It's done - THE WITCH OF ANGMAR is now finished!

It has been around a year in the writing - but my Lord of the Rings Fan Fiction series, THE WITCH OF ANGMAR, has now come to an end.

Read the finished story (PDF format) here!

Like many Tolkien fans, I have read The Lord of the Rings numerous times – and each time, without fail, I turn that last page with a tinge of sadness. I never want to leave Middle Earth. As a writer of epic fantasy, I have created my own worlds – and I enjoy weaving stories within them – but my first love will always be Middle Earth. There is a grandeur to Tolkien’s world that few have been able to match, a detailed history that makes us believe that it actually existed. I like to think it did.

 This is my first attempt at fan fiction, and one I embarked upon so that I could go back to Middle Earth and take a long holiday there. I had great fun writing The Witch of Angmar, and have tried to be as true to Tolkien’s world as possible – while throwing in a few elements of my own.

Here’s what it’s about:

Over two hundred and twenty years since the destruction of Sauron, and the beginning of the ‘long reign of peace’, evil stirs in Middle Earth once more.

Our tale begins in the Shire and with the celebrations of the one-hundred year anniversary of the passing of the last members of the Fellowship into the West. Rose Fairbairn and Pericles Took – descendants of Samwise Gamgee and Pippin Took – learn that their bloodline could mean their deaths. The sister of the Witch-King of Angmar has awoken from a three thousand year sleep from her cold tomb deep in the Mountains of Angmar. Aided by the goblins of Moria, Morwyn of Angmar rebuilds the fortress of Carn Dûm, and plans her revenge on those who slew her brother.

Follow Rose and Peri’s adventures as they travel north with a female ranger, Salrean, into the lost Realm of Arnor. During their journey they will discover the truth about the new threat to the people of Middle Earth – before they must travel north to face the Witch of Angmar herself.

If you know anyone who loves The Lord of the Rings, and might enjoy this tale, please feel free to share. It's my gift to all the Tolkien fans out there!

Read THE WITCH OF ANGMAR (PDF format) here!

LOTR Fan Fiction: The Witch of Angmar - Part #22

The Witch of Angmar

Legacy of the Fellowship

Part Twenty-two

Escape

R

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! :-)

If you joined us here, and would like to read the rest, please visit my website to read the adventure from the beginning!  http://samjcharlton.com/LOTR_Fan_Fiction.html

LOTR Fan Fiction: The Witch of Angmar - Part #21

The Witch of Angmar

Legacy of the Fellowship

Part Twenty-One

Pork Pie

“

There is a secret,” the Witch repeated, hauling Rose towards the plinth where the Red Book sat, “and you will show me it. I have been more than patient, she-hobbit. I have listened to the lies of your companions and I will tolerate no further defiance. Find me the secret or all of you will die.”

Terrified, Rose stumbled against the plinth, her shaking hands curling around its edge. Her eyes swam with tears when she looked upon the book. It reminded her of her father, of the evenings she had spent curled up next to the fire while he had read its adventures. She recalled the gentle timbre of his voice, the way he had been able to bring the tales to life. Now all that remained of her father was the book before her.

Grief twisted Rose’s belly.

It was with some difficulty that she managed to pull herself together, wiping away her tears with the back of her sleeve. This whole adventure had spiralled into a disaster. They had all been captured. Salrean lay unconscious, possibly even dead, in the corner, and Azil had betrayed her.

Hope – the only thing that had kept Rose going till now – seeped away, leaving nothing but cold, dread in its place.

“Enough snivelling,” Morwyn’s voice cut in. “Find me it for me!”

Rose wordlessly complied. She reached out and flipped the pages back so that she could begin at the start of the book. As she began to slowly leaf through the volume, the dread that had coiled like a serpent in her belly, began to slither up her throat.

There is no secret. My father read the book to me many times. Morwyn is wrong.

A terrible silence weighed upon the chamber in which she stood. Motes drifted down in front of her, caught in the shafts of silvery light coming in from the high tower windows. Rose’s heart thudded against her chest, her breaths coming in ragged bursts, as she turned one page after another.

