Arda, Khand, The War Council of High War Lord Oebarsius: T.A. 2997

Octar bowed before his lord, who sat on his carven throne – just under the steeping arch of the war council chambers. His lord did not look up from the reports he was studying and the scribe suddenly felt very aware that technically, he was standing over the War Lord, and he was pretty certain that was something you weren't supposed to do. In a rush of panic and adrenaline the boy scrambled out of the room. Or rather he tried to but just as he was turning to leave, a large hand curled around his bicep.

'Stop.'

His Lord's voice was deep, like a glance into the ocean, and Octar felt the shivers run down his spine.

'Aye, sir?'

'Look at me boy when I speak to you.'

Octar turned and looked down into the large man's eyes…he seemed older than he usually did, riding away from the palace out to battle. Or riding back in triumph, he seemed tired, as if he were a man grown uneasy with the sound of battle. Which must be a terrible thing to happen to a Warlord, Octar supposed, better to be a scribe really…or at least that was what his mother always told him.

'He is coming,' said War Lord Oebarsius.

'Who, sir?' Said Octar, which made War Lord Oebarsius laugh.

'Who Sir, he says. Who sir, why the Wizard boy. The Wizard is coming. Long has been his reach in other lands, Rhûn was no match for him, even the Dwarf Clans of the Red Mountain bow to him now. How long before he turns his sight on us, on Oebarsius' people?'

The silence the War Lord's words had left in their wake hung between them then, as if the great man was waiting for a reply…a reply from Octar. Which was ridiculous of course, he was just a scribe, these matters were for other men, greater men than he. And yet his Lord was still looking at him, waiting for Octar to say something, say anything.

'Surely my Lord, Khand's armies are the greatest in the world. Some old man, with a pointed hat is nothing compared to that.'

'Ha! Greatest in the world, be not a fool child. Our armies are great, but the Wizard's power grows daily and more flock to his cause like flies to a fire's flame. Soon he will have all of Rhûn, Near Harad and most that had once followed that fool Morgoth, will follow him. I am but a War Lord, a mortal man, and what power does a Man have over a God?'

The Question was probably rhetorical, but Octar considered it anyway.

'He could kill him, sir?'

Oebarsius laughed.

'Kill a god? You are a whelp of crooked seed if you think even a man as great as I, have the power to kill a God.'

'No, my lord, not a god. But a man who would be a god, before he can become one.'

And at that Oebarsius released Octar's arm, which had begun to sting terribly, and sat back in his chair.

'Well… it's certainly not the stupidest idea I've ever acted upon.'

Arda, The borders of Rhûn, The Red Mountains of the Blue Wizard: T.A. 2998

The nights were cold up here on the mountain. That is what they were told when their Lord was planning his attack. He said it, so there would be no surprised whining when at last they reached their target, but in truth he needn't have bothered. For the air was too cold to even risk opening your mouth to groan, lest your teeth shatter your jaw.

Such was the Wizard's power, spoke their War Lord, that they could not risk going for him in the light of day, with each army facing one another as they had with so many enemies before. No, they must be like rats in the moonlight and sneak in to cut the villain's head from atop his sagging shoulders. They had not even taken the whole army, just the better trackers and axemen, such was their Lord's need for stealth.

So that was why they sat here now, crouched in the mud all along the crevices of the once mighty mountain of the Red Dwarves, waiting for the signal to begin the battle at last. This would never have been possible when the Dwarves still held the mountain as their own, but there were no guards posted at the entrance now. No sentries making their rounds round the ridges of the mountain. There was no one anymore. The Wizard's men were either away, or they were asleep, safe inside the once fortressed walls of the Red Mountain.

And then, like the first spark of a flame, the doors from the mountain were thrown open…and the boy, the spy who stood between the doors threw up the signal, the fire candle, and the men knew that the time for stealth had ended.

I will not tell you of the battle that would follow, for it would dishonour the memories of the heroic dead. I will say this though, that the idea to send a spy in to poison the drinks of the army…or what little of it slept in the mountain that cold winter night oh so many years ago…was not an inherently bad one. It might even have worked, if they had left it at that. Let the spy, the cup bearer poison all the drinks, but in this one regard, War Lord Oebarsius' mind would not be changed. He wished to take the head of the Wizard himself and thus the failure of the plan conceived in that War council chamber so many miles away from this terrible place, lay not at the feet of the angry Wizard / Mad Elven Fëa that the raging army accidentally woke up, but at pride itself.

Thus, so was the war of Khand's Death born.