- Day 2 -
The Nazgûl
Khamûl the Easterling, Lieutenant of Dol Guldur, rode out from the fortress as soon as it was light. He could see in the dark, but Shadow could not, and he didn't want his horse to stumble on the rough terrain below Amon Lanc, the Bald Hill.
He was still riding the perimeter every morning and afternoon as self-imposed penance for forgetting to lock the postern tunnel and allowing the Grey Wizard to get into the fortress and discover his Master's identity.
Ever since he lost his protective cover as the Necromancer, Sauron was perpetually on edge, waiting to learn what the Valar would do next. Dol Guldur went into a state of extreme vigilance. Lookouts manned the walls at all times, and patrols were doubled.
Khamûl's morning route took him up a high bluff that gave him a good view of Southern Mirkwood. In the afternoon, he rode a second route that took him deep into the wooded region surrounding the fortress.
The day before, they caught a spy almost at the base of the fortress walls. Khamûl saw him in his cell and witnessed the early part of the interrogation. The spy was tough. He would have to be. Dol Guldur treated its prisoners harshly.
Following the capture of the spy, Dol Guldur went into a state of extreme vigilance. Patrols were sent out more often. Khamûl's usual route took him up a high bluff that gave him a good view of the surrounding countryside. In the afternoon, he would ride a different circuit that took him deep into the wooded region surrounding the fortress.
-o-o-o-o-o-
Arathorn had stalked the creature before and knew something of its habits. It usually rode out just after first light, and followed more or less the same route.
On one section of its route, a narrow trail climbed the side of a steep bluff where the creature's horse slowed almost to a stop as it struggled up the difficult terrain. There were trees on both sides, and boulders large enough to hide behind. Arathorn thought they could drop a net over the rider, and then subdue it with cudgels.
Before sunrise, the Rangers hung a fishing net over the trail and concealed it among the branches overhead. Even from a short distance away, the course mesh was almost invisible.
They took up their positions. Each of the Rangers crouched behind a tree or boulder. By the time the sun was fully above the horizon, Arathorn thought he heard the clip clip of a horse's hooves. From behind his own boulder, Mallor shot him a look; he'd heard it too.
A moment later, a horse and rider appeared from around the bend, trotting toward the narrow portion of trail beneath the net. The horse was black, with no white markings at all, and the rider was wrapped in a black cloak.
Some forest animal or bird made a scolding noise. The creature drew rein and sat perfectly still, its head turning from side to side as if listening. After a moment, it shook the reins and moved forward through the trees along a different route than expected. Not only did it leave the path that would have taken it under the net, it was headed right for the boulder where Arathorn was hidden. When it rounded the enormous rock, it would surely see him.
Arathorn had no other plan. He could retreat into the woods and avoid a confrontation with the creature, but he needed to capture it if he wanted to save Halbaron.
In desperation, he climbed on top of the boulder. When the creature rode past, he hurled himself through the air, knocking it off its horse. They hit the ground together, hard.
-o-o-o-o-o-
With no warning, something slammed into Khamûl's side and knocked him from the saddle. He lay on the ground with the wind knocked out of him, gasping. Shadow whinnied in fear. Men were shouting nearby, their voices harsh and threatening.
Khamûl unleashed his most powerful weapon, Fear. He envisioned a black cloud, originating inside himself and extending like tentacles, moving outward like a toxic fog, shapeless and terrifying.
One of them threw himself on the ground, sobbing. In the distance were the sounds of a horse was going mad. Not Shadow, but some other animal that didn't know him. The man on top of him started to stir. Khamûl struggled free of him, then groped for the hilt of his dagger and pulled it from its sheath.
-o-o-o-o-o-
The creature's sleeve brushed against Arathorn's face. Arathorn twisted away, and a dagger plunged into the dirt where his heart had just been.
Arathorn tried to draw his own dagger, but an overwhelming feeling of despair and hopelessness clouded his thoughts. The weapon slipped from his unfeeling fingers and fell to the ground. He watched, as if from a great distance, as the creature raised its dagger over its head.
