Disclaimer: LotR belongs to Tolkien. The first use of the weapon wielded by Legolas was in the hands of Merry in plasticchevy's "The Captain and The King." Great story and good sequel. Go read it now. Even if you already have, you've got to admit it's an awesome AU, no? Just read it again.
Also, a big thanks to BoromirDefender of "Gimli and Boromir Strike Back" for beta-reading this!
All right, now that I've finished my regularly scheduled plugging, here's the chapter:
"I, for one, am glad to return these foul beasts," Gimli said, gripping Legolas's waist more tightly than necessary. With no need for trickery to boost the dwarf into the saddle, the elf had opted to ride in front, as to better steer their mount. Gandalf and Shadowfax had set a quick pace, and Gimli's views of horses had not been particularly improved by the sight or speed of the wizard's kingly steed. "May they curse some other soul," he grumbled.
"But we may need them later," Legolas warned him. "We know not what is going on in Rohan. The view that Lord Eomer has expressed, at least, is not very heartening."
"Bugger," the dwarf muttered absently in return. The two companions rode silently for some time after that, each with his own drowsy thoughts. Legolas was right; they had promised the horse-lords that they would find some way to take care of the invading Wargs, even though none of them really had that much experience with such creatures, except for perhaps Gandalf. The elf's eyes strayed to the brown wolf running at the white stallion's heels. Somehow, he didn't think that this one young Warg would be able to fix the issues between men and the rabid ghost-wolf that the three hunters had encountered eariler. Still, he had to admit that having Gandalf back was a great and unlooked-for advantage.
"Where are we riding to?" Gimli asked, unwilling to pull his face from Legolas's back for fear of seeing the horse beneath them.
"Edoras, the capitol of Rohan. Lots of horses there," Legolas added with a mischevious grin.
"May they trample you, elf." Despite the quick retort, Gimli did not seem in the mood for repartee. "Going to sort out these men, now, are we?"
"It's better than sorting out the Wargs and orcs." Legolas replied, his eyes hardening with the grim humor.
"We may need to do that later, too." The dwarf let his eyes drift briefly to the yearling, now lagging behind Shadowfax, before reaffixing them to his friend's back. The elf had no reply to that.
The company finally slowed their horses as they approached the cluster of buildings that served as the nomadic horse-breeders' captiol. This was mostly farmland and plains-grasses, with granaries and small, ramshackle houses huddled towards the great hall of Meduseld. Even though it was made of the same timber and stone as the smaller houses, the Golden Hall still deserved its name from its brightly thatched roof. Recently, however, even this building was beginning to fall into disrepair.
Riding at a slow pace, Leoglas examined the empty streets, knowing that the dwarf behind him did the same. "I've seen funerals that were more cheerful." Gimli declared after a few moments.
There was no one in sight, save for a pair of opulently clad guardsmen posted outside the hall. Occasionally, Legolas could make out a face peeking out from behind a closed door or saw a curtain twitch fretfully, but they never stayed there long if they thought someone had seen. The dwarf's funeral comparision was more apt than he had intended, for the whole city seemed to be on a deathwatch: a deathwatch for the demise of their country.
At the stairs approaching the Golden Hall, the company dismounted, much to Gimli's relief. A pair of stablemen came warily out of their sanctuary to take away Aragorn and Legolas's mounts, but neither even attempted to touch the white stallion Shadowfax. One could hardly tell if they feared Gandalf's horse or his Warg more.
"Don't worry, Shadowfax knows his homeland well enough, and Cer'yaken will doubtlessly follow him." The wizard explained to his friends, shifting his gray riding cloak to better cover his white robes. "Shadowfax is a stallion of the mearas blood; you will not find a better horse in all of Middle-earth. Let us go on, then." Back in his element, Gandalf led his three remaining companions up the steps, taking Aragorn by the arm to speak softly with the Dunadan of the events since his fall.
The guard at the doorway held out a hand to stop them. "No one enters this hall bearing arms. You must leave your weapons here if you wish to see Theoden-King." With only a few grumbles from the dwarf, the company handed over axe, bow, swords, and what was presumed to be all of their knives to the speaker's associate. However it appeared that the guard was not yet satisfied.
"Your staff, sir." the first guard tapped his spear against Gandalf's polished cane.