Eventually, she came to a page she had never noticed before. As part of the appendix, her father had never read it – and she had never seen it.  It was a recipe at the end of Bilbo’s story ‘There and Back Again’. Rose’s body went cold as her gaze slid down the page.

The witch had seen Rose pause. She advanced upon her, her hand fastening on her shoulder.

“What have you found?” Morwyn hissed.

“Nnn… nothing,” Rose stammered. She tried to turn the page but the witch grasped her wrist and pinned it to the plinth.

“Read the page,” Morwyn ordered, her voice suddenly harsh. “Read it aloud.”

Rose glanced over at her shoulder, at where Peri was standing, ashen and trembling between goblin guards. The words she was about to read would condemn them both.

“Bilbo Baggins’ Recipe for Pork Pie,” she read, her voice quivering. “A family secret passed down through generations. Successfully hidden from the obnoxious, greedy Sackville-Baggins’. There is no better pie in the Shire.”

An ominous silence followed Rose’s words.

She stood, cringing before the Red Book and waiting for the witch to unleash her wrath upon her. In other circumstances, this discovery would have been ridiculous. Here was the sister of the infamous Witch-king of Angmar. She had schemed and killed to get this precious book, only to discover that the secret did not tell of a hidden weapon, a powerful spell or words of power – instead, it was nothing more than a humble recipe.

Only a hobbit would put their favourite ‘secret’ recipe in a volume dedicated to epic adventure and great deeds. The race of men would never do such a thing; would not insert such a trivial note into a great book.

Yet, to hobbits a family’s secret recipe was not trivial. Food and mealtimes were revered in the Shire. Some recipes were like gold.

Morwyn would not see things this way. The Red Book had made them all look foolish – Morwyn, Targkok, and Rendur of Farnost – all those who coveted power and thought the Red Book held the key.

“A Secret Recipe for Pork Pie,” Morwyn eventually spoke, her voice chillingly calm as she weighed each word. “What trickery is this?”

“I don’t think it is trickery,” Rose replied, her voice barely above a squeak. “There is no secret – there never was. There must have been a misunderstanding.”

“There was no misunderstanding,” Targkok spoke up, his voice harsh.  “Ever since the time of the one ring, the goblins of Moria have known that the hobbits have kept a great secret from the rest of Middle Earth.” 

His yellow eyes, with their pinprick pupils, bored into Rose. “How else could such small, ridiculous, weak creatures bring about the downfall of one as great as Sauron?”

Rose stared back at him, at a loss for words.

Meanwhile, a cruel smile spread across Morwyn’s face. “The recipe is nothing more than a ruse. I see that now. The secret I seek is woven into the words of this recipe. Clever hobbits – but not cleverer than me. Tell me what the words on this page really mean,” the witch crooned, her finger nails pinching Rose’s skin. “Now.”

Rose cringed away from her, struggling to distance herself from this woman’s malevolent presence.

“I told you the truth. This is merely a recipe – one that Bilbo kept as a family secret – one that he was proud of.”

“You lie!” Morwyn’s smile slid into a snarl.

“No!” Rose cried, her courage suddenly resurfacing. “Hobbits may be small and ridiculous in your eyes but we are much stronger than we look! You under-estimate the power of determination, hope and courage – just as Sauron did. Just as your brother did!

“Filthy, lying hobbit!” Morwyn shrieked. She let go of Rose, grabbed the Red Book with both hands and flung it across the chamber. The book hit the stone wall with a dull thud and fell to the ground, its pages splaying open like an exotic butterfly.

The witch then advanced on Rose. She was terrifying in her fury. Her pallid face was gaunt and all sharp angles, her eyes two black orbs.

“If you will not tell me the truth willingly then I will have to force it from you!”

Her hands thrust forward and a powerful force slammed into the centre of Rose’s chest. Her breath rushed out of her and she hurtled backwards, colliding with Azil and two other goblins, who stood guarding the door. The four of them fell into an untidy heap in front of the door.

“Stand aside, minions,” Morwyn’s voice lashed across the chamber. “Let me deal with this hobbit.”

