of obsidian, strengthened by Núménorean stonework and craftsmanship (Núménor being Westernesse, the ancient Kingdom of men that preceded Gondor and Arnor, mightier than any other dominion in its age).
Nothing is capable of destroying Orthanc's stonework except Sauron's fire, and this the attackers may have, except perhaps not in a siege weapon precisely intended to this purpose. Gandalf easily annihilates its structure by unleashing his full might.
Nan Curunír (Sindarin): Wizard's vale
Aulë: Smith among the Valar, the one who crafted the substance of Arda, the world. Sauron and Saruman, as maiar, were once Mairon and Curumo respectively, his apprentices.
To rekindle memory, Rhûn was the eastern state which aided Mordor, with its people referred to as 'Easterlings' and Harad the southern, with its 'Southrons'.
Nár-rîm (Rhûnic): The Lords of Fire/ The Flaming Ones. Purely my own creation, the Nár-Rîm are an ancient martial order of Rhûn founded in the days of Khamûl the Black Easterling when he was still a King of men, and persisted after he turned Nazgûl. Their warriors are bedecked in a golden armour, and they fight mainly the dwarves of the Orocarni Mountains (Many Dwarf-clans live here, east of the Iron Hills). Their place being mainly in other tales of mine, they shall not be expanded upon further here.
Manwë: 'Blessed One'. Manwë holds dominion over the winds and breath of Arda, and is the highest in authority among the Valar. The High King of all Arda, he is known as 'The Elder King', and the eagles are the offspring of his thought. Husband to Varda, brother to Morgoth, Sauron's master.
Tharbad: A prominent city of Eriador; as a port, it holds the key to the sea.
Melkor is another name of Morgoth. It represented who he was in the beginning, meaning 'He who arises in Might', for Morgoth was formerly the mightiest among the Valar.
Shadows: I should like here to elaborate one of Tolkien's concepts. 'Shadows' were little spirits of Darkness that roamed lands of evil freely. They could be either half-formed thoughts of the malicious, or even maiar, primitive and less in stature, but most shadows are manifestations of the power of Morgoth.
In the First Age, Morgoth poured a great part of his unmatched power into the world so that he may hold dominion over it, thus gaining great influence on the fates and dooms of those who walked the lands but losing much of his own power in the process, resulting eventually in his defeat and imprisonment.
These 'Shadows' can be summoned by the will of one mighty or by words of command to unleash malice and destruction upon any foe- yet they are treacherous as well.
Narya: The Ring of Fire; the second of the three Elven Rings. Given to Gandalf by Círdan when he first came to Middle-earth.
Olórin: Gandalf's original name as a maia when he served Manwë.
"Ururuinë Entuluva!" (Quenya): "Come forth again, great fire of old!"
Morgûl (Sindarin): Sorcery of Morgoth; a common term used to refer to Dark Sorcery involving the aforementioned 'Shadows'.
Istari is the correct word for the Order of the Five Wizards. Nuristar (Sindarin), therefore, means 'Shadowed/fallen Wizard'.
Nazg (Black Speech): Ring
"Machān- aiya akašān, rušur dušamanūðhān!"
"By the authority that is given me, by the power that is within me, I say come forth, dark flames of marring!"
This is an example of a 'Word of Command', spoken in Valarin, the language of the Valar. In Tolkien's legendarium, there is no such thing as 'magic' as one would be used to; instead, all sorcery involves using one's will to alter the world around oneself subtly. True 'magic' is found in either Songs of Power, as Saruman did sing in the previous chapter, and in such words of command. Gandalf uses this to summon the flame of Udûn, dark fire which Morgoth employed to scorch the world and imparted to his Balrogs.