Glass shattered on impact, leaving a trail of liquid streaming down the edges of the battered iron walls. The broken pieces joined the pile accumulating on the floor, making the chamber somehow even less hospitable. Mairon ceased to flinch every time a goblet smashed in a fit of rage.
"They had one job," Melkor grumbled, leaning back his shoulder to grab more cups neatly arranged on the table. "One order!" His dark eyebrows curved into a scowl. The goblet he was preparing to throw instantly exploded in his hand. "To trust me. And they could not even do that."
He held out his palm, and the glove was pierced enough to reveal blood and ugly scarring. His attendants nonchalantly brought in more fragile items and placed them before the waiting Vala.
Suddenly his eyes narrowed, and their pale light expanded in a burst of flame. "How did they even discover what it was?" His full attention then turned to Mairon. "Did you say something?"
The lieutenant rose from his chair, opening his arms in a gesture of good will. "I said nothing, lord. I swear it."
The Vala stood gauging the truthfulness in his response, until at last he appeared reassured. He reached out his fingers and touched Mairon's cold cheek, like it was not flesh at all but the hard stone of a mountain he himself had created. "Yes. You are the only one I can trust. I have seen in their eyes that the others mean to deceive me."
"I do not think so, lord," Mairon disagreed, grateful though he was for the recognition. "Just the other day I came across many of your captains caught in throes of jealousy. They sought an end to whatever it was you had created to replace them."
"Jealousy?" Melkor said doubtfully. His eyes gleamed and the innermost flames cooled. An amused smile spread to his lips. "Ha! Ha ha ha!"
He dwelt on that thought for some time, which seemed to be giving him much pleasure. The Vala left the table of goblets behind and crunched over scattered shards of glass to his throne at the highest point of the hall. Even sitting, his shoulders trembled with laughter.
Gothmog's entry brought the rare occasion to an end. The captain roughly threw a Maiarin guard against the stone platform at Melkor's feet and backed away. "Here is the rat, my lord. I caught him tinkering with the locked door of the beast's den. He must be the one who released it, and now he yearns for a repeat episode."
Scornfully, the Vala turned his head, refusing to acknowledge the servant groveling at his throne. "I don't see anything."
The Maia brought his chained hands together. "Please, lord, I beg of you, I did nothing! It was the beast! Those terrible eyes… they forced me to do his bidding."
Melkor responded with a dismissive wave. "Lock him in the dungeon. He can keep the skeletons entertained for many a long age with his tall tales."
Gothmog nodded. With one arm he lifted the Maia by his chain and dragged him from the room, as the latter kept insisting on his innocence. Melkor ignored his pleas.
"Hmm." Mairon rubbed his chin, watching the Balrog and his prisoner depart. One thing he was certain of: Melkor's servants were terrified of the Fire Wyrms, and even if the unfortunate Maia had imagined the encounter, the lieutenant did not doubt he believed it.
After Gothmog had gone, the Vala flexed a single finger to summon an attendant to his throne. The servant obediently came forth as Melkor leaned in to order him. Mairon pretended to observe some engravings on a nearby pillar, positioning his face so that one ear was in the ideal direction to listen.
"Bar the doors to the lava pits, all of them. Be certain there are no gaps where any can see in – or out. The next time Glaurung is released, it will be at my bidding," he heard the Vala promise.
A restless spirit plagued the halls of Angband, haunting everyone from the Orcs to the lieutenant. The siege, and now the burning of the plains of Ard-galen, kept them contained. Ash fell from the sky like rain, and combined with the fumes of Thangorodrim, the light of day never reached the gates of the fortress.
Satarno's words came back to him many times, although he knew their primary purpose had been to mock him. The Maia of Aulë was jealous, surely, like all the rest. The alternative was too cruel to think – Satarno wishing him not to succeed, based on an ill-founded belief it was for his own betterment? He cringed whenever he felt that dark thought begin to stir.
He spent his days surrounded by Orcs, by captains who no longer dared look him in the eye. The sinews of his arms constantly ached from lashing his whip. At least the wound on his palm gradually healed, until it was no longer visible. But if his attention ever turned to the east, where the injury was sustained, he smelled the fires of destruction too, and from thence the scent never faded. Sorcery of Thû's, he concluded angrily. Sorcery that should have been his! He had been the one to instruct the Avari, to give them all his attention and care.