The goblins disentangled themselves, leaving Rose prone on the ground, and leapt out of the way. They sidled back to where their king watched the unfolding scene dispassionately, his beefy arms still folded over his enormous chest.

Morwyn ignored them all as she moved across the chamber to where Rose lay on her back, dazed.

Rose looked up and saw that Morwyn was now standing over her.

“Tell me the truth, she-hobbit!” she growled. “I will not accept your lies!”

Rose scrambled back on her elbows and heels, her gaze never leaving the witch’s.

“I told you the truth,” she wheezed. “I can do no more than that.”

“Yes you can!”

Rose was suddenly wracked in agony, her body convulsing on the cold stone. Through her own screams she could hear Peri, pleading for her life and the witch’s cold, pitiless laughter.

I will die here, Rose thought dimly as she rolled onto her front and begun dragging herself away from Morwyn, along the edge of the chamber. There is no way out of this.

“The truth!” Morwyn demanded once more, her voice almost a scream. She was becoming desperate. She would soon slip over the edge into madness – and once that happened Rose would be finished.

Another spasm of agony seized Rose’s body. She screamed and thrashed on the floor – held in an invisible vice that tore at her limbs and rent her skin. When Morwyn eventually released her she collapsed, face-down on the flagstones, her body spent. Moments passed before Rose was able to lift herself upon her elbows, noticing as she did so that her nose was bleeding. She wiped away at the blood with her sleeve and twisted her head round, in an attempt to see her attacker.

However, Morwyn stood behind her, and instead, Rose’s gaze focused on where Targkok and his minions stood. Peri was with him; he was weeping and cursing while he struggled in the fierce grip of two goblins. At the end of the line stood Azil. His bright eyes fused with hers. She was surprised to see anguish in their depths.

It’s too late for regrets now, Azil. Rose looked away and continued dragging herself along the floor. The witch was right behind her. Rose could hear her ragged breathing and feel the heat of her fury that burned like a great furnace.

Rose continued crawling, blindly trying to distance herself from the witch. Suddenly, her fingers touched leather and she looked up to see that she had crawled around the edge of the room to where the Red Book lay splayed open.

Rose’s breathing came in short gasps as she dragged herself up against the book. It was her anchor, her touch-stone. The only link she had left to her family, and her life in the Shire. She wanted to be holding it when she died.

As she clutched at the book, she heard the soft whisper of Morwyn’s slippers on the flagstones behind her.

“Your Red Book can’t help you,” Morwyn mocked. “If you will not tell me the truth then you shall die.”

Rose sobbed, looking down at the book as she braced herself for the witch’s death blow.

It had fallen open, in that way that books do, at a page that had been most often read. It was open at the page that told of the death of the Witch-king. Rose saw the line that Frodo had written, the words of the elf, Glorfindel: “Do not pursue him! He will not return to these lands. Far off yet is his doom and not by the hand of man shall he fall.” The words triggered a memory, and she remembered the prophecy, at Farnost when she had stood by Rendur’s side before The Waters of Skellith.

Not by the hand of man shall she fall.

A woman, aided by a hobbit, had slain the fearsome Witch-king of Angmar.

Yet, how could the prophecy be true for Morwyn? The woman who should have killed the Witch-king’s sister lay immobile in the corner of the room, whereas Peri was incapacitated and Rose was about to die. There was no one left to do the deed.

Tears filled Rose’s eyes, causing the words on the page to blur.

“Not by the hand of man shall she fall,” she whispered the words of the prophecy out loud, without thinking.

Rose suddenly grew still, her tears stopped.

“What did you say?” Morwyn demanded. “Speak so I may hear you!”

Of course. Why had she not thought of it before? A woman or a hobbit could kill the Witch-king and his kin – and so could a goblin.

“Not by the hand of man shall she fall,” Rose uttered the prophecy once more, her voice louder now. Then, her gaze swivelled back to Azil. He stood, his sword still in his hand, his glowing eyes fixed upon her. She could see the struggle on his face, the conflict that warred within him. Azil knew that Rose was just moments away from dying.

