Disclaimer: Middle Earth and all its locations belong to the JRR Tolkien estate. The main characters belong to me and are copyrighted. I do not claim ownership of anything of JRR Tolkien's, and I bow down to him in thanks for his wonderful creations which act as inspirations to us all. *bows solemnly*

A/N: An old enemy makes his debut. Sorry about the violence in this chapter – evil people make war, unfortunately. At least Anna is a conscientious objector. : )

The Silver Claw

            "It beats Dwarvish ale, in any case!" Beleg said after he had drunk from the bowl. Fimbrethil seemed mildly confused at this comment, but said nothing. She seemed to grow more alive by the minute, as if waking up from a very long sleep. Her long arms and flowing hair waved in the wind as she swayed gently back and forth. The sound was pleasant and peaceful, and Trotter felt drowsiness stealing over him as he listened.

That night the three travellers fell asleep with the singing of an Entwife in their ears.

Walking trees are not a common sight, even in Middle Earth; and a walking tree with three child-like figures upon its branches would have given any inhabitant of Arda reason to stare. However, there was no one to see Trotter, Beleg, and Anna as they rode, somewhat self-consciously, on Fimbrethil's shoulders. Beleg had, of course, been mortified at the idea of allowing himself to be carried by a lady, especially one so old; but Fimbrethil had merely laughed, picked him up, and dangled him above the ground for a while, to the Elfit's great chagrin, until he conceded that her strength would not be overtaxed. So now the four of them travelled quickly and in high spirits across the plain of Minhiriath.

They had risen with the sun, feeling refreshed and hopeful. The Wargs did not seemed to have followed them further, and they did not trouble themselves over their vanished pursuit, though perhaps it might have been wiser to do so. Trotter marvelled at how quickly Fimbrethil walked; her strides were huge, and the plains passed by swiftly around them. They travelled eastwards and slightly north, on as straight a line as they could guess at to Tharbad.

"These were not always plains, you know," Fimbrethil said in her musically rumbling voice, "Once great forests covered all this land, stretching out endlessly to the Sea... but long ago Men came and chopped down the trees with their axes, and took away the bodies for their own use." She shook her head angrily.

"Men," Anna said dismissively, "What else can you expect from them­?"

"Saucy daughters," Beleg said with a wry grin. Anna tried to scowl, but could not help laughing in the end, and the conversation drifted on to lighter topics.

They continued on unmolested until the afternoon. Fimbrethil's shadow had already begun to lengthen towards the east when Trotter spotted a dark line on the northern horizon.

"Look!" he said, "That must be the South Road. If we follow it, we'll be on the right path to Tharbad for sure. Maybe we can even reach the city before nightfall..."

Before anyone could answer him, the dreaded sound of howls rose once more – but from the east this time. Almost simultaneously, the calls were echoed from the west; the same eerie cry rose on either side of them, shivering through the air like a triumphant symphony.

"The pack!" Beleg said.

"There are two of them!" Anna gasped, "We're surrounded!"

Fimbrethil stopped and turned her head from side to side, listening to the howls of the Wargs. Trotter had to hold on to her branchy hair tightly to keep from being shaken off. The calls continued unbroken, though no living creature was in sight. Trotter had the unpleasant feeling that they were being hemmed in, trapped until their pursuers saw fit to close in for the attack.

"So many of them," Fimbrethil said, sounding tired, "More than yesterday. They must know who you are – they would not congregate in such numbers for a few ordinary travellers."

"I suppose we should feel honoured," Beleg said.

"This is no time for jokes!" Anna said, "What are we going to do?"

Trotter stood up carefully on Fimbrethil's shoulder. He shaded his eyes and gazed around at the plains; from ten feet up he could see quite far. But there was nothing to see except the dark line of trees in the north.

"What is the country like on the other side of the Road, Anna?" he asked.

"Woods, mostly," Anna said, "The trees reach until the South Downs; at least, that's what it seemed like to me on my way to Bree."

"We can't possibly make it to Tharbad with a pack of Wargs in the way," Trotter said, "Our best chance, I should think, is to go north as quickly as possible. We can take cover in the forest on the other side of the Road."

"Have you considered that that might be exactly what they want us to do?" Beleg asked, gazing at him through Fimbrethil's green hair, "The further north we go, the closer we get to the Witch-King, and the stronger grows his power. Suppose there's an ambush waiting in the woods?"

"Do we have another choice?" Trotter said, "We can't go east or west without running into them straight away. The only other way is south. I don't know about you, but I don't savour the idea of being caught on the open plains. At least one can hide in the forest..."

"Hoom, yes," Fimbrethil agreed, "In the forest. Things always look better under tree-leaves. The trees are not friendly to creatures of the Witch-Lord... they will not like the presence of Wargs."

"North, then," Trotter said, "As quickly as may be."

