Chapter LIII: Those Who Do Not Wish to Die by the Sword, Live by it
Though the sun beamed down with all its radiance upon the trees of Mirkwood, not a single droplet of light reached the forest floor. The towering trees, some over a hundred meters high, obstructed any gleam from the outside, making the leaf-strewn ground surrounding the ruins of Dol Guldur, the ancient tower of Sauron, black as the night itself.
In the Second Age, Sauron had erected the tower as a fortress from which he and the Witch King could command their armies. However, when the elves of the wood resisted and ousted the Dark Lord from his position, the tower was left abandoned, desolate, untouched for hundreds of years.
A flash of crimson light provided the first illumination that the tower base had seen in thousands of years as it slowly expanded into a swirling orb. A few moments later, and a thunderous crack shattered the once peaceful silence of the forest.
As the mist cleared, the small horde of Remnant soldiers appeared, weapons ready for any strange creature that they might encounter. Though the woods had been technically abandoned, the occasional band of wood elves, beast, or one of the many unidentified creatures that had existed from the dawn of time, had been rumored to waylay bands of travelers foolhardy enough to venture into the wood.
No such deterrence lingered at the base of the tower, however, at least not on this day. The soldiers relaxed as Vrayon took a few tentative steps forward, touching the foundation of the great fortress with a gloved hand.
"Dol Guldur," the General murmured to himself, shaking his head. The vampire turned to face his troops. "Zisss isss a sssight zat hasss not been ssseen for hundredsss of yearsss. Count yourselvesss blesssed."
"I'll count myself blessed when I get out of here with my head," Grishnákh growled, his hand still tight around the blade that he carried.
Garulf let out a small chuckle and strode forward to stand alongside the vampire, and then began to circle the tower, searching for an entrance.
The wolfman shot a glance over his shoulder, his red eyes gleaming in the complete darkness. "We will not get inside by standing, men," the General prompted, hefting his battle-axe over his shoulder and continuing on his orbit.
The Remnant troops exchanged nervous comments as the fanned out and began securing the perimeter, each creature using their natural night-vision to search out movement – of which there was none.
A short time later, Vrayon let out a triumphant shout that rang through the darkness, calling the other soldiers to him. Upon regrouping, the assembly gazed up at the gates to the tower, charred wood and iron that seemed to barely hang on to their insecure foundations.
The miniature army stood in silence for another moment, gazing through the breaks and cracks into the ominous darkness that seemed to intensify inside the tower.
Finally, Garulf took a step forward, placing one hand on the door. "Here goes nothing."
The Lychen shoved the door open, axe raised, and raced into the center of the entry chamber, his eyes searching the dark corners for lingering minions or other fell creatures that would not take into consideration the fact that they worked for the same Darkness.
Seeing no sign of movement, the troops made their way to the spiraling staircase that stretched onward for thousands of meters into the inky tower, seemingly having no end.
Vrayon tossed a sardonic glance at Garulf. "Ladiesss firssst."
"Don't mind if I do," the General growled, ignoring the blatant insult. With that, the troop began the trek up stairs into the eerie silence.
Mordae sprinted forward, charging the suddenly panicked dwarves that had swarmed across his weapon where it lay. The creatures began scrambling over one another in a frantic attempt to escape, until one of them took note of the fact that the elf did not seem to be wielding any blade at all, despite the various daggers and knives he carried on his person.
Smiling grimly at the prospect of brining down the great warrior, the dwarves regrouped, forming a half circle of twenty soldiers, all of whom raised their axes in preparation for the killing blow.
The elf slowed to a halt within ten paces of the creatures, which glanced nervously at one another, their courage shaken at the calm demeanor of the man staring death in the face. Slowly, ominously, Mordae raised a hand and pointed his index finger at the dwarf standing nearest his blade, three rows behind the front line soldier. The creature swallowed deeply, his axe quavering as the elf nodded in conformation. The dwarf's eyes shot to the sword, then to the elf, and then back to the weapon on the stone ground, and his eyes widened in sudden realization.
Mordae struck with the speed of a dragon, taking two paces forward, leaping off of one foot and whipping around in a full circle, completing the rotation with a thunderous hook kick into the dwarf lieutenant that stood in the front. The creature was hurled back several meters as the elf landed for a brief moment, then left the ground again, firing two sets of double kicks into another pair of dwarves.