He was bright; he had to understand her words. Only he could save her.

Rose heard Morwyn’s indrawn breath, as she gathered her power to unleash the final blow.

“No!” Peri’s voice was hoarse from shouting. “No, Rose!”

Rose squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head against her blood-stained hands, and waited.

A moment passed.

Then, instead of the wave of agony that Rose had been waiting for, there came a gasp from behind her.

Rose opened her eyes and twisted around. She stared up at Morwyn, who stood, hands raised. A sword protruded just under her sternum, driven in from her back. The iron blade was black with blood.

Morwyn stared down at the blade, as if she could not believe her eyes.

Then, she crumpled to her knees, swaying drunkenly. Rose saw Azil, his face fierce and hard, his eyes glittering, standing behind her. As she watched, he stepped forward and slit Morwyn’s throat with the hunting knife he always carried strapped to his thigh.

The Witch of Angmar crumpled to the ground, dead.

End of Part #21

Be back for Part #22 on 18 April!

LOTR Fan Fiction: The Witch of Angmar - Part #20

The Witch of Angmar

Legacy of the Fellowship

Part Twenty

Secrets and Betrayal

R

ose turned to Azil, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

“What in the name of the Shire was that foul thing?”

“A wight,” the goblin replied grimly. “One of the undead that feeds on the living to stay alive.”

Rose shuddered at these words. A wight. She had heard that some inhabited the Barrow Downs, far to the south, but had never thought to encounter such a being here.

“What is a wight doing under Carn Dûm?”

Rose sagged against the wall and attempted to catch her breath. She had a painful stitch in her side. They had fled along a series of damp, dark tunnels, and up a spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever. However, it had been a long while before the enraged, pain-filled wails of the wight had faded.

“‘Tis a gate-keeper – from the time of the Witch-king himself, I’d guess,” Azil replied, his yellow gaze flicking around the shadowy landing, on which they rested. “Once, that creature would have been a man.”

Azil’s explanation chilled Rose. What a terrible existence, living in that gallery, year after year, century after century, scavenging on rodents – and waiting...

However, her attention could not remain on what they had just survived; instead, she had to focus on what lay ahead.

First though, she had someone to thank.

“You saved my life, again, Azil,” she smiled at the goblin. “How will I ever repay you?”

Azil shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t want repayment,” he replied. “Enough said, she-hobbit.”

“But you followed me – why?”

The goblin gave an impatient hiss, their gazes momentarily meeting. “I don’t know.”

Rose was flummoxed by his reticence. Yet, she could see that Azil had no desire to explain himself further so she let the matter drop.

“Whatever the reason, I thank you,” she said gently. “I will never forget this.”

“Come,” he replied, still avoiding her gaze. “We cannot linger here.”

The hobbit and goblin made their way up the last set of steps and emerged into a wide corridor. The fresh air, after many hours underground, made Rose inhale deeply. They were now inside Carn Dûm’s keep. A chill wind ruffled Rose’s hair and made her eyes water.

Rose’s gaze moved around the lofty corridor, taking in the piles of rubble and the sight of the washed-out sky through the arched windows. Judging by the light, it was late afternoon. She had spent most of the day wandering under Carn Dûm. They would have to be very careful now – this area of the fortress would be crawling with guards.

They needed to make their way to the Witch Tower – but which way was it?

“Azil,” Rose whispered. “Do you know which way to go?”

He nodded, his thin lips compressing. The goblin’s thin body was taut, his right hand sitting on the hilt of his iron sword. “Follow me.”

They turned right and made their way down a long, straight corridor.

The pair had only walked a short distance when the rough sounds of men, and the cackle and hiss of goblins, broke the silence. Rose and Azil halted.

Rose looked around frantically. It sounded as if the voices were coming from behind and in front of them.

Moments later, a company of goblins, their armour jangling noisily, rounded the corner ahead. The goblins skidded to a stop, their goat-like eyes fastening on the two figures standing before them. Panic flared, and Rose turned to flee in the direction they had come. However, she came face-to-face with a company of men wearing filthy boiled leather armour.