By the time they reached the South Road, the sun had begun to set. Trotter felt inexpressibly relieved once the grey boughs of the trees closed behind them. Soon after they crossed into the forest, the howls that had followed them unceasingly suddenly stilled. Silence descended onto the woods; the tall autumn trees seemed to be watching them, waiting for something.

"Why have they stopped howling?" Anna asked nervously, "I'd love to believe they've given up, but..."

"They haven't," Beleg said grimly, "They have some other plan... I knew this was a bad idea. Can't we get out of sight somewhere?"

"Yes, I think that would be best," Trotter agreed, "Fimbrethil?"

"Hroom!" Fimbrethil said, "Hiding from those puppies! But maybe you are right. It is safer to hide now. Then we can decide what to do. We should not be too hasty... Listen! Do you hear the water? A pleasant sound for an Entwife! And maybe it will be a help to us now. The Dark Lord's power ends at the banks, and his servants fear it. Perhaps we can hide our trail."

 Sure enough, they soon came upon a small ravine with a stream rushing quickly through it. It was evening by then, and the sunlight shining through the branches of evergreens dappled the forest floor. The ground was carpeted with brown pine needles, soft and brittle, and all sound was muffled. Dust motes danced in the rays of sun that peeped in between the trees. Vines and brush grew on the edge of the ravine, thick and tangled like the fur of a wild beast. The spot was so lovely that Trotter could almost have forgotten their danger, except for the heavy sense of expectancy in the air.

Fimbrethil waded up the stream until they reached a point where the banks towered up on either side. Then she put down her passengers on the muddy west bank carefully. She walked into the deepest channel, her root-like toes grasping the rocks of the streambed, surefooted as a mountain goat. There she stood, sighing as the water rushed over her.

"It is good to feel water on my skin again!" she said, "I was getting much too hot; but now I am cool again and I can think clearly. But I am afraid there is not much to think about – we can do little else but wait here, where the water may cover our scent and the trees hide us," She shook her head slightly, and her brown brow wrinkled. "The trees are afraid," she murmured, "They will not speak." Her voice trailed off into inaudible rumbles and she seemed to have forgotten the three small travellers cowering on the bank of the stream.

"So here we are," Beleg said, "And all we can do is wait."

"Wait, and hope we won't be found," Trotter agreed, "At least the Wargs cannot smell us in the water, and Fimbrethil looks like a tree even from here. Our presence may go unnoticed."

They watched Fimbrethil for a while as she stood in the stream, seeming almost asleep and more tree-like than ever. The water sparkled in the low light around her; the droplets on her skin looked like tiny jewels. Her arms reached up like tree branches, the flowers crowning her head shining brightly. She was beautiful and deep in a way unlike any person Trotter had ever known. There was an air of peace about her, despite her many trials, a stillness of soul that came from deep within. The stream's soft music filled the air around her. Trotter wondered if this little river, too, had a spirit, like the one where he had met Arneniel.

"Doesn't look too comfortable, does it?" Beleg said somewhat sceptically, gesturing at Fimbrethil.


Trotter grinned. "No, I suppose it wouldn't be, for you or me." He paused a moment. "She is lovely, though," he added softly.


Beleg nodded. "More beautiful than I had imagined. Even the songs of the Elves cannot come close to the truth."


They sat for a while, listening fearfully as the light grew dimmer and dimmer. Crickets began to chirp softly, and the night wind moved through the branches above them. No howls disturbed the night. Trotter began to hope that their trick had succeeded, and the Wargs had lost their trail.

Fimbrethil moved suddenly, wading slowly out of the stream. Water droplets ran down her shadowy skin like rivers of silver, now barely visible, shining faintly in the moonlight. The stream gurgled on as she stepped back into the shallows, looming tall in the darkness.


"Hroom!" she said, "Very nice. Will you not drink and rest? You should keep up your strength – we do not know what awaits us on the morrow. We may have to walk far, and quickly."

Trotter shook his head. "I prefer to do my resting on dry land, thanks. And a drink does sound nice, but I'd rather have a cup of hot tea."

Anna snorted in amusement. "Hobbits!" she said fondly, "You would be thinking of tea at a time like this. I would hardly put it past you to build a fire and invite the Wargs for an evening snack."

Beleg made a sound as if he were trying to hold back laughter, then began to chuckle softly. Trotter didn't find it all that funny, and he was about to say so when he was cut off by the very sound they had been dreading - a wolf howling in the distance.

With an oath, Beleg leapt to his feet. "By the Valar!" he cried, "It can't be!"

Trotter was about to ask what the Elfit meant by that, but he found himself listening in horror to the now continuous howls. There was something different about the sound – it was colder and deadlier, and yet more human. Shivers clawed their way down his spine. One voice rang louder than all the others, full of unspoken words and triumphant laughter.

"What is that?" Trotter gasped finally.

