Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien aside from original characters needed to move the story along. Notes on the story and Adûnaic Grammar follow in the next chapter.

The Sorcerer

Pelargir, Second Age 1826

Pûtabas was not then the great port it would become under Númenórean rule. Its native fishermen looked upon the newcomers with distaste and fear, apprehending all too well the bleak outlook for their people. Angórë had seen few signs of life in the village since his ship had landed to take on water and lemons. [20]

They were to put out in the morning, and Angórë had gone below deck to his bunk, less tired than weary. He found his work challenging enough, but he had little to do when not at sea. He had hardly settled down when the steward, in such haste that he nearly fell down the narrow stairs, called to those in the hold. "All hands on deck! To arms, lads, we are boarded!"

Well, this certainly was not usual. Angórë could not help feeling a thrill of excitement as he took up his knife and followed his shipmates to the deck. In their black clothing, the raiding party seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, but clearly they had overwhelmed the ship's men. Most of those on deck when the raid began lay already dead or wounded. The Captain still held out, and seeing an opportunity to better himself - if he lived - Angórë launched himself at one of the men attacking the Captain. His small knife could not match the man's heavy sword however, and he would have perished without a stroke of luck: the Captain gave a dying cry and fell.

Angórë took the Captain's sword and faced his foe anew. The weapon was too heavy, and he, too inexperienced, yet it seemed that he had been born to the sword, so neatly did he wield it. He had the advantage of his opponent, and would have finished him had not another man come to his fellow's aid. The pair soon backed Angórë nearly against the rail.

Steadying his mind, the boy caught the eye of the first man, and with swords locked, the two held still for a breathless moment. With a curse, the man fell back, clawing at his eyes. The second man advanced and got a knife between the eyes for his trouble. Angórë leapt for the railing, abandoning ship with the rest of the surviving crew. A hand grasped him by the hair and pulled him up so that his feet dangled in the air.

The tallest of the raiders had captured him. Angórë kicked at the man, but found the enormous, muscular frame indifferent as a stone. Nor would the man allow the boy to manipulate him; he seemed immune to Angórë's powers. To his surprise, his captor spoke to him not in the strange tongue of the other raiders, but in Adûnaic.

"This one has some spirit, and maybe some sorcery." He set the boy on his feet, though he kept one meaty hand wrapped around Angórë's hair. "But you are no match for my Lord, young whelp," the man laughed. He glanced at the first man Angórë had faced - that one lay on the deck, still pawing at his eyes.

"Do not feel bad - you have been bested by one more powerful than you," he said to the man in a kindly voice. He took a torch from its holder. "And thus I have no use for you." He buried the torch in the man's tangled, greasy hair. Screams and a horrid odor of roasting pork filled the air. The man turned to the others. "We ride - and take the boy with us."

"I think my Lord will find you interesting," he added, pushing Angórë before him. "Your little tricks are useless against me, boy, so do not hope for escape. But if you are good, we will do you no harm."

They disembarked, several men carrying chests taken from the hold. The last of the men threw kerosene on the boat and set it alight. They passed through the darkened village; if the people of Pûtabas did not care for the Númenóreans, these black-clothed Easterlings terrified them. In the woods beyond the village, they met those left behind to guard the horses and supplies. The leader finally released Angórë's hair and tied his hands in front of him with rope. The bonds were strong and tight, but not uncomfortably so. He tossed the boy easily onto his great steed and swung up behind him. The men departed with a horrible howling. Angórë recognized that there was nothing otherworldly about their cries, yet it chilled him the same. He could imagine the villagers cowering in their homes.

"What is your name, boy?" the man asked, after they had ridden some time.

"Angórë."

The man sniffed. "An Elvish name." It confirmed what he had thought - the boy came of highborn roots.

Angórë had never thought much about the elves; he had never met any. "You do not care for elves?"

The man laughed harshly. "My father came from your home, though he was not of your kind - his people were simple folk, laborers in the quarries of Ondosto. He followed his lord into war when he was but your age - a war in which men sacrificed their short lives at the whim of an immortal, an elf who had seen more years than Númenor itself. For this elf, boys of our race were slaughtered on fields of battle. My father soon decided that he was fighting for the wrong cause and joined the enemy."

