The
Witch of Angmar
Legacy
of the Fellowship
Part
Twenty-two
Escape
ose lay
on her side, her body wracked with pain. Her gaze was fixed upon Morwyn’s
slumped body. The witch’s blood pooled on the flagstones where she lay. A few
feet back stood a slight figure dressed in tattered leathers.
Azil
had slain the Witch of Angmar.
In
the end, it had not been a woman, or a hobbit, that had brought about the
downfall of the Witch-king’s evil sister – but a goblin.
“Betrayer!”
Targkok snarled.
The
Goblin King unsheathed his heavy iron sword, strode forward – and skewered Azil
on his blade.
Azil
sank against the wall, the iron blade that pierced his torso, scraping against
the rough stone behind him.
Their
gazes met. The Goblin King then leaned closer, his lips curling into a sneer.
“I
would never have taken you back,” he spat, twisting the blade deeper to
emphasise his words. “This death is too short, too clean for the like of you,”
Targkok continued, his eyes gleaming with cruelty.
Azil
did not reply, he merely stared up at his king, his thin face contorted.
Helplessly
looking on, Rose saw the defiance in Azil’s eyes. A sob welled up within her.
Yet, she had not the strength to reach for Sting. Morwyn had hurt her, badly,
and she could even not summon the strength to stand.
“Azil!”
she cried.
The
goblin’s eyes, glazing over now, flicked towards her before returning to the
Goblin King. Targkok’s snarling face was just inches from his.
“I
don’t regret it,” Azil finally wheezed. “Mine, was not much of an existence
anyway.”
“Worm,”
Targkok growled back. “I shall cut your snivelling tongue out.”
The
Goblin King reached down to the knife he wore strapped to his thigh. However,
he was interrupted from making good on his threat by the crash of something
heavy colliding with the doors to the chamber.
Those
inside the Witch Tower’s chamber turned their head towards the sound.
The
doors flew open and slammed back against the wall – and the bodies of the two
orc guards collapsed in the doorway. Behind them stood the outlines of four men.
They wore dark green cloaks, fastened at the throat with six-pointed star
clasps.
Rose
stared at them, hearing Peri’s indrawn gasp of shock behind her.
Rangers.
The
man at the front of the group pushed back his hood.
Ethorn
of Farnost scanned the scene before him. When he saw Salrean’s crumpled form at
the end of the chamber, his dark gaze narrowed and his mouth thinned.
In
his right hand, Ethorn wielded a magnificent sword with a long blade. His gaze
fastened upon the Goblin King, who had released Azil, and turned to meet the
newcomers. Then, Ethorn raised his sword high before him, grasping its hilt
with two hands in a silent salute.
“This
ends now,” his voice rang out across the chamber.
The
four rangers, their travel-stained cloaks billowing behind them, leapt forward.
The goblins, who had been holding Peri fast, released him and drew their
weapons. They met the Rangers, their screeches and howls deafening in the
confined space.
Targkok
roared and hurtled across the chamber towards Ethorn. Their blades met with a
harsh clang that echoed high into the vaulted roof.
Finally
free, Peri scurried across the floor to where Rose lay. He tried to help her to
her feet but she shook her head, her face streaked with tears.
“I
can’t,” she gasped. “Peri, take Sting and use it!”
Peri,
his face pale and strained, nodded wordlessly. Then, he reached for the
elf-blade that lay in the scabbard at Rose’s side. He withdrew Sting – its
blade glowing bright blue – and turned to join the fight. Rose saw the fierce
determination on his face, and felt a rush of pride, of affection, for him. He
was brave – and she had always known it.
A
moment later, Peri engaged a goblin guard who rushed at him with a swinging
mace. He stuck his attacker in the throat with the blade before swivelling to
meet another goblin who had come to its companion’s aid – too late.
Rose
curled up on her side, watching the fight through half-closed lids. Pain gripped
her chest with every breath. What had Morwyn done to her? Her insides burned.
She
was vaguely aware of more goblins flooding into the chamber. Yet, the rangers cut
them down, one by one, with deadly efficiency. She saw Ethorn wound Targkok;
saw the mighty Goblin King crumple, only to be dragged, still bellowing, from
the chamber by his servants.
The
battle raged inside the Witch Tower – a violent storm that left devastation in
its wake. Dead goblins littered the ground. Groans filled the chamber from
those few who lay dying. Rose saw Ethorn cut down his last adversary before
striding across to where Salrean rested, unmoving and oblivious to all that had
transpired just a few feet away.