Beleg did not answer. His eyes shone with anger and Trotter could see that his face was set, his jaw clenched, his fists balled at his sides. Trotter was reminded of Beleg when they had first met; the jester had turned into a warrior once more, all hard edges and cold, grim eyes.

"We should leave this place," Fimbrethil said, sounding disturbed, "Hroom! We should move, now, out of their way. They expect us to cower here, too frightened to move. We will find a different place to hide until morning comes; perhaps they will not attack in the sunlight."

"I will not run from him!" Beleg raged to himself, apparently forgetting the presence of his companions, "Filthy, nasty, vile creatures! Vipers with fur! Slavering poison like some foul spider!" He took a step forward, looking perfectly ready to run into the woods to kill every Warg that crossed his path - with his bare hands if need be.

Another howl split the stillness of the forest, closer this time. Trotter grabbed Beleg's arm before the Elfit could dash off in the direction of the sound. He could feel the tension of his friend's muscles; his arm was stiff and hard as stone.

"Beleg! Stop!" he heard Anna hiss, "You wouldn't stand a chance!"

"I will not run any further!" Beleg cried in anger, rounding upon her and trying to pull away from Trotter's grip, "They have found our trail anyway! Why not go to meet them? Why flee like cowards?" He stared fiercely into Anna's eyes, his own eyes glinting in the dark with a hate-filled inner flame.

"You're right," Trotter said before Anna could speak, "They have found our trail. But if we fight them here it will be over before it has begun. We're on lower ground, and the banks are slippery. They will be able to leap on us from above." Silently, he willed his friend to heed him.

"Let them leap!" snarled Beleg, "Let them come! I will show them what an Elfit can do!"

"No," Fimbrethil said calmly, in a voice that demanded obedience, "Do not be hasty. It will lead to trouble... We can defend ourselves against them better in the open. We passed a clearing not far from here, you remember. Entwives are not helpless either, as I believe I have said before. If we face them in the open, perhaps we can hold them until they give up, or the sun rises."

Beleg said nothing, nor did he move. Three more howls rose toward the moon, from different directions – but all much closer than before.

"Please, Beleg," Anna said, in an unexpectedly gentle tone, "Do not let your anger cloud your common sense. You know this is our best chance."

Beleg looked at her, and Trotter could feel him relaxing slowly.

"Let us go then!" he said, tearing his arm out of the Hobbit's grasp. He began to climb up the steep bank quickly, using the trailing vines as handholds. Anna and Trotter followed; Fimbrethil only needed one large step to climb out of the ravine.

Without another word, Beleg dashed into the trees, heading toward a clearing-crowned hill they had passed on their way to the ravine. The same awful, cold wolf-voice that Trotter had heard before shrieked again; he stumbled for a moment at the sound. Beleg ran on like one possessed, and after a moment Trotter followed his friend into the darkness.

A chorus of howls sounded from all directions. They were eerie, like the wailing of the dead, and filled with malice and horror. Cold songs of death and hatred filled the air around him. Trotter could almost hear words amidst the howling and snarling: words of cruel hunger and love of pain. Heart pounding, he loosened Nyéra in its sheath as he slipped through the underbrush.

Then he saw... no, it couldn't be! But it was, his eyes did not lie. Tiny points of light appeared through the branches; orange light, like flames. They were on both sides of him. He dared not looked behind, but he knew what he would see: more light, more torches. The feeling that they had made a terrible mistake filled him. Wargs did not carry torches, of course.

"Beleg!" he cried. He had slowed down when he noticed the torches, and his friends had outdistanced him in the meantime. The ground had begun to slope upward. He was climbing the hill. "Beleg! Fimbrethil, Anna!" Trotter shouted frantically, "There are Goblins! Goblins!"

He could not tell if they had heard him. His breath tore at his throat and he ran as never before. Perhaps if he could catch them before they reached the clearing, they could still escape... The torches had closed in on either side, and he could now hear sounds of pursuit from behind. Crashing sounds, as if something large, or a great many somethings were following. Tree branches whipped him in the face, scratching his hands and forehead. His own breathing was loud in his ears, and yet he could not seem to catch up to his companions. He stumbled over a root, found his balance, kept running. The hill was steep here, and he laboured up its side, fearing to be too late. Where was the clearing? He tried frantically to see through the trees.

But up ahead... was that more light?


  Trotter burst out of the woods and onto the hilltop with the taste of despair bitter in his mouth.

Torches ringed the clearing. He spun around, and they were behind him too, closing in. Fire danced on either side, all around. Their plan had been anticipated somehow, and now they were trapped. The torches threw flickering shadows madly on the ground. And some of those shadows were Wargs, huge black wolves reeking of evil. Goblins leered from behind the flames, huge grinning faces bristling with hatred. Memories flashed through his mind: Orcs bursting through the gate of Bree, a leering goblin-smile, the glint of a sword... He pushed the images away.