"You wouldn't separate an old man from his walking stick, now, would you?" Gandalf gave a pathetic smile and leaned a bit more heavily into Strider, playing up his gambit. The guard looked to his associate and shrugged, waving them inside.
While there were more people within the hall than there had been out on the streets, it was just as quiet and morose within as it was without. Liveried servants scurried about their duties, avoiding the outsiders' eyes. Forms that appeared to be soldiers, although they shared no common uniform, lounged in darker corners of the drafty hall. Tapestries that looked as if they had not been aired out in months lined the dingy walls. Upon the throne at the rear of the hall sat a pallid old man in a scruffy robe, staring red-eyed at something beyond mortal sight. The two people seated at his sides were similar only in their paleness. The man at his right sat forward at the company's entrance, a vicious smirk playing at his thin lips, bringing the veins below his greasy complexion into focus, but the pale-haired woman at the aging king's left did not look up from her lord's face.
"Uncle, come now, we have visitors," she whispered, her touch delicate and loving upon the king's face. Neither her worried look nor her light caress appeared to affect the dazed expression in the slightest. Aragorn could see the familal resemblance between Eomer and his sister, but Theoden was so obviously ill that it was hard for a healer such as the ranger to see him as more than a pathetic piece of humanity that desperately needed some assistance.
"Gandalf Stormcrow, you pick a poor time to come," the greasy black-haired man spoke up, seemingly delighted with his own boldness. "Your ways are known to us, and we shall not stand for your doom-saying any longer. Shall we, my lord?"
"You are not welcome," Theoden's voice creaked from disuse. The little man at his side nodded reaffirmingly, and the king's niece stared coolly at him, her blue-grey eyes frosted over with restrained loathing. There appeared to be little love lost between the two.
"You cannot blame the messenger for what you have brought down upon yourself, Grima Wormtongue. I suggest you keep that forked tongue of yours firmly betwixt your teeth, ere it proves your downfall." Gandalf straightened and placed both hands upon his staff.
"Pah! I am Theoden-king's most trusted advisor, am I not my lord?" Eyes bulging behind stray lanks of hair, Grima chose to interpret the old king's vague tremors as acceptance of this fact. "What makes you think you can challenge me?"
"Your very overconfidence, Worm. I know your master, and he can spread his lies through you no longer. Saruman's power is fading through his abuse of it. Shall you join him in the downfall you so rightfully deserve?"
Grima laughed, although it sounded much more nervous than the councilor had likely intended."Saruman is a friend and ally of Rohan, unlike some of you meddling wizards. I quite naturally discuss certain areas of diplomacy with him. We shall need the most powerful allies we can get in these dark times you bring upon us, now, shall we not?"
"His power comes from the armies he breeds for Sauron," Gandalf decreed. The statement brought a surprised, angry look to the maiden's face, but neither the king nor his advisor appeared moved by it.
"More of your lies! What proof do you have, Stormcrow?" Grima snarled, fear and loathing mixing in his tone.
"Wargs attack your troops even now, and the king's son lies dead from an orc attack. How much more proof do you require?" Aragorn stepped forward from the wizard's side, and Wormtongue cowered back into his seat, away from the menacing Dunadan.
The lady's eyes misted over at the mention of her cousin's death and the blank expression that remained upon her uncle's face. Gathering up her courage, she showed the steel that lay beneath her lily-white grace. "Even a stranger can see your folly." Her icy eyes flashed dangerously towards the shrinking advisor. "I would ask that you remove this snake's poison from my uncle's realm, Gandalf."
"So it shall be done." Gandalf's riding cloak fell away, revealing the dazzling white robes beneath.
Wormtongue scrambled to Theoden's feet, hunkering at his master's side, in a desperate ploy for shielding. "I thought I told them to take away his staff," he muttered, his cloudy eyes transfixed upon the wizard. "Guards! Remove them!" he called desperately.
Gimli and Legolas were a step ahead of him though, protecting the wizard's back with a combination of sheer brawn and a small dagger that Legolas had secreted somewhere about his person. "You haven't hurt any of them, have you?" the dwarf grunted disapprovingly, bending a much taller aggressive man's arm behind his back and stepping upon another who had attempted to crawl away.
"No more than you have." The elf swiped at another who came too close for his liking, and the guard in question backed away, seeming suddenly unsure of how to wield his spear when confronted with the archer's lightning reflexes.