Then the weapon fell from the creature's hand and it collapsed across Arathorn's chest. Mallor stood over them with a heavy cudgel. "Shall I hit it again?" he asked.
The creature's dagger lay on the ground, its edge notched and corroded. It appeared to be a thing of extreme age. Mallor started to pick it up, but Arathorn warned him, "Don't touch it. It might be poisoned, or cursed."
Arathorn bound the creature's hands and feet, then searched it for weapons. He removed a dirk from its boot and unbuckled its sword belt, which held a two handed broadsword and the scabbard for a long dagger.
When they lifted the creature, Arathorn was surprised by how light it was, not more than nine or ten stone[1], the weight of a medium sized woman. They'd planned to sling it like cargo over the back of a pack animal, but when they tried, the usually docile pony reared and foamed at the mouth, its eyes rolling back in its head. It wouldn't allow itself to be lead anywhere near the creature.
In the end, they had to use the creature's own horse, which was found cropping grass nearby. They draped the creature over the saddle and used rope to tie it down like cargo, with its wrists and ankles pulled together under the horse's belly. All the while, the creature never stirred.
Arathorn led the black horse by the reins while Mallor and Dírhaborn walked on either side, their swords drawn. They set off for Sarn Cardh[2], a small fort where the creature could be held securely.
Like most strongholds, there was a small alcove behind iron bars in the cellar beneath the tower, built to protect wine and other expensive provisions against pilfering. The storeroom at Sarn Cardh was larger than most, more of a room than a cupboard, and the local Bailiff sometimes used it as a jail.
Arathorn planned to put the creature in irons and lock it in the cell beneath Sarn Cardh until they could arrange a prisoner exchange. He avoided thinking about whether the creature had supernatural powers, like mesmerism or shape shifting, that would help it to escape.
-o-o-o-o-o-
They'd been walking for ten minutes or so when a small stone tower came into view, colorful pennants fluttering above it. Soon after, they saw a palisade of sharpened tree trunks almost twice the height of a man. The main gate was closed.
Sunlight glinted from the helm of a sentry standing watch behind the wall. Arathorn called out a greeting and asked for the Bailiff of Sarn Cardh. The sentry disappeared and returned with an older man. His weather-beaten face bore a stern expression, but when he saw Arathorn, he grinned.
"Arathorn, Captain of Rangers! I haven't seen you in months. Wait right there, I'll open the gate for you."
He vanished from the top of the wall. A moment later, something scraped against the wooden planks, the gate swung open, and the Bailiff stepped out onto the road to greet them.
"What can I do for you? I suppose you'll be wanting food and a place to sleep, stabling for your horses, and … What's that on the black horse?" the Bailiff asked, his eyes widening.
The unconscious prisoner twitched. Good, it wasn't dead, Arathorn thought.
"Don't tell me you actually caught one of those things. What are you going to do with it?" The Bailiff stepped back and made the sign of the evil eye.
"I want to lock it in your jail cell. Once it's in irons, I don't think it will be dangerous. Hurry, I think it's starting to wake up," said Arathorn.
The Rangers led the horse with its burden into the yard within the log palisade. When the gate closed behind them, Arathorn and Mallor cut the ropes that held the creature to its horse and slid it out off the saddle. Mallor lifted its shoulders, Arathorn its feet.
The Bailiff lit a lantern and led them to the cellar stairs. He warned them the wooden staircase wasn't attached to the wall, so it might wobble under their weight. Arathorn worried that he or Mallor might stumble and drop their unconscious burden.
They reached the bottom of the stairs without incident. The inky darkness beyond the circle of lamplight gradually revealed rocky outcroppings poking through the hard-packed dirt floor. Stacks of barrels and crates were arranged against the walls, and in the middle of the room, there was a round stone wall typical of the enclosure around a well.
The Rangers followed the Bailiff to the back of the darkened space and stopped in front of an iron grate set into the back wall. The floor was lower back here, and noticeably damp.