Angórë gasped. "He fought for Sauron!"

The man cast a dark look upon the boy. "We do not speak that name or any other. We call him Durbgu dashshu, 'Lord of the Earth', and that is enough." [21]

Angórë digested this. Seeing that his situation could not get worse, he dared another question. "What became of your father?"

"After the war, he came east with those who survived. For a time, they settled in the Wilderland, and there I was born, but my mother's people stayed in no place long. The elves of the wood are a fierce and warlike folk, caring little for simple men. They drove us unmercifully, until none but the women and children remained, for their arrows rarely fail to find a target.

"As outlaws we have lived, hated by elves and Edain alike, those who claim righteousness. They have harried our families that we could not settle."

Angórë knew what it was like to be wanted nowhere.

"In Durbgu dashshu there is power. The time will come when his enemies shall be those who flee."

As day eased across the eastern sky, the man called a halt. Angórë's stomach rumbled as the scent of roasted meat rose from the fire. By the time he had eaten and shared the noxious but potent ale that served as drink, Angórë could hardly keep his eyes open. The man threw a bedroll into his arms, jolting him awake.

"Remember what I said, boy, about trying to escape. The poor wretch who last slept in that bedroll was of such a mind, and we just ate his hindquarters for supper." He laughed gaily at the revolted expression on the boy's face. "Nay, 'twas the fine Númenórean beef from your ship we had."

Angórë cursed himself for his gullibility. He had quickly learned that the man had little patience for weakness. The man seemed to think him useful, and if he wanted to stay alive, he guessed that he should not disabuse the man of this notion. As he fell asleep, it occurred to him that no one had ever found him useful.

---------------------------------------------------

They traveled northeast, mostly by night. After several days, a dark and forbidding mountain range rose in the east. They left the forest for something of a road, and now rode openly by day. The men accompanying them grew increasingly uneasy as the party turned due east and took a road paved with some sort of black rock. It climbed steeply for some time, and when they stopped for the night, they had reached the summit of the pass. Great peaks of jagged teeth leered from every direction and Angórë noted something foul and acidic in the mist that settled over the camp. They descended into a valley quite unlike anything Angórë had ever seen: a barren wasteland, interrupted only by barbed rocks and waterless crevices. Through three days' ride neither the landscape nor the heavy cloud cover changed until they reached the foot of a great, smoking mountain. Two more days brought a black tower into view.

The other men would go no further, and the leader ordered them to set up camp. With Angórë, he continued toward the tower, reaching it as dim daylight faded into utterly black night.

A gravely voice shouted in the night, speaking a tongue that hurt the boy's ears. Though Adûnaic seemed clumsy to one accustomed to the soft nuances of Sindarin, this language sounded positively foul. The man replied in the same language, and torches flared to life. A twisted and hideous creature thrust the light in their faces. An orc, Angórë guessed. It had a horrid stench, remarkable, as he was not terribly clean himself.

The orc recognized the man and seemed to become apologetic. The man dismounted and pulled Angórë from the horse so suddenly that his tired legs nearly failed to support him. He yanked the boy upright and untied his hands. "I think you are clever enough to know not to run off in Mordor," the man said. He pushed the boy in front of him, and they passed through a pair of enormous iron gates.

Up a winding stair they went, climbing high into the tower. They came to another door, guarded by more orcs. One pulled open a slit in the heavy door and spoke in his guttural tongue to someone - or thing - within.

A tall, thin man opened the portal. He led them forth, coming to a sudden halt before a throne of obsidian. There sat the tallest man - for so he appeared - Angórë had yet seen. His massive arms were banded with muscle and he had long, dark hair curiously similar in shade - or lack of light - to his own. His face was fair, fairer even than that of Angórë's father, and he wore a benign expression. Only when Angórë looked in his eyes did he sense the terrible master on the throne, for the eyes glittered with ice.

He dropped his gaze quickly, unable to endure the glare of such eyes.

Beside him, the man bowed reverently, and Angórë hastily did the same. The man spoke with the figure on the throne in that same irritating language, and then the Dark Lord did something surprising.