"You wouldn't let me bring an axe, yet you've no problems with breaking our host's rules," Gimli harangued his friend.
"It's a cheese knife. It hardly counts as a weapon, don't you think?" Legolas flashed him the handle as the flabbergasted guards retreated from him. Gimli grinned widely at the sight.
Aragorn had stepped towards the throne and the stunned Wormtongue, who shyed away from the ranger in fear, leaving the fallen advisor an open target for Gandalf. "Milady," Strider said gently, taking her arm firmly under his own. "It may be best if we do not interfere here." He had seen the murderous look in the woman's pale grey eyes and knew that the wizard would not have a very large window of oppurtunity if no one stepped in. The king's niece looked as if she would have been quite happy to take a move or two out of Gimli's book.
"On your belly, Worm!" Gandalf's voice rang out. Grima fell before his menacing staff. "Too long have you blinded your king's eyes to the dangers of your true master. How long have you been in Saruman's employ? What was your promised reward? Riches beyond your ken when all others were dead?" Grima shook his head wildly, his eyes darting to the barely restrained maiden at Aragorn' side.
She spat at him, enraged. "No longer shall you haunt my steps, snake. No longer will your voice sully my dreams." She was stronger than she looked, Aragorn noted. He had had less trouble holding back drunken elves. He patted her arm gently, attempting to find a better brace.
Gandalf nodded mutely, his old eyes kind upon her face. "This worm's ultimate fate should be up to the king though, for he has harmed Theoden king more than anyone else." It was the lady's turn to nod, her carefully constructed shield of anger evaporating as she considered her uncle's still blank expression.
"Perhaps the feel of his sword in his hands would help his majesty to see things more clearly once again." Blue eyes smiled into those the color of a winter morning, and the lady bolted from the ranger's grip. Commands were passed down, men freed from the prisons and were replaced by other, less savory individuals, many of the latter of which would never look at cheese in the same way again, and locked trunks were searched for items, much to Grima's distress.
At last, one of the door wardens approached a smiling king's niece with a wrapped sheath. "We found it with his possessions, milady, just as you said we would." He bowed before her, handing her the sword.
"I thank you, Hama. Your loyalty to the king suits you well," she replied over Wormtongue's protesting explanations. After suffering through a minute of these, Gimli silenced the cowering advisor with a well-shod boot to the stomach.
"My lord?" the maiden did not dare to raise her voice for fear of breaking the spell upon the room as she tenderly reached for her king's hand. Slowly, she wrapped the sallow, wizened palm about the hilt of the sword. "Uncle?"
"Eowyn," the voice, still unsure of itself, sounded much stronger. Aragorn was not sure that he dared to trust his eyes, but the man seated before them now hardly looked like the oldster poised on the verge of collapse of moments eariler. The blonde woman's eyes misted over in tears of bittersweet joy at her uncle's look of dazed but focusing befuddlement. "Where is my son?" Unwilling to answer him yet, Eowyn threw her arms about his neck, crying into the restored king's shoulder.
"I haven't been to Isen in the springtime in ages," Gonaki said conversationally as he darted about the forest. He took great delight in trotting circles around the human.
The woods were beautiful, Tasana silently added, or would be so if they were not so waterlogged. The spring rains had come with a vengeance, and the South Woods had eagerly soaked it up, its wet branches putting forth new leaves that now dripped in the watery post-storm sunshine. The animals of the forest had also absorbed a good deal of water, and part of the alpha's reasons for staying out of the woods woman's reach was to avoid retribution for having shaken his coat all over her. Tasana had become visibly upset about this, but not for the damage to her already weather-beaten clothes. She and her companions had taken shelter in the roots of a rotting tree, but there were no guarantees that Boromir had managed to do the same. When she had left him, he had hardly been able to sit up on his own. She supposed that some well-meaning pack mate had likely dragged him back to the den, but that would be murder on his ribs.
She should not have left him, Tasana criticized herself again. Gonaki needed her for this venture; otherwise, he would not have even told her when he was leaving, but would it have killed anyone if she had waited just another week or so for her warrior to get back on his feet? Mithilira was expecting pups, besides. This would be the first time in twenty years that the healer would not be on hand for the birth of the seeress's cubs. Gonaki was going mad, and Chev'yahna had been carried away by the big Warg's madness. That was the only reasonable explanation. She did not believe the Sekrahc's theory on her fear-smell for a minute.
