Seven: Go for the Throat

Talion tasted the taint carried on the wind as they approached the edge of the mountains. It was tantalizingly familiar; he had dealt with this type of sorcery before, but the memory of what it actually was hovered just out of reach.

But he recognized the caster of the fell magic growing stronger the closer the drake flew to Coldharbour. "Helm Hammerhand."

Daerwen snarled and quickened her pace, her anger flooding their bond. Years ago, the Witch-king had seen her among the drakes Talion had bred and decided he wanted her for his own. It had been Helm who lured her away from the safety of the necromancer's camp with the power of his Ring. It had been Helm who put the drake equivalent of a scold's bridle on her, blades and spikes stabbing the soft flesh of her mouth and keeping her from breathing fire. And it had been Helm who chained her wings and trapped her underground where she could not fly or move or even see the sun.

It had been Helm who tortured her into the shape of the Dreadful Woman when she refused to bow to the Witch-king, making her so vicious that she would have died rather than let anyone other than Talion saddle and ride her as a common beast.

I'm reluctant to let you get close to him again, in case he still has that kind of power over you. Set me down in the foothills, and I'll go in alone and deal with him.

Daerwen hit him with such a forceful denial that it almost threw him from her saddle. She refused to let him face the other Ringwraith by himself, especially not after how bloodied he had gotten trying to keep her from the other Eight until she grew strong enough to drive them off on her own.

I don't want to risk you, sweetheart, not now.

You are not risking me, Iam risking me, and I will not let you face that demagolka alone.

She used the Haradrim word for a war criminal, a real-life monster, a committer of atrocities on a massive scale, normally reserved for the Dark Lords themselves. Talion could not find it in himself to disagree with her. The Ringwraiths had been unholy terrors for thousands of years, and even in his own comparatively short tenure as one of the Nine, he knew he had done quite a bit of damage. He dimly remembered hunting the Ringbearer through Middle-earth, following the heady but ephemeral scent of the One, and flying against Gondor and her armies at Minas Tirith on the back of one of those fell beasts known only as Black Wings.

Talion pressed a hand against her scales and sighed heavily. She was still as stubborn as ever. Sweetheart-

No! Horza's not here - you need someone to watch your back against him!

She was right. Helm had always been one of his more difficult opponents; the only ones harder had been the Witch-king and Khamûl, though for different reasons. Even Isildur and his specters had been almost easy-

Specters. He had spent an extraordinary amount of effort over the years forgetting the armies he had at his beck and call - and what kinds of things he could do with them. The deeper he sank into the dark, the more tempting it had been, and the more Isildur's Ring had whispered that he just needed to stretch out his hand...

I won't be alone, sweetheart. I'll keep my distance, and call on the dead for close combat - I promise.

Daerwen ground her teeth in anger, wanting to set the enemy Ringwraith ablaze with balefire, but at last she relented, landing in the foothills of the Mithram Spur. Talion jumped down from her back, then walked around to her head, holding her close and smoothing a hand over her scaled hide. Your time will come, sweetheart. I don't dare go into battle against Khamûl without you at my back.

That seemed to satisfy her - for the moment at least. She took a drink from the water spilling down from the upper mountains, then curled up in some brush to take a nap while Talion followed the river through the last of the foothills. Beyond lay the flatlands where Coldharbour loomed above the ice-cold churning water as it continued south to the Sea of Núrnen.

There were a few scattered beasts guarding the city's main gate, a ghûl matron and her brood with caragors patrolling beyond, but there were no drakes on the rooftops or circling in the skies. Talion briefly wondered where they had gone, if the ones he had released had retreated deep into the mountains to hide from Sauron - or if they had all been slain like the livestock.

That thought made him go still. He did not remember Sauron ordering the slaughter - but then, he did not remember a lot of things from his time as a true Nazgûl. He had been bound in place under the Great Eye to torment whatever was left of Celebrimbor with his presence; if orders had gone out to do the deed, he had not heard them or carried them out - but that did not mean it had not happened.