Fimbrethil, Beleg, and Anna were trapped in the centre of the clearing. Beleg was shouting in rage, his bow bent in his hands, and Fimbrethil's arms were raised, her powerful hands clenched in the air. Anna stood silently beside them... The sight twisted like a knife in Trotter's heart. Anna, who refused to bear a weapon and was the only creature here that was completely defenceless. He dashed over to join them. Sweat beaded on his brow; yet he felt oddly calm. The stars were above them, but they were cold and far away. He drew Nyéra from its sheath; the blade remained stubbornly black in despite of the torchlight.

The four of them stood back to back, and the ring of fire closed in upon them. The howls of Wargs and the taunts of Goblins mixed in a horrific din. Trotter couldn't tell how many there were; shadows mixed with them and slipped around them, confusing his eyes. Too many, though. Far too many.

"What took you so long?" Anna asked softly at his side. She looked perfectly composed, though sad.

"I had to write out the invitations to our evening snack," he said. Immediately he rued the weak joke. But to his surprise, a smile flickered over Anna's lips. She brushed a strand of hair out of his face.

"Looks like everyone has come," she said.

Suddenly, Trotter wished more than he had ever wished for anything in his life that he could turn back time and change the decisions he had made.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I dragged you into this. I shouldn't have made you come with us... this is all my fault..."

"Don't be silly," Anna said sternly, "Nobody makes me do anything. I chose to come of my own free will. Now stop talking and use that sword of yours."

Trotter turned back to the circle of enemies and braced himself. He found Beleg at his side, bow still in hand, though the Elfit had not yet let an arrow fly.

"Come on!" Beleg screamed at the ring of Goblins and Wargs, beside himself with inexplicable rage, "Bury and bloody you all! Morgoth take you!"

 
  Abruptly, the dark ring fell silent.


Trotter frowned... but no, they had not stopped because of Beleg. For now, coalescing out of the dark, came a new horror. A Warg stepped forward from the ring. And suddenly, Trotter understood Beleg's anger, and understood the meaning of the cold voice he had heard.

This Warg was huge, more than twice as large as a wolf, nearly as tall as a man. His fur was pitch-black, and his eyes were red with black pools at the centre. Muscles rippled along his body. He bared his teeth in a snarl, spittle dripping from his black lips. A metal bar ran along his left paw; there was a great shining claw attached to it. It was a claw of mithril, precious truesilver – adorning the foot of a Warg. Trotter felt his own lip curl in horror and disgust, for he knew now whom they faced.

"Drekgreth!" Beleg spat.

Drekgreth the Iron Claw, Delcarch the Fang of Horror, King of the Wargs of Middle Earth, a black shadow, a herald of death, grinned a toothy grin of recognition at the Elfit. Then the great black Warg throw back his head and howled.

And in that moment, the enemy was upon them.

With a wordless cry, Trotter threw himself in front of Anna in the face of the oncoming wave. An arrow whistled by his ear, and a Warg yelped and crashed to the ground. More followed; Beleg's bow sang, and every shaft unfailingly found its mark. Nyéra flickered in Trotter's hands, gliding silently through Goblin and Warg alike. Black blood flowed, covering his hands, his face, his clothes. Teeth snapped at his face; he slashed with Nyéra, and a Warg's head rolled at his feet. Bent, hairy arms reached for him; he thrust with his sword, and the dying breaths of a Goblin exhaled putridly into his face. Horror blinked on and off in his mind. He had never killed anything before.

Like it had at the battle in Bree, time seemed to flow oddly. But instead of slowing down, this time it sped up to an almost ridiculous pace. Swords and teeth struck furiously about him, too fast to see. He moved by pure instinct, his thoughts a pool of stillness in the whirling madness.

Suddenly, he glimpsed a silver snake striking from his right. He tried to turn, but too slowly; the sword slashed mercilessly across his field of vision. Then suddenly a howl shivered through the din of the battle, and the blade disappeared. The Orc who had wielded it sailed through the air, sent reeling by a blow from Fimbrethil's many-fingered fist. The Entwife stormed through the writhing crowd around Trotter; Wargs and Goblins scattered before her. She raised her head and roared once, with a call like the voice of the mountains and the woods.

"Tree-killers!" she cried, "Axe-wielders! Fire-kindlers!"

"Fimbrethil!" Trotter cried, "Where are the others?"

She took no notice of him, striding on heedlessly. "Drekgreth!" he heard her calling, "Come out, you young black-heart!"

Trotter was about to follow her when a glint of gold caught his eye. He dashed toward it; but after a moment he froze in mid-step. He was sure he had seen it – the firelight shining on Anna's hair. But where was she? He spun around, searching the clearing. For a second, he thought he saw it again, but before he could be sure, his attackers were on him once more, now that Fimbrethil's threatening shadow had disappeared. It was all he could do to defend himself, and every other thought was driven from his mind.