They should have been his.
His main source of company, other than Melkor, was Draugluin. Many a night the lieutenant and fell wolf strolled together in the eastern courtyard, where it was bitterly cold and quiet save for the hoot of an occasional lone owl.
"How is my tower in northern Dorthonion? Is it free of Elves?" Mairon asked his spy, for the memory often crossed his mind: dark forests under dim starlight, howling winds, shadows inhabiting every corner, and all of it brimming with a dreadful sorcery. The only negative, obviously, was that there he was not Melkor's right hand.
"Free of Elves, yes. But there are spirits that dwell there, and they have converted the tower into a shrine to their god of death. A blasphemous shrine, for it is not Melkor they worship," Draugluin replied.
Mairon could not help but smile. "That is allowed, for now. They have done me a favor. I admire your loyalty, but rest assured, the spirits of Mandos have served Melkor faithfully. They do so even now without realizing, for what Elves will go where their dark cult prevails?"
"I see your point. Do you plan to retake it?"
"Eventually. The time is not yet right. For now, I must focus on finding the strongholds of the Noldor and destroy them, so the siege will finally come to an end."
"I thought Glaurung was meant to lift the siege?" Draugluin questioned. Snowflakes collected in his blue pelt, and he paused to shake them free.
"As did I. But Melkor plans to release him at an unforeseen date, and the longer we sit idle, the more powerful our enemies shall become." He set the toe of his boot on the pedestal of a statue, taking a moment to observe his surroundings.
The clouds parted enough to allow a sliver of moonlight to shine into the courtyard. The gray statue was briefly illuminated, revealing the face of Melkor wearing a triumphant grin. His foot was crushing the head of Tulkas, who was easily identified by his beard and brass knuckles. The warhammer Grond hung heavy atop Melkor's shoulders.
Mairon retracted his foot and backed up. He and Draugluin gazed upon the statue with reverence. It reminded the Maia of the hidden mural in the throne room, until the clouds darkened and the light vanished, concealing Melkor once more in shadows.
At some point, the light had dwindled and gone out over Melkor. His initial glory ended in the eyes of the Ainur. Mairon thought of the tapestries and depictions of himself on display in Aulë's halls, and he wondered if the light would go out on him, too.
Draugluin's yellow eyes peered at the dark statue, waiting lest it reveal itself again. "There are none powerful as the Master. No one will ever defeat him."
"No," Mairon agreed, "I will make sure of that."
The lieutenant sat focused at his desk, carefully compiling a map of Beleriand with the information he had collected, when the conniving words of Satarno managed to slip past a threshold into his guarded thoughts. In a bout of anger, he tore the map apart and balled it up in his fist.
Is that really what you want, lord Mairon?
"And how would you know what I want?" he growled, heaving the crumpled ball into the open flames of a brazier.
"An odd thing to say to one's papers," Melkor remarked behind him. Mairon lowered his head, feeling his face flush with embarrassment.
"What ails you, Mairon?" the Vala wondered. His tall shadow loomed over the study, consuming all light and reducing the low-burning fires to smoking coals. Only the Silmarils were left shining, unaffected.
"Nothing, my lord," he answered confidently, but he struggled to hold his gaze.
The daunting black eyes glittered like gems in themselves. "You show a weakness, lieutenant. Weaknesses can be exploited."
Mairon grit his teeth. "I am not weak."
The Dark Lord smiled. "No. So tell me, who are you trying to protect?"
The Maia stared down at his desk. Melkor's hand entered his vision, resting upon the wood surface mere inches away as he leaned over the lieutenant, and waves of heat could be felt radiating from his singed flesh.
"You do hope to be the greatest of the Maiar?" the Vala asked, although both he and Mairon knew it to be a statement rather than a question.
The latter closed his eyes, and when they reopened the pupils had enlarged, lit within by glowing red embers. "I do," he admitted.
"Then you must sever all ties. Others will only try to hold you back. There are no allies in this world, Mairon. Remember that. Everyone is after their own interests."