He was not sure if Eru listened to - to things like him, but he quietly prayed that that was not the case, that Daerwen was not the last of her kind.

But that was a concern for another time. Even if the drakes had not been exterminated, he lacked the numbers and resources to breed and care for them at the moment; if they had gone wild, they would have to remain so until his people recovered enough to support them.

Talion scaled Coldharbour's outer wall as quietly as he could, beyond grateful that he could use magic to muffle the sounds of his plate armor clattering. He climbed to the top of one of the tall, metal-clad lookout towers, then jumped across to one of the buildings immediately inside, following the bloody taste of Helm's magic.

The other wraith was in the courtyard at the base of the tower, the highest level of the citadel, and he was not alone. There was a massive graug standing watch there, rumbling absently and slowly swinging its head from side to side like it was trying to clear its mind. In the graug's shadow, half a dozen whipping posts had been erected on the platform, each one with an Orc captain tied to it. Three of them Talion recognized; Skoth's undercaptain Borgu Quick-Blades sent to Coldharbour as a scout, Borgu's blood-brother Hoshgrish the Brewer, and Stakûga the Unkillable, an old rival who had earned his title several times over.

Several painful times over. Talion had cut him down a dozen different times, but thanks to Sauron's own necromantic arts, it had failed to stick. The wraith had been tempted to decapitate him or brand him, even if only to make it stop, but the opportunity and true motivation to do so had never arisen before he Fell.

Before them all stood Helm Hammerhand, still shadowed under a deep cloak with his massive warhammer over his back. He was working on one of the unknown Orcs, dark power swirling around clenched fists as the wraith chanted in Black Speech-

Oh. The Chosen.

Well, it was not the first time he had stopped one such ritual.

Talion backed off almost to the city gates so that Helm would not sense him right away, would waste time looking for him, coming to him to attack - time he could use to bring more specters through. Then he reached into the unquiet grave that followed him everywhere he went.

And the specters answered. With him and Isildur's Ring as their doorway, they stepped back into the world of the living, ghostly blue-green shades with razor-sharp weapons in hand. Orcs and Men alike, loyal to him beyond death, had promised to answer his call if ever he summoned them back, and they did so now in droves, almost dragging the power from him by force to stand and fight once more.

By the time Helm came out of his fugue and noticed he was no longer the only Ringwraith in Coldharbour, it was already too late. Drive everything away if possible, Talion directed the specters. Kill it if not. Ignore the Orcs unless attacked; focus on the Ringwraith.

Specters raised en masse retained only the broadest strokes of personality and did best with simple instructions, but for singular, more personalized resurrections, it was the real deal - or as close as it could get. Even if the spirit returned willingly and in full, there was something undefinable that was lost forever upon crossing the point of no return on the Farthest Shore.

Dirhael stepped out of the dark next to the necromancer. This Dirhael was not his son, but Idril and Baranor's eldest child, captured by Sauron's forces and personally executed by the Witch-king a little more than ten years prior. "Helm Hammerhand, huh," he said, resting his sword on his shoulder. "Good. We have unfinished business."

"Our goal is to put him down quickly, Dirhael, not get revenge." Talion's voice softened with old pain. "There has been quite enough suffering in the name of vengeance."

The specter grimaced in understanding and nodded. "Lead the way, Grandfather."

There was no need. Helm slammed down in front of them, snarling out a foul curse, and swung his hammer full-force at Talion, rightly assuming that if he took the other Ringwraith out, all the shades would disappear. But his focus on Talion left him vulnerable to the specters themselves, and Dirhael got a good, vicious stab in before the wraith swung at him, too. The shade dodged back out of range.

But it was enough. The two Ringwraiths were both more and less than they had been, and the wound Dirhael dealt now slowed Helm down where before he would not have even flinched. It also weakened him just enough that Talion was able to block his next strike instead of being forced to evade by the other wraith's greater strength, throwing Helm off-balance. They exchanged a few furious blows before the necromancer flipped up over his back with Eagle's Eyrie, then shot away with Talon Strike to gain distance, letting Dirhael drop on the other wraith from above.