And yet through it all he remained unscathed. The swords of the Orcs did not seem to reach him, and the Wargs' fangs turned aside. Nyéra locked with the blade of a Goblin; the creature stumbled away from him quickly. Suddenly he realized that the movement had been purposeful. They were not trying to kill him - they wanted to capture him. Desperately he thought of his mission to Gondor, of everything that had been said at the Last Council. If the Witch-King gained that knowledge... he tried to forget the thought and redoubled his efforts to defend himself. He was alone now; his companions had disappeared somewhere in the roiling night.

A curved knife flashed towards his heart silently. Trotter hurled himself away, falling to the ground. The world spun and jerked; faces swirled around him. Hands grabbed at him, tearing at his clothing and hair; bodies piled onto him, weighing him down into helpless immobility. He bared his teeth, gripping Nyéra's hilt, now slippery with blood, and cried a wordless cry.

But even as he howled his pain and anger, he was silenced by another cry, deeper and more fearful, filled with a pain so great Trotter nearly wept. Every movement stilled, and all heads turned toward it, shocked and spellbound.


A great light welled up to his right. Dread gripped his heart, but he could not stop himself from looking. Eyes wide, he raised his head and stared, horror filling him.

Fimbrethil stood some distance away from him, shaking, as she burned like a bonfire. Her cry of anguish echoed into the night, accompanied by the crackling of her own burning body. Her arms reached out, blackening as flames raced along them. Her hair charred and fell to ash, the little white flowers around her face mere wisps of smoke. Fire consumed her with ravenous hunger, and she howled like the wind in the trees, burning, burning, burning...

Taking advantage of the Orcs' shocked surprise, Trotter surged to his feet. Anna was nowhere in sight; he did not want to think what might have become of her. He glimpsed a movement out of the corner of his eye and almost shouted in joy – it was Beleg. But Trotter's momentary spark of happiness faded immediately. The Elfit had fought himself free of his enemies; as soon as he had gained some space, he threw himself at a dead run toward Drekgreth. His belt-knife glittered in his hand as he struck, straight and true, at the Warg King's heart. But Drekgreth lashed out with his paw, and his claws, harder than anything else upon earth, turned away the steel. With one bound, the Warg was upon Beleg, his mouth gaping in a grin of triumph and death.

Then Nyéra was torn from Trotter's grasp and hairy arms encircled him in a hateful embrace. Clinging hands found his throat, cutting off his breath; the scar on his neck ached. There was a rushing in his ears, and shadows flicked across his vision. He tried to struggle, but it was not enough. Weakness stole over his limbs, and as he fell to the ground and darkness closed in upon his mind, the last thing Trotter saw was the burned stump where Fimbrethil had stood.

A dark brew of dreams boiled in Trotter's head. He was jolting back and forth on a broken boat that was filling slowly with brackish water. A black sun rolled madly in the sky. Someone was laughing, but the laughter sounded like a fire crackling. The clang of steel against steel rang, and he thought he could hear Anna calling to him. Arrows hissed passed him, but they changed direction in mid-flight and hurtled back. Anna was calling ... Trotter... I chose to come... better me than someone else... I chose to come... Trotter! Trotter!

"But I asked you to... you followed me," he mumbled.

Trotter!

"My fault..."

Trotter!

"Trotter! Trotter, wake up!" A familiar voice was whispering in his ear. He blinked wearily, trying to see. There was blackness before his eyes... no, it was brown. He was lying facedown in the dirt. Trying to gain some sense of where he was, he turned his head and found himself staring into Anna's face.

"Anna!" he gasped, jerking in surprise, "You're not dead!"

"Shhh!" she hissed. She was gazing at him from under half-closed eyes, and her mouth hardly moved when she spoke. "They're watching," she added, voice barely audible.

Trotter lay still and tried to look around covertly. They were in the forest. It was daytime, but the sky was grey and overcast. There were two Wargs and an Orc within his field of vision; he guessed that the others were nearby. His sword was gone, and his hands were tied in front of him. They had fallen asleep and were tingling uncomfortably, but he didn't dare to move for fear of attracting unwanted attention.

"What happened?" he asked, "Where are we? How long...?"

"It's tomorrow," Anna whispered, "Or at least, the battle was last night. They carried us for a long time... I think northwards. Fimbrethil..." She grimaced.

"I saw," Trotter said sadly, "What about Beleg?"

"I don't know," Anna said miserably, "That big Warg leaped on him, and then I couldn't see anymore."

At that moment, two dirt-splattered boots thudded down before Trotter's nose. He jumped, then tried to keep still and act as if he were still unconscious. Too late – the Orc had seen his involuntary movement.

