The
Witch of Angmar
Legacy
of the Fellowship
Part
Nineteen
The Witch of Angmar
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T
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he
gigantic shadow fell across Rose. She scuttled backwards, still grasping the
torch, her gaze riveted upon the figure that had stepped out from behind one of
the pillars.
Rose’s
breath caught when the flickering torchlight illuminated the creature before
her. Terror caused her to stumble and she nearly dropped her precious torch.
The
thing before her was huge, even bent double as it was. Long, naked, sinewy
limbs protruded from the tattered remains of a black cloak. The clothing was so
decayed that it appeared like a ravaged pelt, fluttering in the breeze that now
whistled through the gallery.
The
face of a cadaver, a visage that had never been human, stared at her; a maw of predator’s
teeth opened wide in greeting as the creature grinned. Deep-set topaz eyes
bored into Rose, gleaming with a feral intelligence.
Hands
– skeletal claws with unnaturally long fingers, tipped in meat-hook talons –
reached towards its intended victim, grasping.
“Greetings,”
the ghoul spoke in a deep, raspy voice. “Long have I waited for a visitor. Long
have I feasted on rats and insects in this forgotten hall. Today, I will dine
on juicy flesh. Come.”
The
spidery fingers beckoned. “Come to me, sweet one. If you run, I will catch
you.”
Rose
continued to back away from the ghoul, trembling with terror. Not knowing what
else to do, she raised Sting. The blade, wavering before her, now glowed
bright, casting the gallery in an eerie light. The spectre’s yellow gaze seized
upon the sword; its eyes narrowed slightly.
“What
do we have here?” it mused, “An elf-blade.”
Rose
could not bring herself to respond. Terror had crushed her throat in a vice.
Why was Sting glowing so? Was the creature before her a goblin of some kind?
However, she knew goblins to be afraid of elf-blades – whereas this creature
merely studied it with interest.
“Curious,”
it hissed. “A female halfling, alone in my hall with an elf-blade. Who are you
girl. Tell me before I feast on your sweet flesh.”
Rose
shook her head, gritting her teeth. “I will tell you nothing,” she ground out.
“I have business elsewhere. Let me pass.”
The
ghoul laughed at that; a wheezing rattle in its skeletal chest that made it
sound as if it was drawing its last breath.
“You’re
mine halfling – and if you will not tell me who you are, I will waste no more
words on you.”
With
that, the ghoul lunged.
Despite
that it was bent over, giving it a decrepit and frail appearance, the creature
moved with frightening speed.
Rose
screamed and scrambled backwards. She attempted to turn and run, but tripped in
panic and sprawled to the ground. The torch flew out of her grip and rolled
across the flagstone floor. Rose rolled onto her back, bringing Sting up to
defend herself. The ghoul loomed above her, those clawed hands reaching down –
and Rose screamed again.
It
would have had her – she was certain of it – if someone had not come to her
rescue.
A
figure, small and lithe, sprung from the shadows. A sword slashed at the ghoul’s
grasping arms and Rose’s attacker reared back in shock. It did not realise that
another had entered its domain.
Rose
scrambled backwards along the damp stone, attempting to get to her feet as Azil
the goblin went after her attacker once more. The creature staggered back,
hissing in rage.
Rose
had no time to register surprise at Azil’s presence here. He had not saved her;
only bought them both time. The goblin brandished an iron sword, only slightly
larger than Sting.
“Hurry!”
Azil shouted. “Get past it!”
Rose
rolled to her feet and lunged for the torch that lay sputtering a few feet
away. Then, she darted right, skirting the edge of the columns, in an attempt
to do as Azil bid. A moment later, a small, sinewy form appeared at her
shoulder. She caught a glimpse of the goblin’s yellow eyes, wide with fright,
and knew they were far from safe.
A
shriek suddenly echoed down the gallery, echoing off the ancient stone.
“You
are both mine!”
“Run!”
Azil hissed.
Once
more, Rose obeyed without hesitation. Together, goblin and hobbit sprinted,
shoulder-to-shoulder along the darkened gallery, in between the rows of
towering columns. Behind them, a terrifying shadow rapidly closed the gap. It
was as if they were pursued by a twister, a force of nature, rather than a
living being. The breeze that had feathered against their skin earlier now
turned into a roaring gale.
“There
is no escape!” the ghoul keened. “I will have you!”
Yet
hobbits and goblins are fleet creatures, both smaller and lighter than men.
Rose and Azil ran as if Sauron himself pursued them. The columns flew by in a
blur; and yet, the ghoul closed the gap. It ran in long, loping strides. Rose
heard the rasp of its breath. Her pursuer was so close that she could feel it
prickle the back of her neck.
Despair
welled within her; they would never outrun it.
Up
ahead, loomed a great stone archway. Azil and Rose were just a few paces from
it, when Rose felt something grab hold of her cloak. The tearing sound of
rending cloth followed before Rose was yanked backwards, off her feet. Rose let
out a strangled cry and dropped the guttering torch.
The
ghoul had grabbed hold of the hood of Rose’s cloak, and she hung from its claw
as it swung her towards its gaping mouth.
“Let
go of me!”
Rose
gripped Sting’s hilt with both hands and lashed out at the sinewy arm above her
head. The blade dug deep and the ghoul let out a terrible scream; a sound that
nearly made Rose drop her weapon in fright. The creature did let go of her
then, and Rose fell to the flagstones. Sting’s blade came free of the ghoul’s
flesh with a strange sucking noise.
Eyes
ablaze, the creature staggered back, clutching its arm.