Many a wolf in the pack owed its life to the woods woman's care, including Wirsankor, who had been the smallest runt Tasana had ever seen, a throwback to the Warg's smaller lupine ancestors. As a pup, he had been spindly and much too skinny, a weak rat attempting to compete with the young wolves that were his littermates. Uncertain of his survival, Chev'yahna had hand-fed him, despite his mother's reservations about letting anyone around her offspring. Even this day, after nearly twenty years on a meat diet, his small stature made it difficult for him to keep up with the other hunters at a dead run. Instead, Wirsankor preferred to stick to stalking, letting his family drive the game to him before he applied his teeth to its underbelly. This gray-faced dwarf amongst Wargs could trot even with his father, but not without some effort. Right now, he kept to the rearguard, doubling back along their trail to watch for signs of pursuit.
At least Tasana had not been the only one lured into Gonaki's madness. Her fellow travelers were preciously few, but both Wirsankor and Roliran were powerful, experienced hunters. The brothers were not the most accepting of the changes in their pack, but they trusted their alpha absolutely. If their father felt that it was time to confront Sahnchanc, then they would add their howls to council and their teeth to war, if it should it come to that. Tasana hoped it did not. She too, had not been to Isen in many seasons, but she had always rather liked Sahnchanc. There was just something refreshing about being looked at as some sort of mythic figure out of legend after several seasons as "that zwiero," or worse, "that fool girl."
But the younger alpha went too far with such things. Tasana had long ago shown herself to be an asset to the packs, but not some essential savior. Sahnchanc had looked long and hard for some sign of greatness to manifest itself in the woods woman, but whatever he had been looking for continued to elude him. The last time she had seen him, there had been a rising unconscious resentment in the ebon-backed alpha's mannerisms toward her and his brother, for Sahnchanc was deeply religious but had little patience for the ineffable timeline of the gods. He was certain that he had encountered a sign or two in his wandering years of a savior to come, and was sure that it would happen within his lifetime. Surely, though, Sahnchanc's zeal would not lead him to allow the destruction of his territory.
As they approached the river that divided the two brothers' provinces, the healer could not deny that no matter the reason, Sahnchanc's lands were being despoiled. Rumors of immortal, deformed wolves that were impervious to weapons had begun to reach Gonaki's ears, driving the black alpha even harder towards his brother's lands. Who knows what corruption a twisted wizard might wreak upon his brother's pack?
A Warg, like any other creature, was merely flesh and blood. To its pack mates, a wolf could be the greatest friend and staunchest ally imaginable, to its enemies, a deadly threat indeed. But even so, it was no creature out of legend, spun of moonlight and forest shadow, but a live animal like any other, prone to failure and mercy, betrayal and kindness, subject to the whims of its nature and nature itself. Tasana reminded herself of this as she surveyed the broken forests surrounding Isengard.
The few trees left standing forlornly among the fallen remains of their fellows were broken and torn, graffiti carved into their stricken trunks. The underbrush had been ripped or burned away, leaving blackened patches across the marred stumps. Even the still living plants were good only for kindling. Where green mosses had covered the dusky forest floor, adding their aroma to that of the thriving animal kingdom that had ever been dominated by the Wargs that meted out nature's balance, only white rents of ash remained.
Yet from this dismal graveyard of southern Fangorn, the howl had sounded. Not the familiar song of greeting, although the woman and her companions recognized the singer well enough, but the warrior's howl of vengeance rose from the deadened forest. Tasana had never heard so bitter a note of betrayal in that voice before, even when it bayed of orcs. Oddly enough, she had heard none of the southern Wargs' ancient enemies' bellows of challenge, horns, or war drums beating in return.
Chev'yahna gave a traditional return howl, promising support against a common enemy, but Roliran cut her off with a push against her body. Keeping a paw on her calf to keep her from rising too quickly, he snuffed the air suggestively. Tasana joined him, and had to admit that something besides the forest smelled wrong to the woods woman. The trace of blood in the air was similar to that of a perilous hunt, with the stink of orc blending with Warg saliva. The two opposing creatures had not left any sign of a battle, save the holocaust of the woodlands.