Another crippling wound, and this one actually knocked Helm off his feet. Talion had a flick of a thought, and Dirhael sensed it and moved in answer, throwing himself on the other Ringwraith to pin him down.

To pin him down long enough for Talion to Shadow-Strike back in and drive Urfael down through them both. Helm snarled aloud, and then again when the necromancer slammed an armored foot down on his arm hard enough to crack bone, the sound rising to a shriek when Acharn followed, severing all the fingers on his Ring-hand in one vicious swing.

The others had their own manners of death, and Helm did too, seeming to vanish in chunks as if he was being devoured alive, his Ring falling to the stone street with a ringing chime. One of the ghûls darted in with mouth open wide as if to swallow it, but a specter got there first, cutting the thing's head clean off.

Talion lunged in to snatch up the Ring, mantling its growling power only long enough to send all the beasts fleeing for the wilds. Then he returned to claim Urfael. Dirhael did not even bother getting up, only said, "See you later, Grandfather," before letting their connection fade.

"Rest easy, Dirhael."

The specter vanished, and the necromancer let the other shades slip as well, proceeding on alone to the main courtyard.

The graug was still there, stumbling around in confusion now that its strings had been cut, and Talion hit it with a spectral dagger to get its attention. When it whirled to face him, snarling and charging at once, he threw hammer after hammer at it, hitting its head dead on until even its tough skull finally gave in. The thing finally dropped inches from him, the draught from the fall sending his cloak billowing out behind him.

Borgu laughed in relief at the sight, and Hoshgrish grinned as well, relaxing in his bindings. "Gravewalker! We was hoping you'd show before that shrakh finished his devilry!"

"Skoth told me there was trouble," Talion said, pulling his dagger out again to cut them loose. "If I had known you all were still alive, I would have come sooner; I was checking on Tar Goroth."

Stakûga swallowed thickly, wincing, though it was impossible to say if it was at the mention of the Balrog or Talion approaching with a blade in hand while he was helpless. But nothing came of it; the Ringwraith cut through his bonds and let him sort himself out, moving on to the others.

"And how is old Firebelly? Still frozen?" Hoshgrish asked, rubbing his wrists and looking around for his weapons.

"Dead."

"Dead?!" one of the unknown captains gasped. "I thought he was like Sauron! You know, unkillable even with his power ruined!"

"I thought the same," Talion replied, cutting the captain's bonds and moving on to the last captive, "but apparently not. He's gone from this world for good, so we have no need to worry."

"Well thank Eru for small mercies, I guess," said Hoshgrish, dragging everyone's weapons over and dumping them in a pile before digging through for his own.

"Indeed. Az-Harto and his band are on their way down from Seregost," the wraith informed him. "If you want to head south, I would wait for them. Safety in numbers, and there are still four other Ringwraiths about.

"The rest of you are welcome as well, as long as you don't cause too much trouble." Talion's eyes lingered on Stakûga, who soon dropped his gaze, shuffling his feet. "But if you decide to go your own way, don't bother us, and we won't bother you. There aren't so many of us left that we can afford to war against each other again."

Only one of the captains decided to leave. The others, including Stakûga, said they would wait for Az-Harto before continuing on to Núrn, so Talion caught a hell-hawk and sent it off to let him know as much before returning to Daerwen, relying on Borgu and Hoshgrish to keep the peace, such as it may have been.

The drake was in the middle of a sleepy staring contest with some kind of pheasant-like bird-creature in the long grass, and she grumbled at him when he disturbed the animal, setting it to flight with an alarmed squawk and a furious flapping of wings.

How'd it go?

Easier than I expected, though I might have overdone it with the number of specters I called. He had hid it from the Orcs - had not wanted to appear weak and give a reason and an opening for the strange captains to attack - but calling so many specters, fighting another Ringwraith, and then taking down a graug back to back to back had left him drained of strength. It seemed that he needed to test the changes and new limits to his powers, to adjust to the New Ring sustaining Isildur's instead of the One. He would rest and recover on the flight, but it did not change the death-like weariness dragging at his body.