“Salrean,”
Ethorn’s voice broke as he hunkered down next to her and reached out to touch
her cheek. “Please, wake up…”
Rose’s
eyes filled with tears. She looked away, unable to watch Ethorn’s grief. Her
gaze fixed upon Azil, who sat propped up against the blood-stained wall. He was
clutching his wounded stomach. She could see the agony etched in deep-lines on
his face. Yet the goblin remained silent; his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed
shut.
“Azil,”
Rose pulled herself across the flagstones towards him. “Can you hear me?”
The
goblin’s eyes opened, their topaz intensity focusing on the female hobbit who
had pulled herself to his side.
“Rose,”
his voice was weak, failing. “You must leave, now while you have the chance.
More will come. You don’t have much time.”
Rose
shook her head, tears trickling down her cheeks. “I don’t want to leave you.”
Azil
grimaced. “Foolish hobbit,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I’ll be dead
soon – and so will you if you don’t run now.”
“He’s
right,” Ethorn’s voice, tinged with relief, echoed across the chamber.
“Salrean’s alive. I’ll carry her. Veldur – carry Rose. I don’t think she can
walk.”
“We
have to bring Azil!” Rose protested, hysteria looming.
“I’m
staying,” Azil gasped, blood bubbling on his thin lips. “I took a blade to my
belly, Rose. No one survives that. Go with the rangers.”
“No,”
tears blinded Rose but she was too weak to resist as the tall ranger, Veldur, who
scooped her into his arms as if she was a child. “We can’t leave you behind.”
Ethorn
had picked Salrean up; she hung limply in his arms, her face deathly pale.
“Gonthorn
– you lead the way,” Ethorn turned to his rangers. “Nathil – you take rear
guard. Peri, take the Red Book and keep it safe. Stay at my side. Let’s go.”
Peri
did as he was bid, picking up the Red Book, from where it sat splayed open and
splattered with blood. He closed it and slipped it into Rose’s satchel, which he
then slung across his front.
Ethorn
walked across the chamber, halting next to where Veldur stood with Rose in his
arms. For a moment, he paused, looking down at Azil.
“He
killed Morwyn,” Rose sobbed. “We can’t leave Azil behind.”
The
ranger’s face grew grim at this news. “We cannot take him with us, Rose,” he
said softly. “He’s dying.”
“Goodbye,
she-hobbit,” Azil gasped. Blood dribbled down his chin as he attempted to smile
but managed only a grimace. “I wish I could have served you better.”
Grief
seized Rose then. She tried to wriggle out of Veldur’s iron grip, but she was
too weak and hurt to manage it. Ethorn
nodded to Azil, in silent thanks. Then, he moved off, following Gonthorn from
the chamber, and Veldur followed.
The
last glimpse that Rose had of Azil the goblin was of a wiry, stoop-shouldered
figure, leaning up against the wall, surrounded by the dead. He raised a thin
hand in farewell.
Moments
later, he was lost from sight.
The
group fled down the stairwell, making no attempt at stealth. Azil had spoken
true; they had but a short window before the Witch Tower would be teeming with
goblins and hill-men. They could hear their shouts, the thundering of
approaching feet. The four rangers and one hobbit raced down the network of
ruined corridors towards the secret way out.
“How
did you find us?” Peri gasped at Ethorn’s side.
“We
tracked Azil and Rose through the Black Woods,” Ethorn replied, barely out of
breath, despite that he carried Salrean. “After that, we followed them into the
network of tunnels under Carn Dûm. I’d prefer not to retrace our steps, but
it’s the only way out of this place.”
Peri
never had a chance to ask the ranger why he was reluctant to take the secret
way out – for a company of goblins collided with them. They were racing down a
set of steps towards the last stretch of corridor before they would descend
underground, and met the goblins on the landing below.
The
rangers cut their way through the fray. Peri fought at their side, Sting
glowing bright in the dimness. The elf-blade terrified many of the goblins who
faced it. Some even shrieked in terror and cowered. With the last of the
goblins dealt with, the party raced the last distance to the narrow stairwell
that led deep beneath Carn Dûm.
Huddled
in Veldur’s arms, Rose drifted in and out of consciousness. Every jolt of his
stride caused her chest to spasm in agony. Her limbs were dead weights; they
felt as if they did not belong to her.
As
they descended the narrow, mossy steps into the dark depths, alarm made her
stir from the oblivion that beckoned to her.