As he landed, one particularly brave dwarf stepped forward and struck, his axe sweeping in a broad arc down toward Mordae's head. The sweep was so wide, however, that the elf dodged nimbly to the side as he ran his right hand down the length of the weapon's handle, driving it into the ground. With a slight hop, Mordae kicked the grip in half – rendering the axe useless – and vaulted over the head of his attacker, executing a half-turn as he did so, landing with his arms around the neck of the smaller creature. The muscles on the Noldor's shoulders flexed as he gave one violent twist, snapping the neck of his opponent, and then he was airborne again.
Upon landing, the axe strikes began raining down on either side of Mordae, who dodged or parried every attack that came toward him with rapid efficiency. Several bone-shattering punches and kicks followed, completed by a twirling double hook kick that felled another four soldiers. This time, however, the elf landed in a crouch, disappearing from view for a moment.
With an explosion of light and a screech of metal scraping metal, Mordae rose, his blade spinning in rapid figure eights as he slew another half dozen of the dwarves. As the survivors of the slaughter retreated the forty meters back to their main lines – which immediately began receding at the sight of the warrior – the elf spun in sword in one final, gigantic figure eight, and then sheathed the weapon with tremendous force.
After tossing his hair over his shoulder in what was becoming his signature display of arrogance, Mordae swaggered back to the other three Generals, who stood observing his attack. The group was silent as the elf strode to stand before them, panting slightly.
"Told you I could do it," Mordae breathed after a moment of calm.
Lynza applauded lightly and moderately contemptuously.
"Showoff," Celebdraug spat.
"Hey," Mordae shrugged, "You dared me to."
A thundering crash rang through the hall as the mangled remains of another troll slammed into the earth on the western front of the battle, leaving three more still standing bloody and angry.
Celebdraug cast a morose glance in the direction of the battle as the dwarves before them began to rotate toward the center, attempting to break the wedge that the vampires had held and widened slightly in the Generals' absence.
The elf maiden gestured with her blade in the direction of the troop movement. "Shall we?"
The others nodded in conformation and began charging in a direct intercept line of the advancing dwarf soldiers.
Niphredil cautiously and deliberately made her way around the crumbled rock that surrounded the serrated spikes lining the collapsed trench the hallway had been transformed into in the ambush. Above her, Zalok flew in lazy circles, keeping a lookout for any hidden enemies that lay in wait for the elf.
"What do you think happened here?" the elf inquired, hopping lightly over a large piece of the broken rock.
Looks like a cave-in, but the breaks are quite thin. Obviously intentional, the vampire replied.
"Hence the spikes."
Zalok laughed, a rasping, airy sound.
The pair carried on in silence a bit longer, traversing another hundred meters of the shaft.
"Well, no elf bodies yet," Niphredil observed. "So Mordae and Celebdraug are still alive."
The bat did not reply; rather, he flittered down the dark passageway until finally reaching a small shaft of light. Faint screams and crashes echoed down the chamber, the dissonant song of death.
Winging back toward Niphredil, Zalok noted that elf bodies were indeed not evident anywhere. This news surprised him greatly; how anyone could survive the trap that had been sprung without the ability to fly was beyond him.
With some astonishment, the vampire encountered the elven girl some one hundred-fifty meters farther than she had been before, obviously getting the hang of the rock hopping that she was performing. Niphredil glanced up, her smile beaming brightly, as the bat returned to her side.
"Any news from the front?" she questioned brightly. Zalok sighed to himself. The elves must have survived. I see no bodies.
"That's good."
The end of the tunnel is about fifty meters around the next bend. There is only a small opening, but you are thin; I believe you will have no trouble exiting.
Niphredil leaped spryly from the large boulder she had perched upon, catching hold of a spear shaft and flinging herself several meters forward, where she landed lightly beside another spike.
You are going to kill yourself, Zalok warned.
"Nah," the girl argued. "I know what I'm doing."
The vampire let out a hiss of laughter as he flew circles above the elf. Four hundred meters, and already an expert.
Niphredil sprinted through a stretch of relative clarity from the rocks, weaving in and out of the shining spearheads as she hurried onward, leaving Zalok to catch up to her.
The girl drew up suddenly as a faint glimmer of light shone from above, and she hurriedly picked her way over the rocks before the bend in the tunnel. Dropping over the edge, she caught her first glimpse of light in the dank mines.
"Hey! I think I see the end!"
A resounding bellow, followed by a thunderous crash, echoed down the tunnel, causing the elf to jump slightly.