"Awake, are you?" it sneered, "Come on, little squirrel! Can't have the two of you chattering, can we? Come along with me now!" Trotter found himself hauled ungently to his feet and slung onto the Goblin's back. His bound hands were looped around its neck, and he dangled uncomfortably behind, like a child on a very unpleasant piggyback ride. There was a muffled shout behind him; it sounded like Anna. He craned his neck, trying to look back, but as it turned out, there was no need. His Orc whirled around with a snarl.

"What do you think you're doing, you dirty fool!" it hissed, "The bosses'll have your tongue for breakfast!"

Peering around the Goblin's shoulder, Trotter could see that another Orc had seized Anna and was holding her in the air by her collar, shaking her from side to side. She squealed and tried to kick her attacker, but the Orc was out of her reach. Finally she gave up, hanging exhaustedly in the Orc's grasp.

"I just wanted a look at it," the Orc whined in response to the other's question, "What's the big deal about such a little trinket, anyway? There are loads of better jewels in the hoards in the North City, I'll bet. Why can't I just look at this one?"

"The big boss wants it, that's why," Trotter's Orc said, "Look at it all you want, if your greed is stronger than your sense, but don't blame me when they burn your eyes out for it!" It laughed at its own joke. Trotter could feel the stringy muscles and malformed spinal chord heaving beneath him. He suppressed a shudder.

Suddenly, the Goblin stopped laughing and cringed. It trembled pathetically; and when Trotter saw the source of its terror, he trembled himself, though as much from anger as from fear. Silently as a plague, the King of the Wargs had slipped among the tiny company, and he did not seem pleased.

"Greetings, uh, your Clawness, I mean, your Fangship, sir," the second Orc said, dropping Anna unceremoniously and cowering away from the giant black werewolf. Drekgreth took no notice of the Goblin; he padded softly forward, huge paws leaving no print on the forest floor. His silver claw shimmered in odd contrast to the pitch-black fur.

Drekgreth stopped in front of Anna and bent his head to stare at her. She lay frozen on the ground, gazing back as if hypnotized, green eyes held cruelly by red. The giant Warg stretched out his right paw and placed it possessively on the Starflower, spilled silver onto the earth next to Anna's face. There was a sudden hiss, and with a surprised growl, Drekgreth pulled back his paw in a flash. He stared at the pads on the underside of his foot in disbelief; there was an angry mark there, in the shape of a seven-petal flower.

"What... what does it mean, great lord?" Trotter's Orc said, seeming surprised at its own courage in daring to ask such a question.

"Nothing," the Warg King replied. His voice was a deep growling rumble, like the ominous whisperings of an earthquake. "Nothing, except that the jewel will not allow itself to be taken against the bearer's will. But that is no obstacle." He grinned wickedly at Anna, showing a mouthful of hand-length yellow teeth. "Soon enough you will be only too happy to get rid of the little toy."

"I'll never give it to you," Anna said, flaring up in a sudden fit of anger, "I don't know what you want with it, or what the Witch-King wants with it, but as long as you desire it you'll never get it."

Drekgreth made a yowling sound that Trotter took to be laughter. "The Dark Lord gets everything he wants sooner or later," he said, "But the later he gets it, the angrier he tends to be. If you wish, you may hand over the necklace now, and you will be spared a lot of pain."

"I'm not afraid of pain," Anna said with a bitter laugh.

"Perhaps not," Drekgreth growled, "Pain may mean little to you. But what about your friends?" His burning red eyes turned to Trotter. "Will this one stand pain as well as you? Suppose he met the same fate as the tree-wench? Fire brings an unpleasant death..."

"No," Anna said, "You won't! No one would..." But the words were empty. Drekgreth would do whatever pleased him, and everyone present knew it.

"... If, on the other hand, you give me the necklace now, I may decide he is unnecessary, and let him go on his way."

Anna met Trotter's gaze frantically. He could read the question in her eyes: what should she do?"

"Don't listen to him!" he said, wondering if he was sealing his own coffin with the sentence, "He's lying anyway; he would never let me go. If the Witch-King wants the Starflower, keep it from him, whatever the cost."

"Poor, foolish Halfling," Drekgreth said softly, "Killing you will hardly be worth the trouble. But it will leave such a burden on your little half-breed friend's mind... after all, your death will be her fault."

But Anna had set her jaw and a stubborn light was in her eye. "Keep your pathetic threats to yourself," she spat, "I'll never give you what you want."

Drekgreth laughed his howling laugh. "You speak far too hastily," he said, "Wait and see; you may change your mind yet." He tossed his mighty head and howled, the ghostly sound cutting through the air. All around them, Wargs and Goblins appeared, apparently completely recovered after their rest.

"Bring them," Drekgreth said. Then he turned on his heel and loped away.

Trotter wondered bleakly how they were going to get out of this one as a sack was pulled over his head so that he could see nothing. A moment later, he felt his Orc straighten and leap onto the back of a Warg. The werewolf, bearing its twin burdens easily, sped up to a trot on the heels of the Warg King. He could not be sure of their direction, but guessed that they were on their way north, ever further into the lands of the Witch-King. As he blinked painfully in the darkness of the stuffy sack, Trotter reflected that could draw comfort from one thought, at least: Drekgreth had said friends. And that meant that Beleg was still alive.