"Come closer, child, that I may look at you," he said in Sindarin.

Angórë dragged his feet forward, not a little frightened. A long finger tipped his chin up, forcing him to look into those terrible eyes.

"You know what I am."

What answer did he want? Sauron, the Abhorred? The Dark Lord? Durbgu dashshu, Lord of the Earth? Somehow, Angórë thought none of these quite right. He settled on the most basic answer, recalling history lessons he had learned well. "You are a Maia," he said tentatively.

This answer seemed to please him. "In your blood runs the power of my kind - it has thinned through the generations, but it is stronger in you than in most. You have suffered for it, yet I tell you now it is a gift." [22]

Angórë found the Dark Lord's voice strangely soothing.

"O le echedithon vorguldir veleg, a ti i fuianner le, o le pedithar vi anwar a girithar o goe ir anglennal." ["Of you I shall make a great black sorcerer, and those who have hated you will speak of you in awe, and will shudder in fear of you wherever you go."] [23]

Sauron looked at the man. "Khamûl, you have done well. A rare gem, you have found."

Khamûl bowed again. "I am only glad to serve you, Durbgu dashshu."

Having dismissed the humans, Sauron sat in thought. Indeed, Khamûl had made a great discovery. The boy stank of the blood of Lúthien - and so he bore also the legacy of Melian. The boy had power, and Sauron knew that he would make a fearsome sorcerer. Ah, Khamûl hardly knew. A whelp, he had brought to Lugbúrz, a mere boy - yet this boy would be the greatest of the Dark Lord's servants. [24]

Sauron - Durbgu dashshu, Angórë reminded himself - was true to his word, and Angórë proved an apt pupil. He had no choice, really - though he was not a prisoner, he had no illusions about his chances for escape, and he supposed he had better please the Maia if he wanted to stay alive. He learned to bend the will of others to his own, and to conjure a shadow of blackness. He learned the art of necromancy, and he found many souls in Mordor on which to practice - men and elves imprisoned in life and kept there in death by the arts of Sauron. Orcs, of course, had also perished here, and curiously, the essence of their life revealed an Elven fëa. They feared the call of Mandos, and remained by choice in the Black Lands. Angórë found these unhappy spirits easiest of all to control. [25]

All the while, Sauron reminded him of the slights he had suffered, of the retribution those from his past had coming. The spark of anger grew to a flame, a burning desire for vengeance. It seemed to Angórë that none had understood him as did the Maia; none had loved him so well.

Still one thing remained to ensure the boy's undying fealty, and this Sauron presented to the boy - a man now, really - when he was satisfied that Angórë would be all he had hoped. With the ring, Angórë found that his powers increased greatly. He could deny nothing to his Lord, no matter how base or cruel might be the wishes he carried out. Indeed, it seemed to him that all he did at the behest of Durbgu dashshu sprung from his own desires, and that the tortures he devised fed his very soul, so that he wished only to do more.

Númenor, Second Age 1900

His errand arose by the will of his Master, but his own purpose in returning to the island did not displease Sauron. In the north and east, where none might know him, he went about as a nameless wanderer, his presence and appearance unremarkable. In each town, he dropped words well-chosen, words of discontent. To the west he did not go, for there lived the Faithful, and Sauron had sown in his heart a deep hatred of the elves and those they called elvellyn. He stayed longest in Armenelos, blending easily into the city, breathing malice in the darkest taverns and narrowest streets. [26]

At last, his errantry complete, he turned southward. He shed his traveler's clothes for the fine raiment of a great lord, and arrived at Nindamos in triumphant return.

"Muindor! Can it really be you?" Alatundar greeted his sibling warmly. To his surprise, Angórë found himself returning some of the sentiment. [27]

Alatundar looked at his brother in wonder. The boy who had gone to sea had lost the lankiness of youth. He returned a man, fair of face and broad of shoulder, tall as his lineage predicted. He wore the finest velvet coat and softest leather breeches, with a waistcoat of delicate silk embroidered by the talented maids of Harad.

"Life in Ennor agrees with you, Angórë," Alatundar said, pouring brandy from an ancient bottle. "This calls for the best of our grandfather's store." They took seats by the fire. "You must tell me what fortune has availed you," he said.