Niphredil's eyes widened. "What was that?"
Zalok sighed, slowly drawing up alongside the elf. Honestly, I have no idea, he calmly replied. It sounded large.
A cacophonic chorus of screams and battle cries rang out through the gap in the fallen rock, along with the faint tinkling sound of distant metallic clashes.
"Is there a battle going on out there?"
Zalok flew in a quick vertical circle, and then with a pop, landed beside the girl, his form humanoid once more. "That is why we came here, no?"
The thought seemed to startle Niphredil as the sudden revelation hit her with the force of a siege-stone. In fifty meters, she might be forced to make the choice between kill or be killed, a quandary she had always prayed that she never end up in.
"Are you ready?" Zalok inquired, his glittering black eyes haunting the elf as she gazed into them.
Illúvatar, guide my steps and my blade. I plead that You let Your will be done with thy servant.
With a deep, soul-filled sigh, Niphredil drew her thin blade, which glimmered almost mysteriously calmingly in the darkness surrounding her. She was reminded of the countless times she had witnessed Mordae and Celebdraug draw their brutal looking weapons. A sense of peace filled her mind as she realized the answer to her prayer. Broadswords may have seemed brutal in the hands of a foe, but with the Noldor wielding them, they were not devices of war, but the Hand of Illúvatar. The Hand that gave life to its servants, but also justice to its enemies.
Striding forward, Niphredil gradually picked up her pace until she was sprinting once more, Zalok scrambling to maintain close proximity behind her. With a cry, the elf dove through the space between the fallen boulders.
"Illúvatar!"
Celebdraug whirled from her work at the sound of the familiar battle cry shouted by a familiar voice that she never would have thought would ever cry it with the meaning it held now. The battle cry was a prayer; for strength, for honor, for guidance, and most of all, for justice to be served. The shieldmaiden's eyes lit with a bright crimson flame as they followed her friend's path toward her, rapidly closing the distance. With a slight twirl, Celebdraug turned back to the dwarves she had been battling, deflecting four axes in a single blur of motion, then striking down the wielders of the weapons with the same smoothness.
Mordae tapped an axe-head to the right, redirecting the attack, kicked another weapon to his left, then brought his blade straight down through the top of a dwarf in front of him. Hearing another form slide beside him, the elf turned his head to the side, his eyes coming to rest on a familiar face.
Niphredil grinned broadly at her friends, noting the streaked dirt and red bloodstains on their faces and clothes, along with the white lacerations where they had not been quick enough to completely deter an axe blow or a shred of shrapnel.
"Hello!" the girl cried brightly, waving with her thin blade emphatically.
The two elves and vampires all cast fleeting, slightly wearied, yet amused glances at the new arrival. Before any of her friends could reply, a dwarf in pointed plate armor burst from the ranks and charged toward Niphredil with a throaty battle cry, as his axe rose high above the helmeted head.
The elf barely dodged the gigantic axe blade as it hurled down toward her, waving weakly with her sword as she stumbled over the broken ground, landing lightly on her back. With anger flaming in his eyes, the dwarf strode quickly to his target, then straddled over her, axe raised once more.
Kill or be killed...
The aphorism rang in Niphredil's mind as the axe blade fell in seemingly slow motion toward her head, shimmering with an ironic peace in the torchlight.
Stars exploded in Niphredil's vision as a crushing weight struck her in the chest with such force that nearly blacked out. Piercing pain shot through her body like liquid fire, running a river of agony through her body.
Kill or be killed...
Garulf halted at the entrance to the next room, panting heavily from the tedious climb up the dank staircase. He had no real idea where he was headed, other than up, but the sight before him convinced him that he had been on the right track.
A glittering black and violet crystal hung suspended in mid-air, shimmering with a deep intensity that was beyond any comprehension that the General held. It gyrated slowly, spreading its soft luminescence through the otherwise barren room, casting watery shadows on the cold stones of the spacious room. The Night Crystal.
"Vat isss ze problem?" Vrayon's hiss echoed from behind the Lychen, who stepped deliberately to the side, revealing the unfathomable lavender glow.
Gradually, the remainder of the Remnant soldiers trickled into the room, cautiously lining the walls, their gaze riveted on the beautiful crystal.
The serenity was shattered by the growl of the orc General. "So, now what?"
"Pick it up, snaga," Vrayon hissed, using the derogatory orcish slang for slave in his anger at the creature's callousness.