"What happened?" she asked. The beta, never much for extraneous conversation, simply raised his hackles. Roliran was not the only one on edge. His smaller brother laid his ears back as well, his tail hanging limply beneath him. Only Gonaki seemed assured of himself. Chuffing softly in reassurance, the black alpha stood between his sons and waited for the howler to approach.
Sahnchanc was as regal as ever, his silver and sable coat immaculate and shining. The rain had appeared not to have touched him; there was barely even any mud upon his paws. Following him, as if to provide a foil to the alpha Warg, was something that Tasana first thought to be a deformed bear. Shaggy particolored brown fur formed an uneven mane extending down the creature's back. Piggish, deep-set black eyes stared myopically at her from behind a short muzzle, overfilled with teeth. A large set of forequarters made its gait pigeon-toed and uneven. Its tail was little more than a ragged continuation of the ridge of soaked fur upon its back.
Moving at a leisurely walk, Sahnchanc turned occasionally to look at this unnatural beast with something resembling fatherly pride. He considered his elder black brother condescendingly, not even affording Tasana and the younger wolves a glance. "I have found the Balancer," he stated without premable. While wolves tended to be direct, most brother alphas shared some greeting ritual to reaffirm the bonds between their packs. Gonaki appeared not to notice this insult, though Roliran stiffened even more, if it were possible. Wirsankor slunk to his father's flank, rubbing his head against Gonaki's shoulder as if to remind Sahnchanc of his forgotten duty. The black Warg returned the gesture, pausing with his head atop his smaller son to see if any others would join in. Tasana reached for his ears, but Roliran circled between woman and Sekrahc and the healer thought better of it. When Sahnchanc did not join him, nor did any other members of his pack appear, Gonaki flicked an irritated ear at his brother, gesturing for him to continue. Upset at his brother's blasé acceptance of what should be an earth-shattering announcement, the gray and black alpha said again, "I have found the Balancer, the one who reunite the Wargs with the elves. But they are our overbearing masters no longer! They have been changed and hardened; adapted to suit our new world order. So have my Wargs, by the generosity of the great Balancer, Saruman." Sahnchanc lifted his head, bristling to look even larger than usual, if possible. Tasana realized that this beast behind him merited fatherly pride, in Sahnchanc's eyes, for he was more than likely its sire. The healer had trouble connecting the two as relations, for the mutant Warg bore little resemblance to his lordly Sekrahc.
Roliran's raised hackles were copied by this mad excuse for a wolf. Despite its short muzzle, the beast hardly looked like anything a sane Warg would willingly confront. The healer could not decide who was madder at this point: Gonaki for bringing them here, or she and the younger wolves for following him. There was little doubt about Sahnchanc's sanity. It was obviously long gone.
His brother ignored this posturing, letting mottled tongue loll out in a laconic laugh. "Shanchanc, the white zwiero is no Balancer. I know the Balancer well. I am he. My pups are the Balancers. So is my mate. Any Warg or zwiero willing to think about the other people's situation is a Balancer. For a long time, I thought you were. Fifty years ago, when we were but yearlings, you were the one to speak in favor of mercy for the intruding humans. It was your call to mercy that inspired my own, many years later. I have found my peace in it." Moving past a circling Roliran, Gonaki leaned slightly into Tasana, giving her a beat across the legs with his thick tail. He had made no mention of the help she had given him to earn his mercy, but this was more affection than the old Warg usually displayed.
"You have eaten humans. You know them to be only so much flesh, Gonaki," the sliver brother rejoined. This fact had never come up around the healer before, though Chev'yahna had always suspected it at a gut level. The black wolf and his mate knew all too much about the Dunedain clans before Tasana had explained what she knew about them.
Gonaki did not bother to deny it. His unruffled acceptance of this accusation frightened the woman, but not merely for what harm might come to her. Whatever the Warg's former eating habits had been, they had changed, but his temper had not. If Gonaki accepted all of this without a sign of anger, than the alpha was planning something very deadly, indeed. Normally, if something small upset him, the offending wolf would find his teeth at its throat in a matter of seconds, and if it apologized, a caring, playful leader would return in a matter of minutes. Only when someone truly touched a nerve did Gonaki become so coolly predatory. He was no longer viewing his brother as a fellow Warg, Tasana realized, but as talking prey; prey he wished to have a bit of fun with before destroying. Gonaki could make a cat look kind in this mood. "They don't taste as good as what they can catch, although I'd imagine orcs are the same. I've simply never seen an orc catch anything worth eating. Look at you, my brother. You loved your freedom, and here you have handed it away to the beings you once despised most in the world. I have seen hounds of men that live better than you."