Angórë hid a smirk, imagining his brother's shock, were he to tell the truth. Instead, he changed the subject. "I would rather hear what has happened here in my absence. Adar is well?"

Their father had passed his title and responsibilities to his son, as did many nobles after the manner of the Kings of Númenor. The 'old lord', as the townsfolk had dubbed him (Alatundar they named the 'young lord'), spent his time playing chess at the tavern, "though none can best those wily fishermen."

Their mother had come to a less peaceful end, succumbing to the evils of drink, to which she had turned for comfort after her daughter's death. Alatundar had married and had children of his own. Angórë briefly met the lady as she herded the younger ones off to bed. They seemed happy enough, and when Alatundar's wife joined them later, he noted they shared an affection his parents had lacked.

At last, the conversation turned to a topic of greater interest to Angórë. "I am certain you will remember Nîphrûkh, the son of Kulbatân. Age, I fear, has made him no less foolish," Alatundar said with a sour expression.

Nîphrûkh had made himself most unpopular since his father's estate had come to him. He quarreled often with Alatundar and with the Master of Nindamos. He had not the intelligence or fine art of diplomacy that his father had wielded into such wealth. Nîphrûkh relied on more direct means: threats and coercion. He had frittered away his riches on a grandiose manor ("the eyesore," Alatundar's wife observed). Poor management had turned his father's rich timberlands to a wasteland of erosion and blight.

Angórë heard this with a measure of disappointment. He had planned his tormentor's ruin in delicious detail, but Nîphrûkh had already set himself on the path to ignominy. A man of more wisdom might have understood that forces beyond the understanding of man would bring retribution upon the cruel. Angórë could not let his vengeance lie. His nature defied this higher course, and his teacher had not told him how evildoing must end, for Sauron himself did not expect it.

The merchant's wife had fared not much better: years of ill-use left a shadow in place of the effervescent nursemaid. Nîphrûkh had still one treasure untarnished: his daughter, a lovely girl of marriageable age, innocent and sweet and the fair pleasure of her father's life. A plan, a very wicked plan, formed as Angórë considered the girl. He would take his time - he knew precisely how to manage long campaigns that would in the end yield exactly the fruit he wished to cultivate.

First, he had to gain the trust of Nîphrûkh, but this proved easier than he anticipated. Privately, Nîphrûkh thought his old rival stunningly naïve, for the young lord's brother agreed to seed some rather unsavory business transactions. In more desperate straights than his enemies imagined, Nîphrûkh's fortunes had turned for the better at just the right moment, and he meant to keep Angórë's purse strings open to him. The merchant's greed soon had him welcoming Angórë as if a long-lost friend had returned, and on many a night, the two men kept amiable company in Nîphrûkh's home.

"By the by," Angórë began on one such night, schooling his expression to benign effect. Underneath he seethed with impatience - how much longer must he suffer this fool? "Would you be so kind as to lend me your daughter's arm for my sister's fête this coming week? I find myself without a partner."

The other man's eyes gleamed. Such an event would expose his daughter to the cream of society - perhaps Angórë might have designs on her himself. This black-hearted man could not resist the lure of gold, even in matters concerning the daughter he genuinely loved.

Thus began a courtship of sorts. With her sweet disposition, Azruth fell guilelessly under the spell of the handsome noble. She did not think for a minute that he held more than a passing interest in her, for she was a good deal more sensible than her father, but something drew her to him, though she could not say what. She found his offers to squire her to dances at the lord's manor and festivals in the town irresistible.

Angórë had nursed bitter bile for nearly a century. So close had he come to the final blow, he rather relished its anticipation. It did not hurt that the golden-haired girl recalled her mother with uncanny likeness. Patiently, he worked to gain her trust, and after many months of inane tea dances and dinner parties, he judged it safe to set his plan in motion.

"What is this surprise?" Azruth asked as they rode westward early one morning. They had passed into Hyarnustar and rode through vineyards and the sprawling estates of the winemakers. At noon, they reached a village of moderate size. Here, the folk had the first wine of the season, and had laid out a great feast in celebration. The girl delighted in such things, for her friendly nature disarmed the most guarded strangers, and too early for her did the long shadows of afternoon fall.