They were trapped.

Rose turned to Azil, her hand reaching for Sting’s hilt. This time, there would be no running away. This time, they would both need to fight.

However, Azil did not respond as she had expected. Rose had thought he too would draw his sword. Instead, as quick as a striking adder, he leapt towards her, pinioning her arms against her side.

“I have her!” he cried, his thin voice high with panic. “This is the she-hobbit our Lady seeks. Take us to Morwyn!”

Rose writhed in Azil’s grip, astonished by the sheer strength of such a slight creature.

“No!” she screamed.

She could not believe it. He had saved her life, and put his own at risk. Yet, he had done it to win her trust – it had all been a ruse. The goblin had not returned to help her out a sense of responsibility, or out of worry for her. He had seen a chance to win back his king’s favour, to return from exile.

Azil had betrayed her.

***

Peri and Salrean watched, neither daring to utter a word, as Morwyn – the Witch of Angmar – glided across the cavernous chamber to the stone plinth where the red book sat. Behind her, arms folded across his broad chest, stood Targkok, the Goblin King.

Peri had never seen a goblin so massive. He was easily twice the height and width of Azil, the only other goblin he had been able to study at close quarters. At first glance, Peri had thought that Targkok was overweight, but on closer inspection, he saw that the Goblin King was all muscle and brawn. He wore a sleeveless chain mail vest and iron bands decorated his huge, scarred arms. A heavy broadsword hung at his side.

Targkok had a heavy-featured, pugnacious face, and a collection of brass rings decorated his large, pointed ears. His bald head gleamed in the silvery light filtering in from the thin windows that ringed the chamber. Aware that he was being observed, Targkok’s gaze, narrow and calculating, met Peri’s.

The hobbit swallowed nervously and looked away.

“The Red Book,” Morwyn’s voice was once again, soft and beguiling. She had stopped before the plinth and was running her hands – beautiful hands with long tapering figures – over its worn leather cover. “Long have I coveted it.”

Morwyn opened the book; the creak of its spine and the rustling of its pages was the only sound in the deathly quiet.

“Ever since my servant brought the book to me, I have pored over its pages,” she continued, “I have read it all, suffered through the tale of these ridiculous hobbits and their adventures.”

Her mouth twisted as she uttered the last word, as if she had just tasted something vile. Listening to the witch, Peri felt a rush of anger at her derision. However, he wisely held his tongue.

Ignoring the other occupants of the chamber, Morwyn opened the book near the end, her gaze fastening upon a page.

“Often have I read this page,” she mused. “It tells of my brother’s death – at the hands of a woman and a hobbit nonetheless. What an irony.”

Her gaze swivelled then, to where Peri and Salrean stood, flanked by goblins. “He feared women, you know. That’s why he never married. Then, he took Sauron’s ring and became his creature, and his dislike for women turned to hatred.” Her gaze fastened upon Salrean then. The ranger stared back at Morwyn, her face like stone. The witch’s angular face split into a smile; an expression that chilled Peri to the core.

“He especially loathed strong women, which is why he rid himself of me,” Morwyn concluded, turning back to the book, her gaze resting once more on the page. “I should have been the one to end his miserable life.”

Silence followed her words. There was nothing for any of them, the Goblin King, included, to say. The Witch of Angmar reeked of bitterness and rage. One wrong word and she would turn that fury upon them.

“I digress,” Morwyn sighed, as if realising she had an audience. “What matters most, is that the Red Book is mine – and that I must know its secret.”

The witch glanced over her shoulder then, her gaze snaring Peri’s.

“Pericles Took,” she murmured his name as if they were old friends, although her eyes were like pieces of flint. “I have read this book again and again – but cannot find the secret I seek.”

She then flicked back to the start of the book. “Come here, Pericles,” she ordered.

When Peri did not move, the goblin flanking him shoved him between the shoulder blades. Stiffly, Peri walked forward and stopped at Morwyn’s shoulder.