“Ethorn,”
she croaked. “The gallery under Carn Dûm. It’s not safe. There’s a…”
“We
know,” Ethorn replied quickly. “We met the wight on the way up. If there was
another way out of here I would take it.”
“Wight?”
Peri did not bother to hide his alarm. Those creatures, often mentioned in
stories told by the fireside on long winter nights in the Shire, struck fear
into the hearts of most hobbits. “There’s one here?”
“There
certainly is,” Veldur spoke for the first time, his voice a deep rumble in the
cramped stairwell. “Not a creature I ever hoped to meet again.”
“It
hates Sting,” Rose replied, her voice trembling with the effort it took to
speak. “Use the sword against it!”
A
short while later, the company entered the dark gallery. Gonthorn lit a torch
and carried it aloft as they padded between the towering columns, each trying
to make their tread as light as possible.
It
made no difference. Half-way down the gallery, the ghoul sensed their presence.
The same strange wind that Rose had felt when entering this gallery earlier,
gusted towards them, ruffling their hair and causing their cloaks to billow
behind them. The chill of the breeze on Rose’s cheeks roused her slightly. She
tightened her grip around Veldur’s neck, fear twisting her belly.
Only
Peri did not know what was coming.
The
wight, its tattered clothing fluttering around long, emaciated limbs, loomed
before them, appearing like a wraith from behind one of the columns. It rushed
at them, a scream issuing from its gaping maw.
“Intruders
– I will have you all!”
Peri
staggered back, Sting trembling before him.
The
Wight was injured. Rose could see the dark gash on its left forearm, where she
had sliced it deeply with Sting’s blade. It also limped painfully; a result, no
doubt, of its encounter with the rangers.
Ethorn
and Veldur hung back, unable to draw their weapons, while Gonthorn, Nathil and
Peri moved forward to meet the wight.
“Peri,”
Ethorn commanded, “step forward and show it Sting.”
The
hobbit’s face was pale and strained in the flickering torchlight, but he did as
he was told.
“Get
back!” he yelled. The force in his voice surprised Rose – you would have never
known he was terrified. “Foul ghoul – remember this? Do you want to feel its
bite once more?”
The
wight drew back; its ravaged face tilting to one side, its gaze narrowing. “The
elf-blade,” it hissed.
“This
is ‘Sting’,” Peri replied, advancing. The wight loped backwards, cringing
before the blade that had wounded it earlier.
“Keep
that foul blade from me!” it shrieked.
“Let
us pass,” Peri commanded. He continued
to take steps towards the wight, as behind him, Ethorn and Veldur moved past.
Gonthorn and Nathil flanked Peri, their weapons raised.
“No!”
the wight wailed. There was something wrenching in that sound; the cry of a
creature that had been doomed to spend its days in the lonely darkness. The
despair in its wail chilled all that heard it.
Peri
inched back down the gallery. He had his back to where Ethorn and Veldur were
moving swiftly towards the archway that marked the end of the wight’s domain;
yet he dared not run.
Even
the terror of the elf-blade could not contain the wight’s desperation. Unable
to bear the thought of them escaping, once more, the ghoul lunged at the
hobbit.
Peri swung Sting, clenching his jaw as the
blade bit flesh.
A
blood-curdling scream echoed down the gallery. The wight staggered backwards,
grasping the bleeding stump of its right wrist. Its clawed hand lay twitching
at its feet.
Taking
his chance, for he knew that another would not present itself, Peri turned and
sprinted away. The two rangers at his side quickly outdistanced him, covering
the ground easily in long strides. Peri ran faster than he ever had, his short
legs flying. He dove under the arch, the wight’s terrible cries still echoing
in his ears.
It
was a long while, before they could no longer hear the wailing.
The
party travelled deep into the earth, and eventually arrived at the underground
lake. Still on edge after their encounter with the wight, Peri found the cavern
unnerving. There was a watchful presence here; one that none of them wanted to
disturb. The party skirted the edge, keeping clear of the gently rippling
water.
There
were a number of entrances to tunnels along the lake’s edge, but they took the
one that Rose had marked with her scarf.
Peri
was the last to enter the tunnel. Before doing so, he stooped and retrieved the
scarf. He knew that, once she had recovered, Rose would be happy to have it
back.
***
Night
settled over the Black Woods, bringing a chill, overcast day to a close.
In
the heart of the bleak forest, far from the prying eyes of hill-men and goblins,
and far from the obsidian towers of Carn Dûm, the party of rangers and hobbits
made camp for the night.