They began the long ride home, Azruth chattering like a starling about the people she had met. Soon after the light began to fail in earnest, Angórë suddenly bid his companion to be quiet. They held up their horses and Azruth peered into the twilight at the road ahead, at last seeing the approaching men.

"Highwaymen," Angórë hissed, feigning surprise.

The men he had hired rode swiftly upon them, brandishing their knives. "Your coins and valuables, and if you are quick about it, you will wake to see the sun rise."

"Do as we are told," Angórë advised the girl. He gave up a ring with the amulet of his family and a purse of coins.

"Now your horses - they look like fine beasts!" Alatundar would lament the loss, for they were indeed valuable steeds.

"And this ring?" their captain pointed.

"That is a trinket of no value to any save myself," Angórë said. He had promised these rogues the horses and his purse with a specified number of gold pieces. The men had turned greedy - dangerously so. Angórë looked into the captain's eyes until the other backed away, shaken by the image he had seen in Angórë's pitiless grey eyes. With trembling hands, the man gathered the reins of his horse and the one he had taken from Angórë.

"Leave them!" he shouted, spurring his horse.

"But what about - " another man started.

"Hold your tongue, fool, if you know what is good for you," he cried, his face ashen as if he had seen a vision of Morgoth himself. And perhaps he had.

"We passed a village a league or so back - I think it best to return there and ask for aid," Angórë said.

Azruth frowned; she could not afford to pass the night un-chaperoned in the company of a man.

"We will get lodging at the inn - if we explain our predicament, I am sure the innkeeper's wife will find decent lodging for you," Angórë suggested.

This was done, and Azruth's reputation seemed safe enough in the narrow bed of a maid's room in the family quarters. In the deep of the night, however, she woke with great uneasiness and saw that Angórë had somehow come into her room.

Her cry died on her lips and she found herself helpless to resist the less-than-gentle fingers that roved over her frozen body. Her eyes wide with horror, she could not even scream as her chastity was taken. Afterward, he sat with his hand on her belly, silent for a time. At last, he smiled to himself, and then turned that chilling smile upon her.

"You will say nothing of this. You will not be believed, for there is not a mark on you, and I have no intention of debasing the noble lineage of my forefathers with marriage to a common whore." Angórë meant to leave Númenor well before the growing evidence belied her ruination.

She winced at his words; though too trusting, she was not a stupid girl. Everything Angórë spoke was true. Her only hope lay in secrecy, that her shame remain unknown, for no man would want her otherwise - though it seemed to her that the very idea of anyone touching her as Angórë had done would sicken her.

Angórë had one final card to deal. Having secured a ship, he called upon Nîphrûkh the night before he was to sail. The man heard the news of his new friend's departure with alarm; his dubious ventures had proved unforthcoming and he had hoped to persuade Angórë to join him in yet another desperate scheme. Yet, Angórë opened his purse one last time.

"Please accept this in gratitude for your daughter's companionship during my stay. She is an excellent girl, and I quite enjoyed her company.

"I would like to take my leave of her," he added innocuously. "I am sorry that she has been unwell this past week."

Angórë found the girl trembling behind the door of a small sitting room.

"You are not welcome here. What I must pretend for the sake of my reputation in public does not prevent me from telling you now that your presence is odious to me."

"Dear lady! I come only to pay my respects. Indeed, I have paid your father handsomely for your services."

With her stinging slap came an image flashing before his mind: he saw another blond woman; he heard cries and shouts, the sounds of battle. He saw himself fall in agony, heard a thin, ghastly wail and realized that it came from his soul. Regaining the present, he felt Azruth's eyes on him. Her back straightened, her head raised, the woman regarded him with icy calm. Unable to retrieve his composure, he fled.

The vivid image faded in the stiff, salty wind as he sailed for Rómenna. From there, he would get passage to Middle-earth. When his feet found solid ground at Lond Daer, the Ring came alive, its pulse a reminder of the link too long sundered by the sea. Angórë felt anew the harmony of his will with that of Sauron, and he welcomed it.