Trotter was wondering if it wasn't just his imagination and they were really slowing down, when he was lifted in the air and tossed carelessly to the ground. They had travelled without rest until evening, or so he guessed; the air seemed cooler than it had during the day. He could scarcely move his stiff muscles; dangling behind an Orc was hardly comfortable. He rubbed his cramped wrists painfully as he lay in confused disorientation on the ground, trying to massage some feeling back into them.

Shouts and howls clamoured around him; there seemed to be a great deal of activity going on, though he could see none of it. He was just wondering if he really wanted to know what was happening, when his head was jerked up forcefully and the sack pulled off. He fell back immediately onto the earth, facedown, blinking in the sudden light. To his surprise, no one spoke to him or touched him; it was not until his eyes adjusted to the comparative brightness that he realized why.

Drekgreth and his company had halted in a small clearing. The sky was blanketed with dark rain clouds, and it looked as if they would have a wet night. The Orcs and Wargs, however, did not pay any attention to the weather; the Goblins proceeded to light torches in a ring around the clearing, as they had the night before. There was some grumbling from the Wargs at this – they did not like fire. But Drekgreth commanded it, and none of them dared to protest to his face.

Trotter lay on the bristly grass, looking around as inconspicuously as he could. He found that he could see quite well despite the dim light; the torches lit the evening. Anna was sitting a few feet away from him. She met his gaze silently, then made a tiny motion with her head. He followed the gesture and realized that a werewolf was crouching next to her watchfully; a guard, obviously. There was a Warg near him as well, and he had no doubt that his every movement was under close scrutiny. The rest of the Wargs were scattered around the clearing evenly, and there was a large cluster of them near a large tree at the north end, leaping and yipping happily. There were too many bodies in the way for Trotter to make out the source of their satisfaction.

Drekgreth sat calmly in the centre of the meadow, his wide back to Trotter and Anna. He seemed to be waiting for something. Trotter watched the King of the Wargs apprehensively; he had a bad feeling that Drekgreth had something very unpleasant planned. Suddenly, the great Warg howled once, shortly; then he barked and yelped a few times. Trotter supposed that he was speaking in the werewolf language. In any case, the other Wargs seemed to understand; as one, they drew away from the tree where they had been amusing themselves. As the black crowd dissipated, Trotter saw what had occupied them so.

Roped to the tree by bonds on his wrists, Beleg glared out at the assembled company. Had it not been for his familiar blue eyes, Trotter would hardly have recognized him. The Elfit's own clothes had disappeared, and he was dressed in grey Orc rags. His bow, naturally, was gone; his face was bruised and blood caked the side of his mouth. But it was not this that made Trotter stare in sympathy. Beleg's hair had been cut off jaggedly until it barely reached his ears, and it had been died jet-black. With rage hot in his eyes, Beleg looked almost like an Orc himself.

Beleg did not seem to have seen him or Anna. The Elfit's gaze wandered searchingly over the shadowy shapes outline by torchlight, until his eyes focused – on Drekgreth. His lips curled into a mocking snarl.

"So," he said, "Afraid to fight me yourself? I should've known you would only dare to face me with an army at your back, even tied hand and foot."

Drekgreth laughed. "Why would I want to fight you?" he said, "That would be far too easy. No, I have something much more entertaining in mind." He snapped at the air in satisfaction, red eyes flashing.

At that moment, one of the Orcs from the surrounding circle stood and made a cringing bow in Drekgreth's direction. Its shadow, cast by the firelight behind, wavered and twisted on the dark ground. "Do you command, great Claw?" it asked.

"As directed," Drekgreth replied with a grin. The Orc pulled two curved knives from its belt and flourished them lightly for the benefit of everyone watching. And suddenly Trotter realized what was going on; it was a show. The waiting Orcs and Wargs were the spectators, and Beleg was the feature attraction. Furthermore, if he guessed correctly, the whole thing was for their benefit; or, to be precise, for Anna's benefit.

The Orc took aim with over-exaggerated care, drawing sneering laughs from his audience. Then it hurtled the first knife. Beleg twisted away as the blade spun through the air and landed with a dull thump in the wood of the tree. It quivered there, an inch from his neck. The Elfit did not look afraid, but he could not help blinking reflexively. A moment later, the second knife followed, and this time he was too slow. It grazed his shoulder; blood welled up, soaking his sleeve.

"A poor shot!" Beleg said, "If all the Witch-King's servants are this clumsy, your war is already lost, be there ever so many of you!" He strained against his bonds, but in vain; he only managed to bloody his wrists with the effort.

"Patience," Drekgreth growled, "This is only the beginning."

