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!

LOTR Fan Fiction: The Witch of Angmar - Part #19

The Witch of Angmar

Legacy of the Fellowship

Part Nineteen

The Witch of Angmar

T

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!

JOURNEY OF SHADOWS and THE WITCH OF ANGMAR are finalists in the Sir Julius Vogel Awards 2014!

Every year, the SFFANZ (Science Fiction and Fantasy Association of New Zealand) hosts the Sir Julius Vogel Awards for New Zealand authors of Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy. 

This year, two of my works have reached the final ballot for the awards! :-)

Best novel: JOURNEY OF SHADOWS
Best fan writing: THE WITCH OF ANGMAR

   

Exciting times!

Find about the Sir Julius Awards - and take a look at this year's finalists.

I have created a special excerpt of JOURNEY OF SHADOWS - for both voters and readers. This sample is a bit longer longer than the preview you can read on Amazon.

Read the Prologue and Chapters 1-3 of JOURNEY OF SHADOWS.

Read all THE WITCH OF ANGMAR episodes published so far (in PDF format) on my website.

A huge thanks to all of you that sent in nominations for these works - fingers crossed for the judging in April!

LOTR Fan Fiction: The Witch of Angmar - Part #18

The Witch of Angmar

Legacy of the Fellowship

Part Eighteen

The Dungeons of Carn Dûm

I

t was dark and damp inside the cell. A deep chill – one that came from the absence of sunlight, year after year – permeated the stone. Peri sat, his knees pulled up against his chest, staring into the darkness. He was sitting on his folded cloak, in an effort to make himself more comfortable; yet the fetid, sunless cell was starting to erode his endurance. 

This was the end of their journey. After a terrifying trek north, whipped and menaced by Morwyn’s servants, the sight of Carn Dûm had made Peri’s step falter. Its dark towers loomed against a backdrop of barren mountainside and pale sky. He would have fallen if Salrean had not been there to grab hold of his arm and keep him moving. The hillmen had herded them in to the base of the fortress, but had not taken them before the Witch of Angmar as Salrean had predicted. Instead, they had dragged their prisoners deep underground, down endless moss-covered stone steps to this vile, airless dungeon.

Peri had lost track of time since their arrival at Carn Dûm. At least four meals had passed, although the time between them was long enough for hunger to twist their stomachs cruelly. The food the goblin guards brought was barely palatable: hard, coarse bread that stuck in their throats, and foul tasting gruel and water that tasted of iron and mould. Yet, Salrean and Peri were so hungry that they ate it without complaint.

Perhaps she will leave us here to rot, Peri thought; despair consuming him. I will never see daylight again.

“Peri,” Salrean’s voice intruded upon his dark thoughts. “You have not spoken in a while – are you well?”

“Not really,” Peri replied, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on his knees. “Much longer in this place and I will go mad.”

Peri heard a noise beside him as Salrean inched closer to him. A moment later, he felt her arm settle around his shoulders.

“I am sorry, Peri,” she said, her voice laced with sadness. “This is all my doing. I should never have agreed to my father’s plan.”

“‘Tis too late for regrets now,” Peri replied, leaning against her. The warmth and solace the simple contact brought made his eyes sting with tears. “We all knew the risks.”

Salrean squeezed her arm around him tighter in response. “I know,” her voice was barely above a whisper. “I just wish that I had not been so eager to please my father. Ethorn was right – he is unpleasable. It’s the Red Book my father wants, and he would go to any lengths to get it.”

“He would not send you into danger if he didn’t think there was hope,” Peri replied. “I agree that he is ruthless and ambitious – but you are still his daughter. If you do not return to Farnost, he will grieve.”

“Perhaps,” bitterness tinged Salrean’s voice. “Yet, these days in the darkness have made me realize things that I had not wished to see before. If we survive this, if we see daylight again, I will no longer do my father’s bidding without question. The days of acting as his puppet have ended.”

***

Rose heaved the iron lid open and peered down into the inky depths beyond. Suddenly, she did not wish to go a step further. She would have preferred to stay out here, in the open air.

Yet, Salrean and Peri were inside the Witch of Angmar’s lair – and remaining here would not help them.

Wishing she had a torch to light her way, her stomach knotted in dread, Rose sat down at the edge of the trap door and lowered herself gingerly down into the darkness. Her feet reached the rungs of an iron ladder and she gripped onto it as she climbed down under the earth.

The open trap door above cast a little light for the first few feet, before darkness swallowed her. Down she climbed, at least ten yards, before she stepped onto a cold stone floor. Glancing up, Rose took one last look at the pale window of light above and struggled to calm her fears.

She had never liked the darkness. If only Azil were here, she would not feel so alone – so frightened.

Steadying her breathing, Rose turned then and unsheathed Sting from its scabbard. The blade was dark, telling her that there were no goblins about. Yet, although this knowledge was welcome in one sense, she found herself wishing the blade glowed brightly. At least, she could have used Sting’s glow to find her way in the darkness.

Rose began to walk, waving Sting in front of her as she did so, in an effort to prevent herself from colliding with any objects.

After a few steps, the blade clanged dully against stone and, reaching out, Rose discovered a damp, stone wall. Keeping Sting held tightly in her right hand, she felt her way along the wall with her left. After a few more steps, the floor started to slope downwards.

