Apologies for the extremely lengthy delay in updating this; my real life has gotten out of hand at late, but I intend to see this through to its end; just two more chapters to go! Hope you enjoy this latest chapter!

The meat cleaver flew end over end and slammed into the brow of a chunky Orc captain from the Warmonger tribe by the name of Hoglik the Stout. The watching Uruks hooted and howled in derision and cruel amusement as Hoglik fell to the ground, twitching and thrashing in his death throes, black blood running in rivers down his craggy face before the one who'd thrown the weapon, a lean Orc in patchwork armour, some parts of it involving steaks, chops and cuts of meat nailed to it, called Olgoth the Hacker was on him, another such blade clutched in his fist.

Chop! CHOP! CHOP!

The crowd howled in delight as Olgoth raised the severed head aloft by its top knot in his hand. Roaring to the roof of the cavern that served as the fight pit for the fortress that oversaw the valley of Seregost, Olgoth saw a flourish of movement, the corners of a cape, the deep red of dried blood, edged with gold as its wearer slipped back into the shadows, lest unfriendly eyes see him and the plan be given away. Throwing the severed head away, leaving black splotches on the snow and earth as it bounced away, Olgoth threw his head back to the ceiling of the cave and roared in triumph, drinking in the adulation of the crowd, the sense of triumph every Orc who walked into the fighting pits and emerged victorious felt.

As Olgoth exited the arena, looking for grog and meat to fill his stomach, he passed Zathra the Crow, his blood brother and soon to be the next fighter in the arena and the pair exchanged a knowing smile, a smile almost identical to the one on Talion's face high above as he looked down from his perch in the cavern roof above the arena as Zathra and his opponent sized each other up.

'Everything is going as planned' Celebrimbor whispered with predatory, almost reptilian satisfaction, already losing interest in the fight to come.

Two days later...

Bolg Iron-Skull was in a foul mood. His scouts had reported the Gravewalker had been sighted in one of the outposts in the valley and he, accompanied by two new bodyguards who'd proven themselves skilled and cunning fighters, stalked out of the outpost, following tracks that his bodyguard, Olgoth the Hacker had located on a caragor hunt. Once they were out of sight, the outpost behind them, Bolg seethed aloud. At this point, the only thing keeping him bound to Seregost was the spells the Shrieker had used to gain his loyalty, but with no sign of the Tark's head being provided to him as promised, and the Ringwraith locked away with the Overlord in the fortress's great hall, plotting who knew what, Bolg and his fellow Warchiefs were left to their own devices; most were filling their time hunting or abusing slaves. Bolg was one of the few urging an attack on the last outpost that the Bright Lord's forces were said to be amassing at, but Lord Khamûl seemed to show no interest in such plans...

Suddenly, an arrow slammed into Bolg's shoulder; he staggered to one side, instantly seeing where the shot had come from; a hooded and cloaked figure perched atop a ruined stone gate, a longbow clenched in his hands with another spectral blue arrow already nocked.

"So you've come crawling out from under whatever rock you've been hiding under, Tark?" Bolg lisped, chuckling and running his finger along the blade of the khopesh in his hand, pointing up at their foe perched above. "Gut him, lads! A keg of grog to the one who brings me his head!" The pair howled their warcries in answer, but not ones he'd expected to hear.

"FOR THE BRIGHT LORD!" Olgoth roared and Bolg bellowed in anger, shock and pain as he felt the blade of an axe bite into his lower back. Spinning on his heel, the cursed khopesh in his hand swept out and Olgoth just managed to duck under a blow that would have taken his head off, had it connected. Bolg suddenly staggered as an arrow hit him in the shoulder, looking round to see Talion leaping from his perch, another arrow already loosed even as the Bright Lord plummeted and a third being nocked to the string. Talion charged forward, the bow dissipating like smoke as the sword sheathed on his back was drawn, Bolg narrowly managing to parry it as Ranger and Orc struggled against each other, their blades locked as the two bodyguards turned traitor circled like wolves, waiting for an opening.

"I've waited a long time for thish, Tark!" Bolg drawled. "I've got a score to settle with you! I want your head for what you did to mine, and no pinkskin-loving traitorz are gonna shtop me getting it!"

Talion shouldered the Orc warchief back and slashed low; Bolg staggered back, hissing and clutching his gut. Olgoth lunged in and struck his former master from behind, his axe biting deep into Bolg's shoulder, then ducking back as Bolg whirled on his heel, avoiding being disembowelled. Zathra unsheathed the cursed dagger at his back and holding it aloft, began chanting; seconds later, Bolg was staggering back, an incredulous look on his face as Zathra sorcerously crossed metres in the blink of an eye, the dagger in his hand slicing a deep gash through Bolg's chest. But the Warchief rallied quickly, his khopesh slashing out and Zathra recoiling, clutching his head as the cursed blade bit into his shoulder, Morgai flies crawling out of the wound and buzzing all around his head. Before Zathra could recover, Bolg seized his right forearm, stretched the limb out and brought the khopesh blade slashing down. Zathra howled as black blood spurted from the stump of his sword arm; Bolg lunged forward, smacking Zathra across the face with the bleeding limb still cluthed in his hand, before the khopesh slashed out, and Zathra the Crow's head rolled free of his shoulders, leaving black splotches on the snow as it rolled out of its helmet and away down the hill.

With a roar of wrath at his blood brother's death, Olgoth the Hacker charged his one-time master, tackling Bolg around the midriff, bearing both Orcs to the ground. Punch after punch rained on Bolg's head and upper body, the warchief spitting blood and broken teeth, clawing at his opponent's eyes and neck, while simultaneously trying to roll to protect himself from the arrows Talion was shooting at him. Bolg managed to throw Olgoth off and swung out with his axe, hitting his opponent full in the shoulder. Olgoth staggered and fell to one knee, but as Bolg pulled his sword free, about to bring it crashing down into his traitorous bodyguard's brow, Talion struck, sending arrow after arrow into the easy target before him, each spectral shaft hitting the Orc in shoulder, wrist and ankle.

Bolg staggered, trapped by the arrow that had gone straight through his leg, pinning him to the floor, and Olgoth was on him before he could recover; Bolg's khopesh was parried by the axe in Olgoth's left hand, the right swept low and with a spray of black blood, Bolg Iron-Skull's left leg was gone at the knee. Falling to his knees, the warchief's hands desperately seized the hafts of the axes as they swung out, catching them inches from his throat. The pair struggled for a moment or two, but ultimately Bolg's strength gave out, and with a leer and a roar of triumph, Olgoth's axes swept out and Bolg's infamous skull rolled free of his neck. Olgoth seized the head by the top knot at the back, holding it aloft and howling, while Talion turned and walked away, a ghostly visage with a reptilian smile on its features creeping across his face.

One, Celebrimbor hissed in his ear.

Luga Ironclaw glared hatefully at the captive shackled to the post in the centre of Khargukor's fighting pit. The hand shaped burn wound on his face stretched and pulled painfully as his mouth contorted into a leering smile.

"Your boss is out there, don't think I don't know he is! Well, if you're expecting a rescue, I hope he does come for you, because when your precious Tark shows up, man lover, you're gonna watch me chop him up bit by bit until he stops screaming, and then...then you'll get the same. You want to try begging for mercy now?!"

Zûgor the Gravewalker gave a shark-like smile as his head was forced up "The only thing you're gonna hear from me, shrakh for brains, is my laughter when the Bright Lord pulls your guts out through your throat and feeds them to the caragors while you're still breathing!". That insolence came at the cost of Luga slamming a fist into Zûgor's jaw.

"Maybe I'll start cutting bits off you first!" Luga snarled, drawing a knife from his belt and idly waving it towards Zûgor's face, chest and upper body, as if debating which part to start hacking off first. "Maybe if I start chopping you up a bit, it might help the Bright Lord come out from under his rock a bit sooner!" Luga snarled as he pushed back Zûgor's head back. "I think I'll start by taking one of your ears. You can pick which one!"

With Luga's attention on his captive audience, neither the Warchief, nor any of his underlings noticed a dark shape leaping from the roof of the cavern in which the fight pit where Luga's trap had been laid was situated, landing with feline grace and not a whisper of sound upon the cavern floor. The caragors in their cages around the circumference of the pit began to snarl and snap as they got the scent of new meat, but none of the Orcs paid it any heed; caragors weren't exactly subtle beasts, and it didn't take much to set them off. So none of the Orcs paid their roars and snarls any attention...but what came next certainly got their attention.

A piercing scream got the attention of all the Orcs present as Talion seized the largest of the berserkers at the back of Luga's minions around the throat; Acharn was out of its sheath in an instant, stabbing the Orc in every part Talion could reach. When its life had bled out of it in black rivers, Talion flung the body aside, contemptuously sneering as the vast majority of the gathered Orcs ran for their lives rather than face the wrath of the Gravewalker. Only a few stood their ground to fight, and they were easily cut down, Urfael parrying aside axes and scimitars, opening throats, piercing hearts and cleaving spines in response. Soon, nothing stood between Talion and his target; Luga managed to get a spear in the way of Urfael cleaving for his chest as Talion charged forward.

"You can't save your little lackey; he's fodder for the caragors now! And as for you..." Luga snarled, filed teeth snapping inches from Talion's nose "You are going to pay for what you did to my blood brother and my face!"

Talion studied the ugly red burn mark on the Orc's face, and gave a simple shrug of the shoulders. "Don't know why you're so upset; personally, I think it's an improvement...shows what you really are...weak, ineffectual scum!"

With a roar of pure rage, Luga shoved Talion back and threw a spear at his chest; Talion ducked and rolled, the missile sailing over his head. Getting back to his feet, Talion loosed an arrow at his foe, the missile hitting Luga squarely in the palm of the hand-shaped mark burned into his cheek. Overwhelmed by the pain for a moment, Luga was stunned, clutching at his head, and Talion wasted no time in running to the stake to which his finest warrior was bound; Urfael slashed out, easily cutting the ropes around Zûgor's wrists, the Orc rubbing feeling back into them as he gave a grateful nod of the head to Talion.

"I appreciate the save, Bright Lord, but how are we getting out of here?!" Zûgor asked as a chorus of horns rang out; evidently one of Luga's men had thought to raise the alarm.

"Still remember your tricks?" Talion asked. With a wolfish grin, Zûgor began chanting in Black Speech, and the Orcs Talion had cut down rose to their feet again, snarling and slavering like beasts, and promptly flung themselves at the Orc reinforcements coming to investigate the presence of an intruder. As living and dead Orcs battled to the death, Talion loosed arrows at the doors of the cages around the fighting pit; locks shattered and slavering, grey-furred caragors burst out of their cages, driven wild by the presence of fresh meat, leaping on any Orc they could get their claws and fangs on, Zûgor's necromancy raising any who'd fallen, throats torn out by bestial fangs or bodies ripped apart by feline claws. In the chaos of Orcs and beasts ripping each other to pieces, Talion saw Luga whimpering in terror- he knew the Warchief had developed a great fear of the beasts ever since his blood-brother had been ripped apart...and Talion planned to use that to full effect.

"You still remember how to ride?!" Talion shouted at Zûgor as with a howling cry mimicking a caragor's roar, Spite came racing into the chamber, Talion hastily clambering onto the dire caragor's back. The other caragors roaming wild in the chamber, confronted by a dominant male, quickly fell into line, and Zûgor quickly scrambled onto one's back, man and Orc digging their heels into the flanks of their mounts as Talion pursued the fleeing Luga. The Orc was almost at the fortress gates- Talion took a moment to marvel at the stupidity of the Orc in thinking escaping the boundaries of the fortress was a smart move- when Talion was on him. A spectral blue-grey spear slashed low and Luga cried out as he hit the snowy ground, his feet swept out from under him. Rolling onto his back, his head being forced back by the tip of the elven spear at his throat, to Talion's amazement, a defiant last snarl crept across Luga's face.

"You can kill me, but it won't change anything, Tark!" Luga sneered. "Another will take my place, but you can kill me, the Orc who comes after me and a thousand more beside...but it won't bring back your woman and your brat!"

With a snarling hiss, Talion kicked his spurs into Spite's flanks and the slavering caragor lunged. Luga Ironclaw managed to make a strangled scream as the dire caragor's jaws clamped shut around his head; the beast shook him from side to side like a rag doll, its dagger-length fangs and powerful jaws biting deeper and deeper, gouging through flesh into bone until, with a wet snap, Luga's neck snapped and Spite tossed him aside, the caragor having lost interest in its kill now the Warchief had stopped twitching.

An arrow slashed past Talion's head; the wights Zûgor had raised had been cut down and more reinforcements were coming to cut them off. "Time to go, boss!" Zûgor bellowed; both gave their mounts their head, the caragors leaping from the ground to the battlements and then onto the snowy plain and up the valley that the fortress sat in. Archers on the walls loosed a few sporadic crossbow bolts, but all fell wide of the mark. Talion was seething at Luga's last words, so much so that he barely noticed Celebrimbor's sense of triumphant satisfaction.