"Yes, my lord," he obliged him, hiding any dismay he might have felt.
The Vala motioned to the maps Mairon had not yet burned. "What do you have for me?"
"Oh." The Maia cleared his throat, digging through the pile to his most detailed charts. He pulled one out and spread it across the table. His finger traced a path marked along the river Sirion, beginning from the north. "Draugluin followed news of Finrod and traced his presence as far west as the Narog. Similarly, I've ordered Tevildo to search for Turgon near Ered Gorgoroth where he is stationed, but both trails have gone cold." The Maia moved off to the side to allow Melkor to inspect the map for himself.
The Vala pursed his lips while he examined first the key in the map's corner, identifying what symbols denoted a Noldorin presence. "Elves cannot disappear. They are trying to stay hidden, and I'll wager it is in plain sight. Widen your searches and increase the number of spies."
Mairon nodded. "It shall be done. And what of Men?"
"Hardly worth my concern," Melkor scoffed. "Fankil keeps watch over them, and the tales he relates to me aren't exactly riveting."
"And if they come to the aid to the Elves?"
He saw the Vala bristle with offense. "Do you really think these possibilities have not occurred to me, Maia, the one who has seen further into the history of Arda than any other? Stick to the task entrusted to you. I do not grant any position lightly, and yours was given on account of your loyalty. Do not make me second-guess my decision," he warned.
Mairon quickly bowed, folding his hands respectfully at his back.
He waited until the doors creaked shut after Melkor and he was left alone. Then the Maia allowed his resolve to leave him, and he crumpled into his chair and set his forehead on the desk. He rubbed the sides of his head with both index fingers, hoping to put a stop to the voices within.
"Why do you torment me?" he voiced to the empty chamber. Only his echo answered.
The Maia of Aulë supervised the quarries in the Iron Mountains, standing a careful distance away from the workers. The air was overrun with the din of pickaxes on the rocky slopes and the scrape of iron ores sliding down metal troughs into carts.
He looked over a piece of parchment specifying the tasks for the hour, at the same time chastising an Orc he'd called to his side: "Mountains are carefully-built, uniform structures," he lectured. "If you are reckless in your approach, they will tumble and fall, suffocating you and crushing the effects of your labor."
The Orc hobbled off to return to work. Satarno felt eyes upon him. He faced the lieutenant, his sweat-laden brow darkened by dirt and ash.
"How can I help you, lord Mairon?"
"Do not mock me with my own name," the other Maia responded.
Satarno frowned. He crossed his arms, tucking his quota underneath. "That is not my intention."
Mairon smiled grimly. "I am not a fool to the purpose of your words. The only Maia with greater skill in speech—"
"Curumo, yes, I recall," Satarno finished for him. "Alas, I do not share his skill. My words are just that – words. What reason do you have to think otherwise?"
"I see you choose to act oblivious. Did you really believe I would not catch on? Your malicious words haunt me day and night."
Satarno sighed, walking to a nearby rest station and wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. "And did it ever occur to you, that maybe it is not evil intention at all, but your own guilt?"
Mairon actually laughed. "Guilt? Guilt for what?"
"Maybe you are not so cold and rational as you like to believe, Mairon. Perhaps the guilt has been there all this time, lingering just beneath the surface, creeping into your thoughts when you have the least control. I remember you telling me about some being in the eastern lands who orchestrated that spell upon you. What if it was not so much sorcery? What if he told you something you did not want to hear, something that awoke emotions that hide even deeper than Melkor keeps his Wyrms-"
Rage sparked in Mairon's eyes. "ENOUGH!"
All noise in the quarry suddenly ceased. The Orcs froze with their pickaxes in hand, staring nervously at the lieutenant. Satarno pressed into the bench at his back as Mairon moved in, bringing his face close to the Maia's. Satarno paled and his arms trembled as they reached for any weapon to defend himself.
"I don't know you anymore," he whispered.
Mairon's unblinking glare did not waver. "Try to hinder me. See what becomes of you."
Any Orcs loitering in the great hall did not have a chance to move of their own accord. The lieutenant cast them aside like solid obstacles, kicking at the fallen who interrupted his path. His hands were at the throat of yet another when Melkor called out from above.