“Find it for me,” she hissed, her hand fastening on his shoulder like a claw. “Look and tell me what you see.”

Her proximity caused Peri’s heart to race. She smelt dry and musty – with a faint trace of iron. Her nearness made his skin prickle with alarm, and her grip on his shoulder hurt. It took all his will not to shrink away.

“Find me this secret,” she demanded, her voice suddenly harsh. Her fingers bit cruelly into Peri’s flesh. “I must know it.”

The hobbit reached out and began to leaf through the pages. The tale of Bilbo’s journey through Mirkwood, to the Lonely Mountain, and the defeat of Smaug, greeted him. He continued to search the book, noting the change in handwriting as he began Frodo’s tale. When Peri reached the part where the Fellowship found themselves lost inside the Mines of Moria, he paused and dared look up into Morwyn’s face. Her expression was hard and hungry.

“Have you found it?”

Peri shook his head.  “There is no secret,” he told her, his voice trembling. “‘Tis an epic tale, nothing more.”

A terrible silence followed his words. Finally, Morwyn replied, her voice low and threatening. “You lie.”

“It appears you have wasted your time.” Salrean spoke for the first time since entering the chamber; her voice was sharp with victory. “How disappointing for you to discover you went to so much trouble, for nothing.”

Morwyn moved then.

She released Peri and swivelled towards Salrean – and before anyone in the chamber had time to inhale – the witch flung her outstretched hand at the ranger. A column of fire erupted from her finger-tips. It shot across the wide space and hit Salrean in the centre of the chest.

Salrean cried out, although the sound was cut off, as the column of fire lifted her into the air and flung her across the chamber. She hit the far wall before crumpling like a broken doll to the ground.

Peri stared at the ranger’s unmoving form, aghast. He moved towards her, but Morwyn’s hand shot out, her fingers grasping his shoulder and pulling him up short.

At that moment, the boom of a heavy fist knocking on the door to the chamber, interrupted them. Still gripping Peri’s shoulder, Morwyn swivelled towards the sound, her face twisted in rage.

“Who dares interrupt me?”

The door swung open and Peri turned cold when he saw who stood before them.

There in the doorway, her dirt-smudged face streaked with tears, stood Rose. Azil was at her side, but Peri saw immediately that the goblin was not captive, for he wielded an iron sword in one hand and gripped Rose’s arm with the other.

“Rose,” Peri whispered, torn between joy to see her alive, and despair that she too had been captured. His gaze then flicked to Azil.

“Traitor,” Peri hissed at him. The goblin looked away, avoiding his accusing glare.

“Azil,” Targkok spoke for the first time since the captives had been brought before them. His voice was deep and powerful. “So you dare show your face before me again.”

“Sire,” Azil’s voice was a plaintive whine. “I apologise for deserting you, but I brought you a prize – one that I hope will earn your forgiveness.”

The Goblin King’s gaze narrowed. “Spineless worm,” he growled. “Do you think I am so easily appeased?”

Targkok was about to say more but Morwyn interrupted him.

“Rose Fairbairn,” the witch’s gaze was riveted upon Rose’s face. “You will be of more use to me than this dolt.” With that, she shoved Peri away, back towards the goblin guards. She pushed him with such force that he stumbled and fell. Ignoring him, Morwyn beckoned to Rose.

Peri climbed to his feet, wincing at his skinned knees. He looked at Rose and saw that she looked on the verge of fainting. Her eyes were huge on her pale face; her body trembling.

“You know of the Red Book’s secret, don’t you?” the witch crooned, a cruel smile spreading across her face. “Your forebears were clever, weren’t they? They wove the secret into the words of this book, and passed the secret down the generations.”

Rose’s face twisted in confusion.

“What secret?” she stammered as behind her, the door to the chamber boomed shut. “It’s a story book, nothing more.”

Morwyn of Angmar shook her head, the smile still plastered to her face. However, Peri saw the look of vicious desperation in her eyes.

“There is a secret,” she told Rose, her voice harsh. All pretence at civility was now gone, “and you will reveal it to me.”

End of Part #20

Be back for Part #21 on 4 April!