“Elf-blade!”
it wailed, “It burns!”
Not
waiting for the ghoul to recover, Azil grabbed Rose under the armpits and
hauled her to her feet. Without another word, the pair fled to the end of the
gallery and disappeared through the archway.
***
The
goblin guards came for them shortly after their daily meal of dry bread and
gruel. Peri had been lying on his side, eyes closed, and his mind numb with
despair, when the sound of heavy boots roused him.
He
sat up and heard Salrean do the same, nearby.
Wordlessly,
they sat and listened as the footsteps drew nearer. Then, a key grated in the
lock and the heavy cell door swung inward. The low passageway outside was dimly
lit by small clay cressets, yet both prisoners were unused to the light, after
days of being locked up in the dark.
Peri
turned his face away and covered his eyes with a hand.
“Time
to meet the Lady of this fortress,” one of the goblin’s cackled, glee in its
voice as it entered the cell and hauled Peri to his feet. “She is eager to make
your acquaintance.”
Peri
said nothing, allowing himself to be pulled upright. His limbs were stiff and
sore and he stumbled when the guard dragged him out into the passage way.
Moments later, another goblin ‘escorted’ Salrean out of the cell – shoving her
so hard that she collided with the wall. Peri turned to his companion, his eyes
watering as his vision adjusted.
Salrean’s
face was gaunt, her eyes hollowed – yet in their depths Peri saw anger flicker.
Even after days in that cell, they had not beaten her. Peri felt a surge of
respect for the ranger; her strength awed him. The sight of her resolution gave
him solace, and courage. Neither of them was beaten.
The
goblins led them up through a network of narrow passages and twisting
stairwells into the Keep of Carn Dûm. The further they climbed, the fresher the
air became. Peri breathed deeply, relieved to be free of the damp foulness of
the dungeons. He would rather die than return there.
Much
of the Keep was in ruin. A cold wind breathed in through crumbling windows,
revealing a dull sky outside. It felt as if winter had truly arrived here in
the bleak north. The chill stung Peri’s face but he did not care; the fresh air
and weak sunlight was a balm on his skin. They travelled through many lofty
hallways, all of them deserted, stepping over fallen statues and navigating
their way around piles of rubble from where some of the walls had caved in.
Peri could see that, even at its height, Carn Dûm had never been a warm,
welcoming place. The fortress was made out of a dark, pitted stone and Peri
shivered at the atmosphere; the evil that had built Carn Dûm, stone by stone,
and now resided here once more, was palpable.
The
goblins prodded and poked them with hard fingers, urging their prisoners on
whenever their pace slowed.
Peri
knew exactly where they were taking them, and wagered that Salrean did as well.
The
Witch Tower of Carn Dûm.
Eventually
they reached a vast archway of dark stone with a wide circular stairwell
beyond. Peri glanced at Salrean, and she stared back at him before giving a
barely perceptible nod. Their audience with the Witch of Angmar was just
moments away.
Peri
climbed the stairwell, the muscles in his calves and thighs screaming after
days of inactivity. On the way up, they passed tiny windows; little more than
narrow slits that let in shafts of watery sunlight. Unlike the rest of the
fortress, the Witch Tower appeared to be in a good state of repair. There were
signs of fresh masonry and mortar. The mistress of Carn Dûm obviously did not
wish to reside in a ruin.
They
reached the top of the stairwell and crossed a landing to where two more
goblins, dressed in iron and leather armour, stood before a heavy oak door.
These guards bore long spears and wore helmets that obscured all but the lower
half of their faces. Peri noted that these two were bigger than the goblins he
had seen until now; more muscular with a greenish tinge to their skin. He
wondered if these were orcs.
“We
bring the prisoners,” one of the goblins accompanying Peri and Salrean hissed.
“Let us pass.”
The
orc guards stepped to one side, and pulled the great doors open.
Peri’s
heart hammered violently when the goblin behind him shoved him forward. “In you
go, halfling. Our Lady awaits!”
Peri
and Salrean entered a wide chamber with a high, flat roof. The same long, thin
windows ringed the space and a silvery light illuminated the interior. It was
sparsely furnished, with a heavy tapestry shielding the back of the chamber
from view.
On
a stone plinth to the right of the door sat the Red Book. However, Peri’s gaze
did not rest upon the object that had caused him and Rose to leave the Shire
and embark upon this doomed quest. Instead, his attention wholly focused on the
two individuals standing in the centre of the chamber.
A
tall, dark-haired woman and a heavy-set goblin.
Morwyn
of Angmar and Targkok, the Goblin King.
The
Witch of Angmar was not what Peri had expected. He had thought to see an old
hag, bent and aged. Yet, the woman before him was tall, statuesque and ageless
in appearance. She was dressed in black
robes, made of satin and silk, her fingers sparkling with garnets. On her feet
she wore jewelled slippers and about her neck a glittering obsidian necklace.
She was not beautiful, for her features were too harsh, her bone-structure too
angular and jutting. Yet, her hair was thick and shiny, falling in a straight,
dark curtain about her shoulders, without a streak of white in it. On her head
she wore a simple iron crown.
It
was not the face of evil – yet Peri knew that wickedness did not always show
itself at first glance. He gazed into the woman’s dark eyes, and felt his body
go cold, as if he had stepped up to the neck in a frozen pond. She had a
pitiless gaze and when she smiled at him, there was not a shred of warmth
there.
“Pericles
Took and Salrean of Farnost,” Morwyn had a soft voice that slid across the
still chamber like a caress. “Welcome.”
End of Part #19
Be back for Part #20
on 21 March!
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