+++MAY 26TH, NEW YORK CITY+++
It was no surprise the rally was at night - such shows the being who now called himself Ringman had put on very often far in the past. The stadium was packed with countless people. They had jam-packed the seats and swarmed across the grass of the playing field itself, surrounding the stage on which the man himself stood, his voice ringing out across the whole stadium without a microphone. The building itself was dark, the obsidian sky above seemingly devoid of stars. Torches cast their blazing, infernal light across the scene, reddening the people's faces as if they were caught in some vast immeasurable smoking oven as they chanted, possessed by some manic devilry that flowed from his unnaturally-amplified voice.
Not that this was the only audience. Across America, 8 million people were watching Saul Ringman live on TV (twice that number listening to him live on radio) and more were tuning in every second. In their vision, he seemed to grow until he was the only object visible, his voice the only sound audible over the background chanting and ecstatic, almost worshipful yells of hatred.
Above, Sergeant Bradley adjusted his beret. His sword Orcrist was already unsheathed, gleaming bright and ready to shed blood. Stephanie stood next to him with her own blade, fingering the crucifix she wore nervously.
"You ready?" Bradley asked.
"Yeah," Stephanie replied, kissing him deeply.
The others gave their assent.
"Bring us in," Bradley ordered.
The plan was based on a key factor - the hope that Ringman would dominate his audience's perceptions too heavily and allow himself - or the body he had conjured up - to be destroyed without his sops knowing. Fortunately that seemed to be what he was doing.
The helicopter dropped the two men (and one woman) off without any but Ringman himself knowing.
Bradley and Stephanie rushed into battle, ancestral war-cries flying from their lips, memories of - war, thousands of men great and noble and terrible and filled with wrath facing a wicked figure armoured in dark iron under a fire-crowned mountain-a prince fighting with a broken sword over his father's corpse-a rally like this but far larger, hundreds of thousands yelling cries of praise to Melkor, "Lord of the World"-a temple of wickedness, its silver dome tarnished with the smoke of burned women and children, a handsome man like the one they fought now laughing at lightning that seemed to writhe and live as it struck against him - the handsome televangelist picked them up like children, holding each single-handedly by their necks.
Bradley tried - struggled - to breath, thick fingers trying to rush his throat, his own will adding to the meagre strength of his body to withstand, locked in spiritual battle like a flame of pure whiteness struggling to withstand a great wind of darkness.
"Come on...Kurtz..." he said, every breath a struggle. "Shoot, damn you!"
A few metres away the blond German drew his pistol. The Desert Eagle pistol in his hand was a weapon like any other produced in a factory somewhere. Steadying his aim, moving his finger ever so slightly - a massive difficulty in the immense immaterial weight that seemed to be forcing him down so greatly, trying to drag him to the floor and crush out his life and choke him and destroy him - he pulled the trigger.
But it was no mere explosive reaction that drew the bullet from its trigger on its ordained course, but a fire, an outburst of pure will that burned through his soul. Were it not so, the shot would probably have bounced off against the flesh of the demagogue's body and achieved nothing.
A sound like thunder went out across the stadium. Ringman's hands went loose - the man himself stumbled, faltered. Blood or something like it went out from his gut. Stephanie wasted no time. The Flame of the West flashed like fire and pierced Sauron's heart. The body fell to its knees.
Bradley raised his blade and decapitated him.
The flesh so recently destroyed began to crumble, smoking ash and glowing embers shedding off from what in seconds became a smoking ruin of a body, in instants a statue long-crumbled and disintegrating fast, then moments later a cloud of fiery smoke that rose high and rushed far eastward until it disappeared from view.
+++EVENING, THE DAY AFTER, CAMP ALPHA+++
Bradley had just left marksmanship practice and was preparing to lie down in his room. The place was immaculately clean and had only a few personal effect, one of which was a family photo from when as a kid of about 12 his parents had taken him on a trip to south California. Papa had loved the sea so much and insisted he take Mom on a yacht he'd rented - Bradley hadn't been able to come himself (despite his fervent protests) because he'd been sick and was due to come back home to Dallas in about two days' time.
There had been an accident. A freak storm. Both had died and Bradley had ended up with his grandpa. He had cried so much when he heard they were dead. The photo was pretty much the last time he had ever been with his parents. 13 years on he still looked at it sometimes to remember them.
His reverie of painful memories (mercifully dampened by time) was cut thankfully short by three knocks on the door.
He opened it.
Stephanie was there in a cute little number, a lovely red dress that she filled out wonderfully, almost as if it had been fitted out solely for her and nobody else, the crucifix she kept around her neck dangling in her low-cut cleavage. She walked in and locked the door as Bradley looked at her appreciatively.
"I've been thinking on what we both want," she said, her voice turning somewhat sultry. "And making out, you know, it just doesn't cut it any more. So, how about we take it to the next level, ya know, spend some time...together."
That voice probably counted as enough invitation by itself.
"Sure," Bradley said, his Texan accent very noticeable.
She began languidly unbuttoning his shirt.
+++UNKNOWN+++
The spirit drifted on the desert winds with purpose. It had enough power to recreate a fair-looking body in some months' time, but its failure in America had frustrated its master's goals immensely. It had been so close! One more hour and it would have been gone from that stadium to travel in so many new rallies, spreading discontent and hatred across that wretched Aftercomer country. But those...wretches had ruined the scheme, forced it to retreat. It would not be allowed to manifest there again - they would certainly be on guard next time.
So where? It had sensed the presence of two other spirits kin to it - one who in the Music had sung of sandstorms blotting out the sun, parched wastelands of cracked mud without a drop of water, omnipresent heat and scorched wastelands without life under an unrelenting sky - and another, a presence it had not sensed since the Breaking of Thangorodrim. She had helped in the creation of innumerable monsters for the use of Melkor - greatest of all the terror Ancalagon whose breath had burned hotter than Arien's flame, whose wings had blotted out the sky over all Anfauglith and whose body had crushed the mountains of Thangorodrim under its weight.
If he could join with her in alliance, as they had long Ages ago, the forces of Melkor would be great and terrible indeed.