"Leave that one, Mairon," the Vala ordered lazily. "I need him to captain several Orc forces."
The Maia's grip released the Orc as fast as it had seized him. He ascended the steps to stand at the feet of the Dark Lord. "Is it already time, then?" he wondered.
A smile twitched at the right corner of the Vala's mouth. "Yes, it is time. I cannot look out over the forces of the Noldor any longer. Their empty threats grow tiresome. I think they have forgotten about me, Mairon. They have forgotten the taste of my wrath, the feeling of true pain. The Eldar are far too comfortable in my lands."
Mairon expressed his agreement.
"Glaurung is at his full might. The Balrogs are restless, eager to slaughter. I have more Orcs now than this fortress is capable of containing."
"When?" was all Mairon asked him.
"Tomorrow's eve, my preparations shall be complete. The Noldor do not stand guard like they used to. Our plans have succeeded, my lieutenant. They believe they have me conquered."
"Then I must prepare as well. Give me your orders, my lord, and they shall be followed."
The furnaces of Thangorodrim spewed great plumes of black smoke as the blacksmiths pounded sheets of iron into armor and weaponry. The Orcs stood in a line to receive the war goods, choosing from an endless supply of swords, spiked clubs, and square shields. Black helms and breastplates garbed every creature of Angband.
Mairon produced and outfitted himself in his own armor. He slid the polished black breastplate over his shoulders, fastening iron gauntlets around his wrists. A layer of dense chainmail protected the vulnerable areas under his shoulder guards and platelegs. His helmet covered his hair and face completely, leaving only two gaps for his eyes. The lieutenant flexed the fingers of his metal gloves as he admired the expert craftsmanship.
On the evening foretold by Melkor, the servants of the Dark Lord were summoned to a final meeting of departure.
Melkor roused the Orcs, who swarmed beneath his throne, bumping each other with their scimitars, "Tomorrow will not come! Darkness shall descend upon these lands, a darkness so foul and consuming that the sun will never rise again! The only Elves and Men left alive shall be those on their knees!"
The Orcs cheered in rancorous applause until the halls trembled with their fell voices.
"Open the doors!" Mairon commanded, pointing his raised arm at the guards stationed by the front entrance. They strained their muscles to turn the iron hinges.
Beneath the solid floor at their feet, another set of doors opened, then another, and another, the sound growing louder the closer it drew.
"GLAURUNG!" The Orcs began to chant. "GLAURUNG! GLAURUNG! GLAURUNG!"
The monstrous beast emerged onto the ground level of the fortress like a tidal wave of shadow threatening to submerge them in darkness. He raised his long neck and opened his maw, releasing a stream of bright orange fire that disintegrated the wooden beams in the ceiling and set the tapestries aflame. Melkor laughed amidst the destruction of his own dwelling.
Glaurung was flanked by several lesser Fire Wyrms, smaller but no less deadly, and at their tails the Balrogs flaunted their swords and fiery whips. Gothmog ran ahead of the rest and climbed up Glaurung's scaly hide, wrapping his whip around the beast's neck like a flaming set of reins.
Next came the vast Orc armies, accompanied by Wargs and beasts bred in the shadow. Lastly at the rear went Mairon with his entourage of Maiarin captains.
Melkor trailed his army to the entrance of the fortress to see them off. "Don't come back!" he yelled after. "Don't come back, until it's finished!"
A river of fire wound through Ard-galen, searing the path of Angband's hosts into Arda like a red line on Mairon's maps. The watchtowers of the Noldor caught aflame and collapsed, abandoned by the unsuspecting Elves. Their cries sounded in the distance, raising the alarm to gather their armies.
Melkor's forces separated, with one host going west, another south, another east. Gothmog clambered off Glaurung and accompanied the army to the west, towards the Shadowy Mountains, while Glaurung and his followers went east to the guarded pass of Maglor. Mairon, for his part, yearned for his initial hide-out in Dorthonion, so he called his horse from a secure position close to the fortress where he'd moved her, and then he rode south to his former lands.