Rhûn, 2251 Second Age

An acrid odor of smoke hung in the air. Across a muddy field, its young wheat crop now trampled to ruin, only charred beams and twisted bits of metal remained of the village. With precise efficiency, young men in smart uniforms of black herded the surviving villagers into two groups, tearing babies from the arms of mothers, sons from the frail old fathers who leaned on them for support.

Now the soldiers stood over the human spoils with whips and clubs, cowing them into silence. Chained together as were the captives, those nearest to the hysterical ones moved quickly to stop their cries, for the guards took little care to aim their lashes.

The young women would go to Harad and other places south, where they would fetch a good price. The young men would end their days working deep in the bowels of Mordor. Orcs oversaw the rejected captives - the old, the very young and the infirm. What time remained to them would be mercifully short.

A lone figure sat on a massive stallion of deepest ebony. The Captain wore garments similar to those of the soldiers. Long hair flowed over hood and mantle, blacker still than horse or cloak, save a forelock of gleaming white. The Captain's face seemed neither young nor old, lined but not yet withered. And his eyes - ah, those eyes - if one dared to look at them - glowed with red fire.

Two orcs prodded a man forward. As they reached the Captain, the man fell to his knees in despair.

"Grangulshu, we bring the village leader." [28]

"Get him up," the Captain snapped. The orcs dragged the man to his feet. "Make him look upon his people."

Clawed hands held the man's face so that it could not turn from the terrified eyes of the villagers.

"Three times my soldiers came to take tribute and men for my armies. Three times you refused what was due to me, as your King, and due to the Lord whom I serve."

The master of the village spat. "Your Lord is darkness and my people acknowledge no minion of darkness as our King."

The Captain laughed. "I see now that your people have followed a fool into ruin. Darkness is the gift of Man - the darkness of the grave. But the grave is not for you, though you shall long for it, when your spirit no longer wears flesh yet labors in torment.

"That is your fate, but not the fate of your people. Look now, and see how they suffer. See what in pride and purity you have wrought upon them!"

At the Captain's signal, orcs fell upon the remaining villagers, butchering some, defiling others. 'Sport', the orcs called it, and they had waited long for this reward.

As had the Black Captain, who tipped his face to the black sky in ecstasy, inhaling the scent of blood and fear.

Day broke. The orcs scurried to hide from the sun, but no relief came for the village leader. Tied to a tree, he endured the cries of pain and pleas for death of his remaining folk.

At the entrance to the Captain's tent, two men stood guard, their eyes lowered unhappily.

"Grangulshu, there is a visitor within."

"We could not stop him - he has powers, Grangulshu," the other man added, looking carefully away from the Captain's eyes. "He comes with news from Daghburz." [29]

"Are you guards or are you doormen?" The two men recoiled. The Captain stalked into his tent. He would deal with the men later.

Within stood a creature in garments similar to those of the Captain. Yet this creature had no longer youth. Indeed, he looked as if he had lived too long, as if the marcescence of death could no longer wait for the spirit to depart from its body. Unruly dark hair had turned to grey, the broad face withered. His eyes burned red with the fire of Udûn. "Grangulshu. The service of Durbgu dashshu has been good to you."

The Black Captain laughed. "These trappings - they are impressive to mortals. Yet they will rot and turn to dust." He would not.

Khamûl's face broke into a grotesque smile, the smile of one who shares a secret. The Captain's tent bore silk hangings, chalices of gold and other spoils of war. On the floor in the corner, a comely maid lay sprawled. The stink of fear invigorated; Khamûl could understand why his Captain had not yet touched the girl. Like a fine Dorwinion wine, uncorked to breathe, her odor intoxicated with mere anticipation. He regretted for a moment that his fading corporeality no longer afforded him such pleasures of the flesh.

As they traded tidings, a scuffle and shouting broke out in front of the tent. With a curse, the Captain left to see what caused the disturbance. He found three orcs - those left to guard the village leader - snarling at one another. He caught one of the hideous creatures by the ear. "What is the meaning of this?"

The orc looked at the ground, to the side, anywhere but into those eyes of fire. "The leader, Grangulshu, he's escaped."

"Then find him," the Captain commanded in a tone that conveyed a razor thin sliver of patience remaining to him.