At this, Shanchanc raised his lip. "And how do you live, hound of men?"
"Dear Sahnchanc, so easily confused," Gonaki laughed. He paced an unseen, unofficially acknowledged boundary line with a playful, rolling strut. At any moment, that swagger could turn into a charge, but Sahnchanc refused to be intimidated by his elder, heavier black brother. "Chev'yahna is my pet. She comes at my call, and runs at my mate's command. She fetches us men's claws, and the deadly raven-sticks of the elves. Real elves, not some mudborn bastard curs. I wouldn't be surprised if those things have as much wolf blood in them as elven. Little wolves, like your pack. Really, at times, I am ashamed to admit we are brothers."
At this fresh insult, Sahnchanc's malformed seed leapt at the supercilious alpha. Two gray blurs of fur, teeth, and muscle intercepted him, throwing the brute off balance. Its large forelegs made swipes and leaps dangerous, but even Wirsankor seemed designed for running compared to the beast. Gonaki's sons were able to outmanuver Saruman's creation, but its thick fur prevented them from sinking their teeth into it. Sahnchanc and Gonaki circled the fight; their anger beyond words now. Yellowed teeth glistened with saliva. Blood stained the fighters' coats. Shanchanc crouched for a spring.
Tasana knew the methods of fighting wolves. While younger members of the pack were generally more likely to get involved with an intra-pack battle than their more dominant elders, it was these elder, more experienced Wargs who determined whether such a fight would be a personal grudge or an all out war between packs. Alphas could hold no personal grudges. Warily, the human drew her sword, doing her best to dodge vicious snaps from friend and foe alike. She had a much longer reach than any of the Wargs' crushing jaws, but she was by no means faster. If Roliran, all but foaming in a blood frenzy, or Wirsankor, who shared her weight disadvantage but lacked much compensation, bumped into her, she'd likely end up on the ground, under the heavy frame of the mad mutated Warg. Extra reach did not matter when one's arms were pinnioned and one's throat exposed. Sahnchanc would not accept such a simple apology at this point. Not without making the position permanent. Tasana's heart pounded as the brother alphas began to attack one another viciously. The silver wolf had raked his teeth down Gonaki's old sword wound, opening the black brother's shoulder. Wirsankor had gotten some hold upon the beast's throat, clinging stubbornly as the long-toothed bear of a Warg shook him like a pendulum. It would have likely taken the small wolf's body into its mouth and broken his back, if it weren't being hassled by Roliran's guerrila tactics and Tasana's scimitar. Dodging the swinging Warg, Tasana managed to cut past the monster's thick ruff of protective guard hair. So it does bleed, Chev'yahna noted. Paying too much attention to his son, however, the woods woman had failed to watch out for Sahnchanc.
While Gonaki was customarily the stronger of the two brothers, things had changed since his last trip to the Isen. Like Legolas's arrow, the silver Warg had shaken Gonaki's attacks right off. The loss of blood had made the alpha weak, and his black-caped brother was more than willing to finish him off. Gonaki had done the only thing he could have in that situation: he ran, stumbling, leaving a trail of gushing blood behind him. Saving him for later, Shanchanc had moved to incapacitate his other enemies. He landed upon Tasana's back, sending her scimitar flying. Roliran, for all the speed he had been named for, could not handle both these enemies at once. The healer could feel the hot breath of a Warg upon her back. "I thought you were the Balancer once." Drool landed upon the back of her neck. "Yet you serve him. You always did." A desperate whine sounded, and then died off in a gurgle. There was the sound of something snapping and a heavy thud as a body dropped to the burnt forest floor. "Goodbye, zwiero." He was almost loving in the way he took her neck into his mouth, savoring the scream she let loose as his teeth made their indentations. She knew there was no way out of this, and yet her animal hindbrain could not accept death so passively. Strangely, though, she felt his viselike jaws release her, yelping in surprise.
Glossary:
Balancer- a figure of Wargish myth who shall reunite the elves and Wargs
Sekrahc- alpha male
Zwiero- bipedals, ie, elves, orcs, etc.
Cliffhanger – an author's cop-out from writing another three pages, which usually results in flames. Burn, baby, burn!