Although the blackness was impenetrable, Rose realized that she was in a long stone tunnel that stretched down into the roots of the mountain under Carn Dûm. Glad of her silent Hobbit feet, which barely made a sound as she journeyed further away from the secret way in, she focused on keeping her breathing steady and letting her senses of hearing, touch and smell compensate for the fact that she was now travelling blind.

The further she journeyed, the steeper the corridor became. The dread which Rose had managed to control initially, surfaced once more. How much further would she have to travel down before she could claw her way back to the surface?

Eventually, however, the long corridor came to an end.

The wall that Rose had felt her way along, fell back and she stepped gingerly down onto a set of worn steps. Before her, for the first time since climbing down into the tunnel, there was a little light here – for she stood on the edge of a wide cavern and a subterranean lake. A weak shaft of light, full of drifting dust motes, pierced the darkness from high above. The light illuminated the cavern – revealing the conical stalactites that hung from the high roof, and the dark surface of the lake in its centre.

Blinking like a mole surfacing from its burrow, Rose gazed around the cavern. A narrow path led around the rim of the lake, and on the cavern walls she could see numerous tunnel entrances, like the one she had just emerged from. If she ever made it back here, after saving her friends, she would need to remember which tunnel led to the secret entrance. Rose paused for a moment, and dug into the small leather pack she carried on her back, pulling out a woollen scarf. Her mother had knitted it, three years earlier; it was one of Rose’s favourite items of clothing and she was loath to leave it behind. Yet, she had nothing else to use as a marker.

She knelt and wrapped the scarf around one of the many stones littering the floor of the cavern, before placing it to the left of the tunnel she had just exited.

I will make it back here, she told herself. We all will.

Rose descended the steps to the path ringing the lake.

She did not like the look of that lake – it was too dark and still – and she imagined all manner of foul creatures lurking beneath its black surface. As such, she was careful to make as little noise as possible as she skirted the water’s edge.

However, as disquieting as this cavern was, there was a greater issue that drew Rose’s attention – one that made her heart start to race and her mouth go dry with fear.

There were at least a dozen entrances along the cavern wall. Which one should she take?

There was no way to know. Each tunnel entrance looked identical – there were no markers or signs. Rose needed to get into the base of the fortress, from where she could make her way to the Witch’s Tower. Yet, these tunnels could lead anywhere.

She padded along the path, pausing at each entrance a moment before continuing. Reaching the far edge of the cavern, she then turned and retraced her steps.

She had no choice – she would just have to choose one of the tunnels and hope for the best.

You can always return here and take another path, she told herself, provided that the tunnel you choose does not lead to certain death.

Rose stopped at the third last tunnel from the far end of the cavern and took a deep breath.

She would take this one.

Glancing back at the subterranean lake that rippled slightly as a breeze from one of the tunnels caressed its surface, Rose squared her shoulders and climbed the steps to the tunnel.

Inside, she stepped into pitch black once more. She did not like the smothering darkness but this time managed to suppress her panic. As before, she made her way along the tunnel using her left hand as a guide along the wall, and waving Sting in the darkness with her right.

To her relief, the tunnel sloped upwards immediately. Finally, she was heading back towards the sunlight.

Rose climbed for a long while before the tunnel levelled out. When she reached its end, her legs were heavy with fatigue. She leant for a while against the chill wall, recovering from the climb, before taking a measured couple of sips from her rapidly emptying water bladder.

I should have refilled it in the lake, she thought – before realizing that it was probably a good thing she had not. Best not disturb whatever lives in that place.

Now that the tunnel had ended, Rose felt her way around the surrounding wall, realising that she was in a wider space. Her flagging spirits lifted when her fingers fastened around the handle of a wooden torch that hung from a wall bracket.

Grinning in the darkness, Rose removed the torch from the bracket and fumbled in her pockets for the flint that she always carried. She struck the flint against the wall and, eventually, managed to light the tallow torch. Tender flames flickered to life, suddenly illuminating her surroundings in a warm, golden glow.

Rose looked around her, and saw that she stood on the edge of a great stone gallery. A number of unlit torches hung from the walls, lining a long column of massive pillars that stretched ahead of her. She set off between the rows of pillars, grateful for the torch that now lit her way.

Rose had been walking for a short while, when Sting started to glow – it was very faint, but the eerie blue was unmistakable. The sight did not frighten Rose as much as in the past, for if Sting had awoken then perhaps this was the right tunnel after all. Yet, she still gripped her sword’s hilt tightly at the sight of it.

Rose slowed her step, her gaze darting around her.

She had only travelled a few yards further when a sound made her skid to a halt. A strange whispering echoed down the empty gallery, and moments later a chill breeze ruffled Rose’s hair.

What was that?

She was still standing there, trying to decide whether she should continue, when a huge shadow, at least twice the size of a man, detached itself from behind one of the pillars. The whispering echoed towards her once more and Rose felt her blood run cold.

Barandur had warned her that many dangers lurked in the tunnels under Carn Dûm. She had seen the haunted look in the seer’s eyes when he had spoken of it. She suddenly wished she had taken more notice. She wished they had questioned him about it.

Rose stepped hurriedly backwards, readying herself to turn and flee – her gaze riveted on the looming figure that stepped out into the torchlight.

End of Part #18

Be back for Part #19 on 7 March!