The orc scurried off, looking hatefully at the bright sky. "Bring Shigurt here," the Captain ordered one of his guardsmen.

The orc captain arrived and waited, shifting his feet uneasily outside the tent. Any orc so foolish as to rush into his tent without leave would soon find himself missing a head. At last, the Captain lifted the tent flap.

"Were you not to have seen to it that the leader was tied securely?"

"Sha! Gharg can't tie a decent knot."

"Then why did you give to him the task of tying the man up?" the Captain asked in a patient voice.

Shigurt looked at the Captain with dawning fear. He knew that voice. The Captain had run out of patience, and he, Shigurt, would pay.

Indeed, something had overcome the unfortunate orc captain. He gasped, reaching for his throat.

"Grangulshu!" he rasped. The orc's eyes bulged and burst from their sockets, blood ran from his ears and he collapsed in a twitching heap.

Khamûl looked at the orcs remains and recalled the boy he had captured, and wonderment filled him. Jealousy did not occur to him; so strong was his devotion to Sauron that he accepted the other man's authority without question. Grangulshu, as he called himself now (for the Elvishness of his native tongue now seemed distasteful to him), had proved himself superior in every way. He had invented cruelties even Khamûl's mind could not conceive. He controlled spirits and men. If Khamûl had once been capable of resisting Angórë's intuitive powers, he knew he could not match the sorcerer Grangulshu.

"Our Lord is gathering the Ringbearers to him."

This the Black Captain already knew. He knew also that the other men had begun to fade into wraiths. With his noble Númenórean blood and the long life it afforded, he alone remained entirely corporeal.

"They are of another breed," Khamûl said.

They wished for death and yet could not have it, and all the while their will fell increasingly under the dominion of Sauron. "They did not know the power of our Lord until now," the Captain said to Khamûl. The two men did not await the subjugation of their will, nor did they anticipate their fading with dread. From the outset, Sauron had entirely seduced them and they had willingly spent their mortal lives doing his bidding. They were zealots among the laity: the Dunlendings had no love for evil, and mistook Sauron for a friend in their struggles with the hated Númenóreans. The Easterlings and rebellious Númenóreans had welcomed the wealth and power bought by their Rings. To find themselves now slaves to the will of another horrified them; some repented of all they had done, but the One Ring held them fast. Their debts had come due.

The Black Captain alone knew the secret of the Rings. Sauron had some understanding of tyranny. He preferred to rule by force, but would pretend kindness at necessity, and he knew that those he most trusted, those most intimately involved in his plans would prove more loyal to him if they served him in devotion and not fear. In his twisted way, Sauron had even a measure of fondness for his acolyte, if only as a master smith had affection for his creations. He had taken a very jewel of Númenor, a descendant of hated Lúthien and a bright promise among the Edain, and twisted him into a talented servant of darkness. [30, 31]

Sauron's most dreadful creation did not fear the fate awaiting him. His fair guise he found useful, but he saw that its loss would only augment his powers of terror, and as for his will, it belonged already to his Lord. In fading he would became only more terrible. Orcs and men would recoil in horror before all of the ghoulish Ringbearers, but they feared none so much as their Captain.

---------------------------------------------------

Olórin finished his story. Glorfindel stared unseeingly into the fire, pondering it all. "Yet, I feel something of pity for the child, and I lament that a descendant of Elros came to such wickedness."

"So little effort does it take to dispense kindness. Those least deserving of pity are those most in need of it. Pity and Mercy: not to strike without need. The people of Nindamos struck with cruel words and jests at a harmless boy, and they made that harmless boy a monster." [32]

Olórin settled into his bedroll. Glorfindel looked thoughtful as he banked the fire. One part of Olórin's story still troubled him. "The Avari, whom Khamûl accused of hunting his people - are they really so ruthless?"

The Maia snorted. "Khamûl's people were thieves. Regardless of what the good Noldor of Tol Eressëa might claim, they did not fight all the battles against Sauron. For the Silvan Elves of the Greenwood and the good men of the Wilderland, Sauron's threat did not end with his flight from Eriador."