Angrod and Aegnor were ill-prepared for such an onslaught, although he had deemed their watch the most meticulous. The Orcs managed to wound and capture the two Noldorin lords, and with Mairon as a witness, his captains had them slain.
"You should not have taken what was mine," he told their corpses. As he looked upon the lifeless faces, a memory surfaced in the back of his mind, of two golden-haired youths in the light of Valinor; but it was a fleeting image, and he turned his attention away to the west, to Minas Tirith and the remaining brother.
Mairon and his captains arrived too late, however, for while the elusive Finrod had been found and very nearly captured, aid had indeed come from Men – and as the lieutenant watched the Men of the house of Beor escape the fens with Finrod close in their guard, a cold pit of hatred formed in his chest. He knew he would detest that house forever more, and somehow, he blamed himself. If only he had succeeded in keeping the Avari from Men, if only he had chosen back then to inform Melkor…
But such regret was pointless. Mairon turned Muilë around and rode back the way they came with his Maiar huffing and puffing to keep up. News was slow to spread, unaided perhaps by the scorched earth and the smoke obscuring one's direction, and Mairon and his party had already decided to set up camp when a roaming messenger happened upon their fire. The visitor's posture was stooped such that his hood fell low, leaving only his nose and mouth exposed.
Mairon bade the Maiarin herald sit across from him. He'd removed his helmet, and all his face save for the skin around his eyes was blackened with metal grime.
"Lord Gothmog's raid upon the lands of Hithlum has killed less of the Elves than their Mannish allies," the messenger informed the lieutenant.
Mairon smiled at the implication. "They had the mortals do the fighting for them?"
"Not so much. The Men fought voluntarily," the Ainu corrected, and the mirth faded from the lieutenant's lips. "But the Orc forces have created a wall between the sons of Fëanor and Fingolfin's people, so that the latter cannot come to the former's aid. Thus, Glaurung's forces have utterly succeeded, driving Fëanor's house from their holdings in the east. Only Maedhros' people remain."
"Perhaps he deems such resistance to be revenge for his capture. No matter – this is great news indeed."
He let the messenger go on his way. Mairon purposed to follow Glaurung's trail to monitor the drake's progress, but he tarried in Lothlann much longer than expected. Even after most of the captains pronounced the war a success and made up their minds to return to Angband, the members of his party among them, Mairon remained in the ruins of northern Beleriand to ensure the end of the siege. The messenger had spoken true, for the old watchtowers were deserted and in shambles. He became a lone shadow drifting in their midst, a ghost that never slept.
Don't come back, until it's finished! Melkor's voice occasionally echoed in the cold wind that blew through the ravaged plain.
At long last, when he lost trace of Glaurung and what forces of Angband remained, the lieutenant slowly crept back to the fortress. From the hills of Dorthonion he gazed upon it like a hunter who has strayed far in pursuit of prey and returns home, wearied and relieved. What he saw waiting there in welcome, however, disturbed him greatly.
He found the ground torn asunder, as he had not seen since the days Melkor was wont to change the surface of the earth. Only one weapon was capable of such destruction, and it was the Vala's warhammer, Grond.
Fear made his heart skip a beat. He hastened past the steaming fractures embedded at the feet of the iron gates and descended the depths of the fortress. The Vala was laid on a bed in his chamber, surrounded by many captains gawking at the stab wounds he'd been dealt. A long bloody gash ran across his right eye that the lord of Angband was trying to cover.
Melkor slapped Gothmog's arm away. "I'm fine! You're just making it worse!"
The lieutenant entered the chamber and came near, and he allowed Mairon to move his hand aside and examine the wound, but his right eye glared at him the entire time.
"Send for Angband's healers, before it becomes infected," Mairon urged those in the room.
Gothmog reluctantly grumbled in acquiescence, going to see to the order himself. The rest of the captains gradually filed out until the Vala and Maia were alone.
"Who has done this, my lord?" Mairon demanded. "Do they still live?"
"Of course they don't live! Who has ever bested me, Mairon? Who?"
The Maia had a name, but he decided it best not to speak it.