Grishnákh snarled lividly, then nodded with a grunt at one of his Lieutenants, who stepped gingerly forward, toward the still-spiraling crystal. Ever so slowly, the orc's trembling claws eased outward, until finally, they grasped the liquid surface of the gem.
A deafening crack split the silence, echoing down the massive staircase and ringing through the tower as a bolt of pure dark energy slammed into the orc, completely incinerating the beast.
The other soldiers let out shrieks of surprise, dismay, and fear as they scrambled for the exit, blocked from retreat by the stoic Garulf. As the assembly stood wavering before him, the Lychen General stepped forward, raised his axe, and then hurled it toward the crystal, driving it from its position in the center of the room to a dark corner, where it immediately ceased its glowing.
Striding confidently past his smoking weapon, which soon vaporized completely into naught but wafting smoke, Garulf stooped beside the gem, extended a hand, then flipped the gem to Vrayon, who barely caught it with one hand, scrambling frantically to maintain his grasp on that which he wished not to hold.
After finally securing the stone inside his leather pouch, Vrayon cast a venomous glance at Garulf, who shrugged innocently.
"I got it down, did I not?"
Vrayon sighed resignedly, hanging his head.
Garulf stood and marched past the frozen Remnant soldiers, who cowered behind one another. "Back to Dol Gwath?"
"No," Vrayon countered. "To Mornië."
A rapidly expanding bubble of red mist filled the room, and then with a crack, Dol Guldur was empty once more.
Mordae jerked his hands in opposite directions, snapping the handle on the axe of the larger-than-average sized dwarf standing over him. As he hurled the massive head toward the center of the dwarven army, the giant elf used his free hand to punch the knee of his opponent with a force that shattered the plate armor completely, dropping the creature to the ground beside him.
Almost gracefully, Mordae executed a forward roll, rotating on top of his temporarily felled foe. The elf rose with a perfectly vertical leap, extending one leg in a solid downward sidekick as he fell. With a crunch, the Noldor landed heavily on his kicking leg, crumbling the plate helmet of the dwarf into scraps, then rolled to absorb some of the shock.
Celebdraug swept her sword in a massive horizontal arc, felling the front row of dwarves that she and Mordae had been fighting, then raced to Niphredil's side, extending her hand to assist her friend, who rose, coughing loudly.
"I'm sorry I had to land on you," Mordae apologized, smoothly retrieving his blade from the ground where he had dropped it.
Celebdraug whirled momentarily, deflecting several more axe strokes and felling the attackers in rapid succession, then turned back to Niphredil.
"Are you alright?"
The elf nodded her head in a daze. She had been moments away from death, and then suddenly, she was alive again, standing once more, ready to face the next foe. The stress of it all was nearly overwhelming.
And this is what you deal with every day, my friends. The thought shook Niphredil to the core as she gazed thankfully into Mordae's eyes; the shimmer that that they contained when he was joking with Glorfindel back in Lorien was gone, replaced by a cold, almost cruel, look of determination.
Kill or be killed.
The path of the warrior.
Celebdraug's eyes shone slightly as she glanced first at her cousin, then at Niphredil.
She extended her left hand, which held Niphredil's blade, dripping with dark red on the tip.
"Sorry, but I had to use this. See the stuff on the end?" the shieldmaiden inquired.
The Silvan nodded.
"That's blood," Celebdraug explained as if to a child. Niphredil wrinkled her nose slightly.
"Get used to it," the other girl ordered. "I want to see more of that, okay? This thing is not just for looks; use it or lose it."
Niphredil nodded grimly.
Mordae slashed his own glimmering blade through another pair of dwarves, ducked Lynza's whirling staff as she drove through another three enemies, then turned and beamed at the vampire, his eyes shining.
"How about we get this party started?"
A deep, rumbling groan from the depths drowned out Lynza's reply, accompanied by a heavy drumbeat, then another, in a slow, steady rhythm. The dwarves began chanting softly to themselves as a red glow grew gradually from the far end of the hall. An earsplitting bellow echoed over the din of the battle, which had quieted some in the sudden presence of the unidentified intruder.
The entire dwarf army responded to the roar with a bone-rending shout.
"KHAZAD!"
Lynza swallowed hard and locked eyes with Mordae, who offered a sly grin. The vampire raised her staff back into a fighting position and aimed it toward the light. "I think somebody else is going to do that for us."