The
party camped in a hollow, and lit a small fire. Their evening meal was frugal,
for the rangers had not had time to hunt; their entire focus had been to put as
much distance between them and Carn Dûm as possible.
Ethorn
laid Salrean down on his cloak, next to where Rose slept deeply. The hobbit had
lost consciousness soon after they had run from the wight. She had not woken
since; her breathing was shallow, her skin a sickly shade. However, Ethorn had
promised Peri that she would live.
The
four rangers and hobbit were sharing a meal of dried beef and mushrooms when
Salrean awoke.
Her
soft groan alerted them. Ethorn moved over to her; kneeling next to Salrean as
her eyes flickered open. Her gaze, unfocused at first, eventually fixed upon
him.
“Ethorn,”
she whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“Saving
you,” he gave a wry smile before reaching out and stroking her cheek. “Do you
think I would have let you leave Farnost if I hadn’t planned to follow you?”
Salrean’s
eyes glittered as she stared up at him, then her expression clouded. “Morwyn…”
“She’s
dead,” Peri shuffled up next to Ethorn. “Azil killed her.”
“Unfortunately,
the Goblin King escaped, but I injured him badly,” Ethorn added. “He won’t be
causing trouble for a while.”
Salrean’s
eyes widened at this news. “The Witch of Angmar is dead,” she whispered, as if saying
the words out loud made them truth. “Then the quest did not fail.”
“No,”
Ethorn replied, his smile fading. “Although things did not turn out the way
you’d hoped.”
“Where’s
Rose?” Salrean asked suddenly, her gaze flicking over the faces of the four men
and one male hobbit who stared down at her.
“Next
to you,” Peri replied. “Morwyn injured her too.”
Salrean
rolled over onto her back with a soft groan.
“I
feel as if I’ve been beaten,” she gasped.
Salrean
looked over at where the small, female hobbit lay next to her, sleeping
soundly.
“She
looks so young,” Salrean observed softly. “Yet, I’ve never met anyone braver.”
“Azil
escorted her to the secret way in,” Peri explained, “but he betrayed her once
they were inside. Morwyn was sure that the Red Book held a secret. She was
about to kill Rose for not giving it to her when Azil stepped in and killed the
witch.”
Salrean
shook her head, incredulous. Her gaze then returned to Rose.
“I
misjudged Azil,” she whispered. “Sometimes, there is goodness in those we believe
to be incapable of it. Where is he now?”
Silence
followed her words, but the expression on Peri’s face told her all.
“Targkok
stabbed him. He was alive when we left the Witch Tower. He won’t be now…”
Peri’s
voice trailed away, only to be replaced by silence. The gazes of all present
rested Rose’s sleeping face.
It
was done. They had slain the Witch of Angmar and retrieved the Red Book. The
death of Rose’s father had been avenged. Morwyn would never march her armies
south and bring a reign of terror to the free peoples of Middle Earth. Yet,
victory had left a bitter taste in their mouths.
All
of them had expected to feel happier than they did.
Rose’s
eyes flickered open, her gaze shifting over the faces of her companions.
Crouched
at her side, Peri could see Rose’s exhaustion, pain and sadness. He longed to
reached out and hug her. However, he was not sure of the extent of her injuries
and did not want to damage her.
“Is
it over?” she asked, her voice trembling with fatigue. “Have we escaped?”
“Yes,”
Peri reached out and took her hand in his. “Carn Dûm is behind us. Gentler lands
lie ahead.”
“Good,”
Rose gently squeezed his hand and managed a tremulous smile. “I’ve had enough
of adventures for now. I think I’m quite happy to spend the rest of my life
back in the Shire, doing everyday things.”
Peri
gave a soft laugh at that.
He
could not agree more. The gentle green hills of Hobbiton, with its neatly
tended fields and good-natured hobbit faces would be very welcome indeed. He would
carry the Red Book back to the Shire, and one day Rose might write their story
in its pages. For now their adventure was at an end, and not a moment too soon.
“Good
idea, Rose,” he replied. “Let’s go home.”
The End.
________________________________________
Sadly, this installment marks the end of the my tribute to Tolkien: THE WITCH OF ANGMAR. I embarked upon this adventure around a year ago - and over 40,000 words later - this Lord of the Rings Fan Fiction tale, has concluded. Those of you who have been following since the first installment - thank you for your support! :-)
Every series needs a prequel, and the Palâdnith Chronicles is no exception! DEEP-SPIRE takes place around forty years before the first novel in this epic fantasy series, JOURNEY OF SHADOWS.