Melkor clutched his eye again. The lieutenant suspected he was concealing the true amount of pain he was in. "The Noldo has been a thorn in my side ever since he drove his people like pack-animals across the Helcaraxë to support a brother who never loved him. I'm glad the eagles carried his corpse off as carrion."
"It was only Fingolfin, then?" he made sure.
"Yes, he requested a one-on-one duel. The most foolish words I've ever heard come out of an Elf's mouth."
At the arrival of the healers with their salves and herbs, Mairon left the Vala in the chamber, although he remained just outside, leaning against the doors. He felt anger – anger at himself. This was the second time he had been too late.
The Orcs were unusually quiet. They dared not speak a word about the duel. No doubt they were disheartened when the sun did continue to rise, and their god and king sustained injuries that put him out of the public eye for some time. But Melkor did not listen to the advice of his healers, who could not do much about that anyway, and he returned much sooner than anticipated. The gash over his eye had turned to a scar, the second permanent marring of his face next to the damage done to his jaw by Tulkas. He was so no less feared because of his injuries, however, for he still found time to punish the Orcs if they displeased him.
When he finally left his bed, Mairon had been presiding over the fortress in his absence. Melkor limped to his throne on his injured foot, hobbling like the Orcs did. "Mairon, I have something you would do for me."
The Maia turned expectantly.
"There is something that still irks me, and it is the presence of that watchtower to the south. It withstood the war, even though I heard Finrod long ago handed it off to some relation. The tower should be easy to take. Send a legion of Maiar against it right away."
Eagerness arose in the lieutenant's heart, for now he saw the opportunity to redeem himself for failing to capture the Elven king. "Even better, my lord. I will take it myself."
Melkor peered down at him curiously. "So be it," he permitted. "Send word as soon as you can to inform me of your success."
Mairon gave the order, but he did not immediately make known his intention to join. First he summoned Draugluin to let him in on the plan and to gather his servants from the wild, with a message to meet at a designated location on the plain before the battle. Once the preparations between Mairon and his chief spy were complete, he dressed Muilë in armor and led her to the place he and Draugluin decided.
The forces Melkor had requested were readying themselves outside the fortress. Taryamo and his hunters put on their helmets and saddled their Wargs, stocking their belts with swords and daggers. The Maiar sat atop their steeds and stretched, or ran the Wargs in tight circles.
The warm-up ceased when the lieutenant arrived leading a host of fell beasts in his wake.
Taryamo blinked. "Why are you here? Mustn't you remain at your post in the fortress?"
Mairon mounted his horse and rode to his side. "I was given this order – I don't want you taking all the credit."
"You're coming? You're coming? You're coming?" Taryamo kept repeating questioningly, his tone indistinguishable as joy, shock, or denial.
"Yes, that's what I said," Mairon replied, uncertain if that was meant rhetorically or not. He examined the other Maia's forces with a disapproving frown. "You're not bringing any Orcs with you?"
"Why, when I have my best soldiers with me?" Taryamo asked, sweeping his arm to gesture to his fellow Warg-riding captains. "Do not grow to rely so heavily on Orcs, as Melkor does. I do not trust anything I cannot control."
"Who says they cannot be controlled?"
"Doesn't that require some sort of brain? Whatever is between their ears, it's rotting."
"Orcs are dispensable. And your Wargs… not so much. What would happen if you lost yours? What is a hunter without his noble steed?"
A hint of concern touched Taryamo's face. He glanced down at his Warg, his brow furrowed in thought. "Fine. But they are only going to slow us down."
"Then why not put the Orcs atop the Wargs?" Mairon suggested.
" 'Put the Orcs atop the Wargs' ? I am all too near to sending you back to the fortress! Do you think it is easy to ride a Warg? It wasn't so easy for you, I recall. What makes you think Orcs even possess the right faculty?"
"They were once Elves. Surely, they possess the faculty."
Begrudgingly, once the troops of Orcs arrived, Taryamo distributed his unmanned Wargs to their number. Immediately, the two races began to speak to one another in strange gibberish the Maiar could not understand, composed of a bestial grunting and gnashing of teeth.
Taryamo's jaw dropped to his shoulders.
"Lords!" one of the Orcs exclaimed, throwing his arms around the neck of his Warg. "We have the same name! Can I keep this one, to be my own?"