"Still, Khamûl may have believed that he spoke the truth," Glorfindel mused. After all, by promoting such rivalries and suspicions, Morgoth and Sauron had destroyed whole continents. "If so, than by no accident does this evil arise in the Greenwood."

~Epilogue~

Dol Guldur, Third Age 1075

Azuk drew himself up to his full height as the new company reached the watchtower. "You must be the reinforcements the higher-ups ordered." He greeted their arrival without enthusiasm - he had charge of the orcs here, and wanted no challenge from another ambitious captain. Some new business was afoot, but Azuk knew better than to ask questions. He would have to dispose of this Gozrat in his own way.

"I'll have one of the snaga show you where you can put your lads later," he told the captain, a short, swarthy creature, as they ambled up the narrow path to the ancient elven citadel. "I don't know as yet what them upstairs want to do with your lot." [33]

"Are they all they're cracked up to be, the Nazgûl?" Gozrat wondered.

Azuk let out a gravelly laugh. "Gar! You get near 'em, you'll know it. The smaller one is bad enough, but the Head Nazgûl, he don't like orcs much. He's the one you'll want to stay clear of, if you want to keep your head about you." As they neared the top, they veered off onto an iron platform built into the side of the hill and came at last to a heavy black door, guarded by a pair of orcs. "The Nazgûl had a fair cleaning to do, what with all the Elvish curses on the place. The only one the Head couldn't break was the spell over the citadel proper. Just as well, I think - it's all open, near as I can tell, under the sun all day."

A few torches barely lit the interior. They tramped through passages and cellars, halting outside an oaken door. A single guard stood here, and he pointed to Azuk. "Just you."

Azuk entered the room with dread. "The orcs from the Misty Mountains have come."

A creature swathed in black turned to him. Deep under his hood, red eyes burned. "How many?"

Azuk cursed himself. He had not asked. "A couple hundred," he guessed.

"Put them below. I will have orders for them later."

Azuk counted himself fortunate that the Black Captain had other matters on his mind. Still, the Nazgûl had slipped. He could not put Gozrat's orcs in with Azuk's - the two companies would fight. Azuk said nothing of this, however. The Nazgûl had been acting strangely these days - best not to antagonize them. Azuk hastily backed out of the room.

The Black Captain smirked. He knew well that the fool orc had lied. The creatures would sort themselves out, leaving only the strongest and most cunning. The best of the lot would remain to defend the fortress; the best would remain to breed a new elite force, uruk for the coming day. [34]

He had completed his preparations; he had left nothing to chance. Dol Guldur had once served elves as a fortress against Morgoth's creatures, and would now serve Sauron's minions in kind. Sorcery had cleansed the stones of Elven influence; sorcery had set new curses upon the naked hill, had infested the forest around them, keeping the hated elves at bay.

A foul wind swept through the Greenwood that night, leaving a swathe of corruption in its wake. Trees groaned as the wind twisted the forest into misshapen, rot-infested thickets. Idyllic ponds turned to fetid bogs and a sickly odor of decaying vegetation permeated the air.

The orcs in the subterranean rooms of the fortress stopped their quarrelling and huddled in shaking fear. In the upper rooms, torches failed, and the orc standing guard outside the Black Captain's room fled in terror. Had he looked inside, had he the special vision of the Ringbearers, he would have seen a sight chilling even to such a debased creature. In the utter blackness of the windowless room, a specter of ages unmarked revealed itself to the two wraiths.

He appeared in his last material form, encased in gleaming armor. A helm hid his face, save a single slot. From this tenebrous recess, a single, lidless eye glowed red, pulsing with incarnate defiance of those who thought him broken.

Had that faint-hearted orc the eyes to see it, he would have wondered at the strange tableau. He would have seen the cruel Captain in his true form, skeletal under wraps of a rotting death shroud, bearing a many-toothed crown upon long, white hair. He would have seen that cruel Captain sink to his knees.

The wasted features, normally twisted in a predatory leer, had smoothed to something grotesquely beautiful, looking up in awe and adoration. In the mind of the Black Captain, the world would soon be set to rights: his Lord had risen again to cover the lands in shadow, to wreak vengeance upon the hated elves and their mortal allies.

"Durbgu dashshu, at last you have returned."