Two down.

Pugrish the Machine stalked out of his quarters just as one of his archers hit the ground hard with a dull thud. Two hell-hawks quickly descended and began pecking at the luckless Orc's backside until the Machine sent them flying off with a wave of his mutilated arm as he bent to inspect the body, cogs and gears grinding and whirring with every motion.

"What shrakh did this?! Do you know how hard it is to find well-trained archers in Mordor?! When I get a hold of the one who did this, I'm gonna tie him to a wall and let the next batch of archers use him for target practice!"

A strangled cry could be heard in the distance, but as Pugrish rounded the building's corner, seeing a hunched and cloaked figure bent over an Orc lying face-down in the snow and mud, the Orc's killer sprang to his feet and loosed an arrow straight at a bundle of grog barrels yet to be distributed throughout the fortress. Pugrish was blasted off his feet by the force of the explosion, what little flesh he had left burning and blistering, the metal parts of him growing white hot as they were drenched in boiling grog,

"Is that how you plan to kill me, Tark?! With fire and arrows and little knives?! I came back from death when you cleaved me in two! Any other Orc would have died but I survived! No, more than that, I thrived! My brothers put me back together, stronger than ever, but they didn't make me what I am...you did! You created the Machine...and now you will learn what happens in the meeting of flesh and steel!"

Urfael cut down, and Pugrish's scimitars, fused to his hands, parried them, trapping the longsword between them; Pugrish shoved his attacker back and slashed out at waist height- Talion had to leap back to avoid being gutted. Celebrimbor's hands overtook his own and an arrow was loosed in the blink of an eye, pinning the Machine's foot to the floor. Pugrish roared in fury, but Talion wasted no time, vaulting over the Orc warchief as he tried to pull his foot free, Celebrimbor's hammer smacking him full in the jaw as he tried to turn to face his enemy. Talion aimed a high cut, intending to behead his foe, but Pugrish spun on his heel, easily catching the blades and batting them aside. A second decapitating blow was also knocked aside; realising the fight would have to change, or it would turn against him, Talion tried a new tactic.

The bow came out again; two arrows were loosed in rapid succession, one hitting Pugrish in the metal side of his skull, the other piercing his foot to the ground again. Taking advantage of the brief respite in the fighting, Talion retreated to beside another grog barrel, spilling a vial of dried and ground up Hithlas berries into the mixture...only to then take a blow that sent him flying as Pugrish, seemingly having freed his foot quicker than expected, struck Talion across the face. With no other option, Talion shot the barrel, and both man and Orc were doused in flaming, toxic grog, Talion considering it a necessary price to try and win an early victory...only to realise he'd made a terrible mistake as the toxic sludge burning his remaining flesh sent Pugrish into a frenzied rage. The scimitars in his hand hit Talion faster than he could parry or dodge the blades, and before long, the warchief had forced Talion to his knees.

"I'm sure you may return to plague Mordor again, but it makes no matter. You can come back as many times as you like until the Shrieker is done with you, but progress will not be slowed. No, it will crush everything in its way! You and all of Gondor are just fuel for the Machine!" Pugrish roared, pulling his sword back for the killing blow...and then as the blade in his mutilated hand came down, it was parried by the stock of a crossbow. Pugrish roared in fury at being denied his kill, but Bagga the Drowned slammed the arms of his crossbow into Pugrish's face, sending the Machine staggering back. With a howling bellow, Pugrish charged forward, both blades raised above his head...and then suddenly the Orc was choking as Bagga slammed the barbed head of a crossbow bolt into the little flesh left of his throat and pulled the trigger; Pugrish was blasted off his feet, trashing and choking from the bolt, buried up to the fletching in his neck.

"Lucky I was here, Ranger; that one almost had you!" Bagga opined as the pair of them made their retreat from Khargukor but Talion barely heard it, his mind awash with Celebrimbor's assurances.

Three. The defences of the fortress are weakened sufficiently. It is time to gather our forces and take it back before Sauron and his underlings can reclaim it.

"And what of Khamûl?" Talion asked. "Surely an attack on this fortress will draw him out?"

Of that I am sure. This time, he will not have the element of surprise to his advantage, and whatever reward he hopes to gain from Sauron for this, he will find himself denied!

Next time: The second siege of Khargukor...