"They are not pets," Taryamo spat the word. "They are beasts of war."
"Taryamo," Mairon said in a low voice, "remember: the only thing deadlier than a Warg is a Warg with a mace-wielding Orc on its back." He rode behind the other Maia and gripped the reins, letting him know he was ready to leave.
Taryamo closed his eyes and inhaled a deep, calming breath.
"At least one of the Maiar cares for you," he said to the Orcs, but they weren't paying attention. The creatures struggled to mount their Wargs without slipping off, and the beasts squatted on the ground and waited with relative patience.
"After you, lieutenant," Taryamo told Mairon.
The latter assumed the lead, and directly on his trail ran his spies in animal shape. His horse crossed the dip of the hill, and as she did, the ghastly creatures fanned out across the slope. A glimmer of evening light escaped the clouds and bounced off the metallic surface of a sword sheathed against Mairon's leg.
Afterwards came the hunters riding their Wargs with finely crafted bows hanging off their right shoulders, and bringing up the rear were the Orcs, beginning at a slow pace before gradually growing accustomed to the bumpy ride.
The white walls of Minas Tirith gleamed like the city of Tirion upon the hill, basking in the glow of the full moon as Tirion basked in the light streaming through the gap in Valinor's great mountain chain. The darkness concealed the full extent of their army, but the tower's watch must surely have spotted them from afar.
On the shore of the Sirion, the lieutenant brought his horse to a halt and raised a hand. The rest of the army followed suit. The bearer of the flag of Angband stopped beside him, the tattered emblem ruffling in the breeze. Only the trebuchets rolled forward, and the Orcs knelt to light the explosives in the loading arms.
A line of arrows flew out from the walls and felled the Orcs, but not before the trebuchets shot their loads, releasing tons of fiery boulders at the shining watchtower.
Mairon waited patiently. The arrows shooting in his direction missed their mark entirely, although he did not move an inch after dismounting his horse. He kept his eyes fastened on the highest tower, where he knew Orodreth must be looking out upon the black army in a state of panic.
Taryamo's hunters did not wait for the walls to be breached. Their Wargs climbed the sheer barricade, gripping the edges they could find with their claws as arrows caught in their coarse fur. The Maiarin riders beat back the guards who sprang upon them at the top of the wall with sharp, cleaving swords. Taryamo himself attempted to climb the main tower, and Mairon observed with some amusement as his Warg left a trail of claw marks in the stone as it struggled to keep from slipping.
Taryamo noticed his steed's trouble, and once he found a firm hold in the masonry, he let his Warg slide back down, unharmed, while he continued alone to the top of one tower. The huntsman smashed the window with his fist and jumped through. A great commotion then happened inside, and after a brief period of heated conflict a few Noldor were thrown out of the broken windows. The rest fled down the winding staircase to be met at the bottom by mounted Orcs.
Draugluin and his host of undead creatures assaulted the marksmen standing in the watchtowers. Shadows with sharp fangs and glowing eyes leapt out of hiding and seized the archers, dragging them into the river or the Orc-infested streets.
Guards in blue Noldorin armor jumped down from the crumbling wall and crossed the moat, raising their swords to the lieutenant. He watched them approach in slow motion. The river splashed under their leather boots, faces contorted in final desperation.
I don't know you anymore.
He waited until they were close enough, and then in one swift motion he slit their throats, letting the river carry away the mangled remains. The lieutenant caught sight of his reflection in the bloodied water, and he did not recognize the face therein, staring up at him under the murky waves with a twisted grin, but he was smiling back.
He crossed the moat and climbed the stairs to the fortress, avoiding the corpses that lined the steps. The shining walls were now sullied with blood and blackened by flame. Orodreth and his remaining people escaped southward on horseback, and Taryamo's hunters shot fiery arrows to fell whoever they could reach.
"Burn it to the ground!" Taryamo cried. He carried a torch in one hand, and he was about to lower it to a pool of oil streaming from hundreds of overturned lamps.
"No!" Mairon caught hold of his arm to prevent him. The other Maia looked up in surprise to see the lieutenant grinning sadistically at the ruined tower. "It's mine."