The Bailiff took a key from his belt and snapped open the lock. The grate swung open with a screech of iron against iron, revealing an alcove cut into the rock. Chains hung from iron rings sunk into the wall.
Arathorn and Mallor crouched to enter the small space. The ceiling didn't allow a man to stand upright, which smelled of mildew and urine. They dumped their limp burden on the floor. Arathorn knelt beside the creature. The packed earth was cold, and almost right away, moisture from the ground soaked into the knees of his leggings.
The Bailiff was unwilling to touch the creature, but he showed them how to work the irons, and watched while they fastened them around the prisoner's wrists and ankles.
"Take off its boots, otherwise you'll never get the irons tight enough." said the Bailiff.
Arathorn removed one of the creature's boots. Its foot was missing.
"Well, we'll have to skip that one," the Bailiff said.
Arathorn pulled off the other boot. That foot was missing, too. Arathorn felt the creature's leg through the fabric of its clothing. It was skeletally thin, but the leg was definitely there. Arathorn's hand moved lower. He felt shin, ankle, and toes. The creature's flesh was as cold as a dead thing's, but it wasn't dead; its toes twitched when he touched them.
Arathorn looked up at Mallor. "The thing is invisible," he said.
Curious, Arathorn stripped off the creature's cloak, gloves, and black robes. When he finished, he sat back on his heels and asked the Bailiff to bring the lantern closer. There was nothing to see but empty chains on the dirt floor. Arathorn reached into the space where the creature should have been. His hand encountered a bony wrist, silk clothing, and long hair.
He turned to Mallor. "Go get Dírhaborn. I want him to see this." Mallor left and came back with the other Ranger. The two of them stood outside the cell and peered through the iron grate.
"I don't see anything," said Dírhaborn.
"Just watch," said Arathorn.
By now the thing was waking up. It stirred in its chains and moaned. When it rolled over, one of the chains wrapped itself around its invisible body.
"The chains moved by themselves, like serpents," said Mallor.
"Do you have any paint I can use?" Arathorn asked the Bailiff.
"We're staining some woodwork upstairs. Will that do?" the Bailiff asked. Arathorn nodded. The Bailiff went upstairs and came back a few minutes later with a bucket of dark liquid that smelled of pine resin.
Arathorn lifted the bucket and splashed it contents into the cell. Where before there had been nothing but empty chains, now there was something in the shape of a man lying on the floor, its shirt plastered to its skin and its hair hanging in oily strings.
The creature sat up and held its hands away from its body as the oily stain dripped from its fingertips. Then it shook itself like a dog. Arathorn jumped back too late, and was hit by a spray of resinous droplets.
With a start, the creature sat bolt upright and clutched one hand with the other, but a moment later, it relaxed. Arathorn guessed that it was, in fact, a ringwraith, checking that its ring was still there.
"I didn't take it, if that's what you're worried about. You're no use to us dead," said Arathorn. From what he'd heard, a ringwraith would die without its ring.
"Does it understand you?" asked the Bailiff.
"I'm not sure," Arathorn said. He faced the creature.
"What's your name?" The creature didn't respond. Arathorn tried again, enunciating each syllable. "Do you have a name?"
The creature turned away, hugging its knees.
"I don't think it understands," said Arathorn.
"Is it simple-minded?" asked the Bailiff.
"I don't think so. It walks normally and can handle a horse, but I don't think it can talk. Or perhaps it doesn't understand our language."
While he spoke, Arathorn rubbed at his hand, trying to remove the stain from his knuckles and fingernails. The oily brown varnish wouldn't come off.
"How do you get this off, anyway?" he asked the Bailiff.
"Three days," said the Bailiff.
"I mean, what soap or solvent will take it off?"
"Three days. It has to wear off by itself," said the Bailiff.
If that were true, the creature would remain visible for at least a few days.
[1] one stone = 14 lbs.
[2] sarn = stone, cardh = building or structure