The Orc retrieved his knives and sat down. His place was taken immediately by another of his kind, grinning in anticipation at his chance to join in the fun. But Trotter did not watch the throws this time; his attention was distracted by a Goblin sitting some distance to his left. The Orc was watching the spectacle with cruel delight, laughing and clapping its hands; but what interested Trotter was the sword buckled to its belt. The sight of the familiar sheath set his heart beating swiftly. It was Nyéra.

Trotter glanced around. No one was looking at him; they were all far too busy watching their victim. He caught Anna's eye. She looked frightened, unsurprisingly, but desperately angry as well.

"Distract them," he mouthed. She looked confused, so he repeated the silent sentence. Understanding flickered in her eyes, and she turned away from him immediately. He did not wait to watch what she would do.

 As quietly and quickly as he could, Trotter lowered his head and began to bite at the cord tying his wrists together. He could not suppress a start at every loud noise – what if someone noticed him? What was Anna doing? He could not see more than a few feet of wet, dead grass before his nose; every Warg in the clearing could have been watching him, for all he knew. But luck was with him, and the enemy's own cruelty worked against them this time; they were all too occupied with Beleg to pay attention to him.

A roar from the Wargs distracted him momentarily. One of the knives had found its mark; there was a bleeding gash in Beleg's right side. The Elfit made a grab for the blade, but it was ripped out of his hand before he could use it. He shook his blackened head like an animal at bay, breathing heavily. Trotter feared that Drekgreth would continue the game until the Elfit was cut into pieces; but at that very moment the Warg King called a halt.

"Let's try something different, shall we?" he said slyly, "I wouldn't want you to tire of our little game. And we certainly don't want to finish you too soon. Suppose we bring on the whip for a change of scenery?" He growled something in the Warg language, and a smaller werewolf appeared with a long coiled whip in its mouth. The whip was handed over to the same Orc who had just finished throwing his knives; the Goblin seemed delighted at the chance to inflict more torture on his helpless victim. He flicked the whip once. A loud crack burst in the air. The Orc nodded in satisfaction and turned to Beleg, raising his arm gleefully. Beleg smirked at him insolently, as if to prove that not a shadow of fear crossed his mind.

"Stop! Stop!"

It was Anna's voice. The girl stumbled toward the Warg King angrily, bound hands clasped at her neck. She fell to her knees before the giant wolf, glaring up at him. Trotter stopped watching; he was too busy gnawing frantically at his bonds. But he could hear every word spoken as clearly as bells ringing in the morning.

"I'll give it to you," she said, "Let him go now and I'll give you the Starflower."

Trotter hoped desperately that this was Anna's distraction. She could not be earnest... could she?

Drekgreth's voice dripped with sarcastic satisfaction as he answered. "I knew you would see things my way in the end," he said, "It was only a matter of time. Loose him!" There were some vague tearing noises, followed by sharp crack.

"Stop it!" Anna shouted, "Don't hurt him anymore!"

"As you wish, little human," Drekgreth said, "Now... the necklace."

The last fibres parted between Trotter's teeth. He looked up just in time to see Anna lift the Starflower off her neck and hand it with trembling fingers to the Warg King. Drekgreth snatched it in his jaws, the silver glinting beside his teeth in the torchlight. He grinned.

"Thank you, my dear little human," he growled, "And as a reward for your cleverness, I will keep my promise; your friend has been spared the whip. But I'm afraid my brothers and friends here were rather excited about the show, and I could hardly disappoint them now." He stepped back, leaving Anna kneeling alone amidst the Wargs. "Enjoy yourself," he said mockingly.

Anna gazed wildly at the wolf-faces around her. "But I don't..." she said. Before she finished her sentence, the Orc with the whip leaped forward and struck her once across the face. The force of the blow hurled her onto her back, and she could only stare helplessly up as the Goblin cracked his knuckles in preparation for the next strike.

Drekgreth howled in mirth, raising the necklace triumphantly toward the sky. The surrounding werewolves echoed the call; but while the first notes were still welling in their throats, they stuck in surprise, and the sound choked and died. Beleg, momentarily forgotten after he had been freed, snatched one of the knives that had been aimed at him moments earlier from an Orc's hand, and leaped at Drekgreth in a flash. He was a picture of furious vengeance, and the Wargs and Goblins pulled away from him in surprised terror.

At the same moment, Trotter bounded to his feet and made a dash for his sword. Drekgreth's howl of rage and Anna's startled shriek rang through the night as his hands closed on Nyéra.

A/N: Avid readers of Tolkien's works may find the idea of Beleg tied to a tree familiar – in both Unfinished Tales and The Lays of Beleriand, the original Beleg Strongbow was tied in such a manner by Túrin's band of outlaws. The scene was cut from The Silmarillion, but I liked the idea so much (is that morbid?) that I decided to use it for my own Beleg (I'll be he was just overjoyed, too).