Should have let me come with you.

Perhaps you're right. Let's head back to Cirith Ungol.

Daerwen landed in the Darz-Gurum's main courtyard at sunset. Well, sunset for Mordor, when Anar disappeared behind the peaks of the Ephel Dúath, the mountains throwing increasingly long shadows over the land.

Ishmoz was overseeing the last of the preparations so the caravan could set out the next day, and the Orc turned to face them as they arrived. "How'd it go?"

"Helm Hammerhand is dead, as is Tar Goroth," Talion replied, swinging down from the saddle as Daerwen hissed in satisfaction. "I told Az-Harto to head to Núrn, and he'll be picking up some stragglers in Coldharbour; it seems that Helm was trying to make more of the Chosen."

"That old nonsense? I thought they stopped that years ago 'cause it was too easy to interrupt."

"Exactly."

Talion circulated among the fortress's residents. Swinsere's Elven healing had done wonders for everyone, including the family the necromancer had brought in. The wife, Winara, was in considerably better health and had regained some lost weight, and now her son Norac seemed determined to become a healer under Swinsere's tutelage.

The Ringwraith asked the Elf what he thought of that. "It's not a bad idea," he answered, packing away the last of his herbs and tinctures, wincing a little when that pulled at the burn scars on his hand, left by the Silmaril long ago. "I've been teaching some of the Uruks off and on as the situation allowed, but until now I've never really had a chance to do more than write out recipes for poultices and the like and hope for the best. But…"

"You're worried about the Doom of Mandos."

Swinsere - Maglor Feanorion - nodded grimly. "On all that follow them it shall be laid also," he quoted. "We have been able to… mostly evade that by having me serve almost exclusively in an advisory capacity, no one officially above or below, but it's not a permanent solution. Even if the Doom has restricted itself to you and Eltariel through Celebrimbor and his relative innocence, if I take an apprentice, even one apprentice in the healing arts…"

"We've been balanced on the edge of a knife, and you think it might be enough to tip us over the edge." As the New Ring had him and Celebrimbor so many years ago - or perhaps even before that. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures they have sworn to pursue. He had sought revenge on the Black Hand for the murder of his family, and had gotten it, but the bitterness of Celebrimbor's first betrayal had made the taste of victory turn sour. Then… the defense of Minas Ithil, the conquest of Mordor, the assault on Barad-dûr… Eltariel had come away missing half a hand, and he had fallen into darkness and become one of the Nine.

"The Doom doesn't exactly have a lot of wiggle room written into it, Talion."

The Ringwraith hummed in acknowledgement and accepted the crate Maglor handed him, waiting while the Elf sealed up another and picked it up. "Your concerns are valid," he acknowledged as they carried the supplies out to the carts, "but at the same time, you are only one person. You cannot be everywhere at once, and even drakes can only fly so fast. Unless you have another idea, like someone you can contact to come here and teach in your stead…? Unless of course, that is enough to bring down the Doom."

"I see your point," the Elf sighed. "It is one I have considered many times. It starts with me and my house, but where does it end? Did it restrict itself to those who followed us back to Middle-earth, or did it spread? Who has it touched, and who has it spared? Cause, effect, cause, effect, in an endless cascade. But if this can save more lives than it takes, I suppose we'll just have to take the risk." He shoved his crate onto a cart.

"Mm. But that doesn't answer my question. Is there someone…?"

"...No one who would come. Not to teach Orcs, at least." He glanced west, through the mountains. "I have spoken to you of my adopted son, Elrond. He is a healer second to none, and a gifted teacher as well - but many years ago his wife Celebrían was gravely wounded by Sauron's forces, such that even with all of Elrond's skill, she could find no healing here in Arda and so sailed for Valinor in the Far West. His sons, Elladan and Elrohir, are far more open about their hatred of Orcs, but I imagine he has no great love of them, either. And now that Sauron has been thrown down, he may decide to sail and join his wife."

"So no chance of sending Men to study under him and then return to Mordor to teach everyone else."

"Indeed. Or at least, it's not very likely."