Chapter 10: Faded Glory / Black Despair

This was a place of ghosts.

In the distant past, bold explorers had roamed the whole of Middle-earth, pushing back the borders of the dominion of Man. Many had settled across the land, wherever the earth and beasts could be put to work for their new masters. One such a place was the city-state of Forod-dhun. It was situated on a plain of rocky wasteland with its back to the frozen Sea. Fifty or so leagues north of Forochel Bay – where was its port – it was the northernmost bastion of men before one reached the Bluetooth Mountains, an impenetrable wall of rock and ice which marked the roof of the world. Although the northlands were always cold, the alchemists of old had discovered black rocks and liquids that burned far fiercer than the driest kindling. With these, the rime of ice covering the soil could be cleared back, and the lands cultivated.

Forod-dhun had prospered on the profits gained by stripping the wastes of their metals and selling the ore to the Southerners. Dwarves in particular were known to have had some lucrative dealings with the city in the past, although all that was no longer spoken of. Unless one could loosen their tongues with beer, the dwarven race was notoriously shady about their past dealings. Be that as it may, the wise men of Forod-dhun were students of the sons of Fëanor himself and utterly dedicated to their city and their people.

Then came the war with Morgoth, and all throughout the North the cities of Elves and Men were made strong, and the hills and vales scoured by the unsleeping eyes of innumerable sentries. However hosts of demons and orcs issued unceasingly from Morgoth's fortress in the Iron Mountains, and a reign of terror descended on the land. Order became chaos; fair was despoiled, pure was ravaged, and whole armies annihilated each other in an orgy of destruction that raged for years.

Forod-dhun itself was assailed several times. Morgoth was aware of the wealth of knowledge in its tomes and riches in its coffers, and hungered for it. Yet the citizens had not been idle, and every spare moment had been spent in turning the city into a citadel that could withstand the Gods themselves – if it came to that. However, after futile and bloody assaults, Morgoth was content to set the fields to fire and surround the city. Hunger and disease soon set in once the last of the food stocks were eaten. Withered astrologers sought solace from the unforgiving stars, and emaciated women stripped leather from the rich furnishings to feed their wailing children. Misery and fear stalked the dark streets at night like twin reapers.

With confidence in the city leaders dwindled to nothing, people and soldiers alike found a way to forget their hunger pangs by bickering with each other. The walls were undermanned, and few there were left with strength enough to crew the fearsome engines mounted on the walls. Dusk began to fall over the city – the last some within would ever see. And now the force of Morgoth poured from the mountain passes as congealing blood from a wound, until the once white plain was black with them. The besiegers moved forwards and began the assault, and this time they were successful. Nets of crushed rock were thrown into the moat until it was filled, and countless ladders were raised at the walls. Many were cast down in ruin, but not enough. Barely an hour had passed before the enemy had seized the gates and opened them, and the slaughter began.

The next day, the plumes of smoke could be seen twenty miles away. The city was now an empty ruin, save for the bodies of its former army, which lay strewn about the streets, some hacked beyond recognition. The rest of the populace had been taken in chains by the departing army – to serve as ambulatory trail rations for the homeward journey – or to eke out a miserable existence as slaves in the bowels of Morgoth's fortress until overwork or brutal treatment killed them.

With the loss of its people, the wandering ice quickly swallowed up the deserted city. In time its story became myth, and myth became legend.

"Now, that's an impressive sight..." muttered Gimli as they followed the road out from the last of the hills. A plain of ice and snow stretched out before them, and perched in the middle of it like some malevolent bird of prey was a metropolis of stone and steel. Within the forbidding curtain wall, broken towers reared up to the heavens, looking for all the world like the bones of some huge beast silhouetted against the sky. The road led straight towards the main gate a few hundred yards ahead, a dread portal of iron in walls like a cliff face.

It yawned invitingly open.

"I don't suppose it would do any good if I said I had a bad feeling about that place?" snorted the Dwarf. "Like as not you'd still go on in. And me with you," he added with a sigh. The three started warily down the road towards their goal. Legolas surveyed the city skyline, shading his eyes with one slender hand. "Aragorn, I do not see any domes among the buildings, are you sure this Dome of Fire really exists?" The Ranger said nothing for a moment, then visibly gathered his thoughts. "Yes, yes I am quite certain. However, it may be on the other side of the city, which means we will have to go inside." He paused, as if uncertain, then continued. "I never mentioned this before, but I have been having dreams ... or visions, I know not which. In these, I have been within what I believe to be the place itself. It is vast inside, and we should have no trouble in spotting it when we get close. For now, it will suffice that we must search the city. Come with me."

They went on in silence for several minutes.

Legolas looked at his friend in concern. "Aragorn, there is something else you are keeping from us, I can see it. What was it that you saw in your visions?

Aragorn shuddered as it came back. This time it was more powerful ... more insistent, he could feel it taking him. The last things he saw were the flagstones coming up to meet him.

Pain, always the pain. Biting, vengeful and assertive, the one thing guaranteed to wake you up from peaceful unconsciousness was pain. Each time it was the same. Sometimes it seemed as if your entire body was being devoured, and those were the good times.

The roof above swam into focus as the figure on the stone table moaned and opened her eyes. This was one of the times when there was a difference, not the dull roar of her nerves against the cruel manacles holding her wrists and ankles to the rock – that was unending, but this was different, almost as if she was being watched over. Yet it was not disquieting, but comforting. How could that be?

Sweat rolled down Arwen's forehead into her eyes and she blinked it away furiously. This was another thing, the stifling heat that made merely breathing a labour. The very stone on which she was lying seemed to have a heart of flame, the prickly heat flowed through the thin material of her robe into her back. Little time was afforded her to lament her condition, as a guttural snarl interrupted her reverie.

"What've we got 'ere then, a pretty little maiden caught playing in the snow? You'd have been better of picking flowers in the forest, my dear!"

Arwen raised her head and looked down the table towards the speaker. A hideous goblin-imp was sitting casually on the bottom of the stone table by her feet, smirking at her. She gave the creature a look that would have curdled milk, then went back to gazing at the roof.

And had to bite back a scream as the foul beast touched her leg.

"Ah, a fine specimen. No doubt you'll be a very pleasing gift, oh my yes!"

With a lecherous wink, the goblin leapt of the table and out of sight, then scampered off leaving the girl to dwell on the disturbing connotations of the word 'gift'.

Aragorn choked and spat a mouthful of some vile black fluid into the snow, which sizzled.

"Sorry!" Gimli chuckled, as he corked his flask and stowed it in his pack. "You looked like you could use a drink, lad!"

Legolas looked relieved as well. "You just fell down all of a sudden, we were worried. Are you alright?"

Aragorn nodded and stood up. He glanced around dazedly, then did a double take and spun around, surveying the horizon.

Gimli nodded glumly. "Then you feel it too. Something's changed. It happened just after you ... y'know."

Legolas cried out all of a sudden and stabbed a slender finger back the way they had come. The others looked back down the road to the mountains. It took them a moment to see what had so terrified their companion, but when they did, the realisation was like a slow poison to the body. Strength ebbed from limbs and what hope they had of success was leached from their souls.

Night was falling and the southward mountains were wreathed in darkness, blackness like to that of a shroud wrapping a corpse. Yet this was no natural dark. It crept forwards like some terrible tide, inexorable and relentless. Flowing down the slopes it rippled like something alive. A fell breeze sighed past the three companions, raising a veil of snow between them and the shapeless horror. As it dispersed, the wind was seen to reach the black mass, and as one, a score of sable banners were raised to the sky.

The echoing mountains behind brought the war cries of some hundred thousand Orcs to the ears of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli.