Artíre's Revenge by WendWriter

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Artíre was delighted at Melkor's order to seek Sauron out and spy on him. He knew, of course, that Sauron was loyal to his master. Therefore, to create a rift between master and servant, he would have to either find a way to cause Sauron to betray Melkor, or to make it look that way. With this in mind, he decided to find out more about Melkor, in order to discover any possible weaknesses the Vala had.

Melkor craved power, and desired to remake the world in his own image. This was noteworthy, but not something of which the Watcher could take immediate advantage. Artíre's thoughts turned to the crown Sauron wore. It had three bright jewels mounted on it, and they shone with their own light. They appeared to be burning him. That was the strangest thing he had ever seen in Angband - the fact that Melkor the mighty could be burned. Why did he not simply shed his form and get rid of the bright, burning jewels? Was he under some kind of a punishment? If an effective plan of vengeance was going to be made, Artíre would need as much information as he could get hold of. It was obvious whom he should ask to learn more - Sauron, Melkor's loyal lieutenant.

Sauron was in Rhûn, seeking Men to corrupt to the service of Melkor. For this task, he shed his physical form and walked among men as a spirit of malice. He whispered lies to them of the great bright beings of the North who claimed to be their benefactors, but secretly planned to enslave them. He directed them in subtle ways towards necromancy and dark magic, persuading them to shun light and turn to darkness. Accordingly, towers sprouted throughout the land as mages and sorcerers of every kind sprang up among men, gazing at the stars and worshiping them for their own sake. The names of false gods were carved above temples in which vile rituals took place, and idols of various descriptions were offered sacrifices of children's' hearts when the harvests failed in the hopes of promoting prosperity the following year.

The harvests failed when Sauron and his minions uprooted the grain seedlings and replaced them with weeds; when they spread mould spores over the fields; and when they interfered with the irrigation trenches, giving the crops too much or too little water. When the crops failed, the evil Maiar would whisper to the people that it was because their gods were angry, and required penance in the form of greater sacrifices.

Thus the people were turned from innocence to wickedness, and Sauron was pleased with his work. For Men had begun to threaten his master Melkor by joining with the Elves, and had, from time to time, defeated the orcs and other monsters in battle. By causing the men of the South to rebel, Sauron hoped that the Men of the North and their Elven allies would be weakened by having to fight on two fronts. The next step would be to sunder Men from the Elves, for which his plans were already in motion.

---

When Artíre arrived in Rhûn, he found Sauron and his fellow Maiar standing near a new temple dedicated to "Moko, the God of Strength and Power." They seemed to be pleased with themselves, and were waiting for the inauguration rituals to begin.

The temple itself was crowded with beings Artíre had never seen... a new race of Children? Of course! Men, the Second Born. The Watcher had seen them during the singing of the Great Music which had preceded the shaping of the world. They crowded together inside the temple, their king present with all of his most important officials at the fore.

Artíre had never seen Men before, so he crept closer to them while trying to stay out of sight of the other Maiar. While Elves were often aware of the presence of Maiar, Men were not. They lacked foresight and did not appear to have the same strength as the Elves. There were some superficial similarities to Elves, but for the most part men were different creatures altogether. Mingling with them, the Watcher was conscious of their excitement as they anticipated the inauguration of their temple. Animals of various kinds could be heard bleating in the holding pens, and there were some people clothed in white and looking very nervous. Some of the men were dressed in robes and were wearing various kinds of headdresses. This appeared to designate their status. The most richly dressed Men were seated upon carven chairs, while the lesser men stood in the middle of the large room.

The people were unaware of the presence of the Maiar, but some of the priests claimed to be sensitive to the presence of their god and his messengers. Since Sauron had indeed been whispering to them, their claims were actually true. Artíre saw the edifice and was eager to learn more about it. Since he did not understand writing, he could not read the inscriptions written here and there throughout the temple. He could, however, decipher the murals and other artworks, which told the story of the creation of the world from Melkor's point of view. Surely, then, "Moko" must be Melkor? Elves were depicted as exotic creatures with long, sharply pointed ears and sinister faces.

The Watcher observed the propitiatory rites of the temple dedication. Many sacrifices were made. They both horrified and fascinated Artíre. The white-robed people had been right to be nervous - they were sacrificed to Moko by having their hearts cut out and burned on an altar with incense, while their bodies were taken outside and discarded. Sauron seemed to be particularly pleased with this and Artíre tried to understand. Why was the destruction of Men who were obviously worshiping Melkor necessary? Surely the offering of the hearts of the fittest, strongest people would rob Men of those most fitting to breed. The race of Men would then be propagated by those deemed less worthy to be sacrifices... of course! Artíre understood now. Keeping Men weak by killing off the best and the brightest of them would make them easier to manipulate. Would this not make for a weaker army? If this had not occurred to Sauron, any efforts at making war on the Men of the North would be doomed to failure. Perhaps it mattered not to Sauron whether the Men of Rhûn won or lost in their battles. He had orcs, Balrogs and other monsters to command after all.

The Watcher was appalled at this, but also impressed. It took a special kind of cruel intelligence to conceive of such a scheme. Sauron was Melkor's pupil indeed.

As the people dispersed after the dedication, Artíre cast about for a place to hide from the other Maiar. The pillars could not shield him from their senses, nor could he simply hide in the guise of a Man.

---

The Ainur did not use the same five senses to see, hear, smell, touch or taste as the Children did. They could see through any altered form he might take. This meant that hiding from a Vala or a Maia was only possible if there was something present to distract them. Attempting to hide by assuming a form was impossible, for the Ainur saw without eyes the nature of every creature, so Artíre was able to recognize Sauron straight away no matter what form he took, for he seemed to to be a single-minded entity bent on attaining power and rule over other wills whatever the cost. The feelings Sauron evoked in Artíre were always the same, whatever shape he assumed. There were subtle differences made by the particularities of each form Sauron took, but the overall impression of Sauron remained the same. All of the Ainur experienced existence in this way.

The Maiar and Valar were powerful spirit beings who needed no body to house them. They interacted with the physical world by bending their thought on those things they desired to alter or shape. When they felt the need or desire to clothe themselves with flesh, they would go to the woods or the fields and seek matter to make into bodies for themselves. They were not fastened into these bodies, but held them together by force of will.

Now it was possible for the Ainur to remain in a body for quite some time, as long as the one doing so was in the habit of "remembering" that he was embodied. Many Ainur tried to create strange and new forms for themselves, but they soon discovered that the laws of the Arda applied also to them. Even Manwë, king of the Ainur, could not fashion a winged body that looked like a Man or an Elf.

---

Movement from the back of the temple near the altar made Artíre anxious. The urgent requirement to find a way to hide was pressing on him. What could he do? Assuming a form would not conceal him, as any form made by the force of his will would require his concentration to maintain its shape. Besides, his essence would be woven through every fibre of the body, and this would mark him out to the Maiar in the temple. If he could borrow someone else's, his essence would be veiled, buried under skin, muscle and bone. The Maiar would be unaware of him as long as he did nothing to attract their attention.

Looking around for a likely candidate, the Watcher noticed a rotund Man who seemed to be unwell. Making his way stealthily towards him, Artíre induced him to walk to the latrines, which were outside the temple itself. Once the Man had settled down, the Watcher made his attempt to take over his body. Approaching the Man from the left, he attempted to ease himself in through the pores in the man's skin.

"Yaaaaaarrrrgh!" the Man cried.

"What is wrong?" called another voice from the next stall - or so the Man believed. In truth, it was Artíre, trying to calm the Man down and to prepare him for another attempt. At the Man's cry, he had desisted immediately.

"Something is invading me - or trying to!"

Alarmed by the Man's terror, Artíre tried to calm him down. "What if it is one of the gods, a servant of Moko?"

"I am but a baker," the Man replied, his voice shaking. "I am a devotee, not a priest, mage or shaman. This should not be happening to me."

It was completely new for Artíre to experience the thoughts, feelings and sensations of another being, and on any other occasion, he would have wanted to savour it. However, his need pressed upon him, and the possession of the Man would have to be achieved if he was to be able to walk abroad unrecognized. The problem was that the Man was aware that he was there, as their spirits had briefly connected during the attempted possession. This complicated matters because Artíre now shared the Man's experiences at every possible level.

"Kanu..."

"How did you know my name?" Kanu replied, terror tightening his voice.

"I heard another say it," Artíre soothed. "Did you not know that shamen are made, not born?"

"Yes, I have heard that," Kanu replied. "I have never thought that I could be one."

"I daresay neither did any of them," said Artíre, in the tones of a learned Man.

"I am afraid," Kanu quavered.

"I am sure they all feel that way," the Watcher told him gently.

"I do not want this," confessed the Man.

"I know," Artíre commiserated.

"I know who you are," Kanu stated with conviction. At the moment their spirits had touched, he realized what Artíre was and what the Watcher purposed for him.

"And I know who you are, Kanu," the Watcher said firmly. "Are you ready to receive me?"

"No," Kanu wept.

It was as the Man drew in a rasping breath that Artíre entered him through his mouth. Strange sensations permeated the Watcher's being as he sat inside the Man's stomach. He was aware of the workings of his body and of the disquiet of his soul, since Kanu was aware of what had just happened. Steeling himself, Artíre spread his influence, assuming control over every fiber of Kanu's being.

Kanu baulked at this imposition, and struggled within as he attempted to wrest back control of his body and his mind. He sat there, on his seat, his teeth and hands clenched and his body rigid as he fought to regain mastery of his own flesh.

Striving to control the battling Man, Artíre pushed and pushed at the spirit within, trying to force it out, but it was fastened to him in muscle and sinew, in joint and in marrow. The Watcher had just discovered what a soul was - the fusion of body and spirit. Any attempt to get the Man to speak and act according to the Watcher's desires would be thwarted at every turn, as the concentration required to control him all the time would be phenomenal. Kanu would have to be killed. Releasing the Man for a moment, Artíre bent his will on the man's heart, and made it stop beating. Kanu slumped forwards, dead, and the Watcher entered him again as the Man's spirit drifted sadly away. The body sat up, moved by the will of Artíre.

It was the strangest thing, being clothed in flesh. Artíre had never actually taken a form before, and the sensations he experienced in his first incarnation were a great novelty. There was something different about the body now that the spirit had departed, and the Watcher was unsure what it was until he realized that the heart had stopped beating and the usual sounds of the internal organs churning away as they did their work had stopped. It was a dead Man who was sitting up.

'No matter,' thought Artíre, 'it will not be for long. Besides, it would require some concentration to maintain the beating of the heart and the functioning of the other parts and pieces. I will let them be, since I can walk around like this anyway.'

The Watcher got up in Kanu's hame and went back to the temple.

Chapter 2

Read Chapter 2

Sauron stood with his cohorts, gloating about the success of the inauguration. He was pleased that the people accepted without question everything told to them by their priests, and were willing to adhere to the word of Moko, no matter the cost.

Artíre entered the temple wearing Kanu's body. It felt awkward to the Maia, who had never taken a physical form. All of his concentration was required to move the legs and to keep himself upright. He had actually fallen on his face a few times already, but he did not feel any pain. The nerves which would have carried those sensations were no longer working, as Kanu's brain was no longer functioning. Seeing and hearing also required an extraordinary effort of will. Artíre could no longer rely on his Maiar awareness, mostly because he was so distracted by the frustration he felt at attempting to manoeuvre this cumbersome frame.

"Kanu!" a Man whispered loudly. "Where have you been?"

Artíre froze as he searched Kanu's memory for the name of this Man, losing control of the body as he did so.

"Kanu!" called Kanu's friend, concern in his voice. "Somebody help!"

A name crept into the Watcher's consciousness from the depths of Kanu's memory. Trindor. That was the name of the friend. Having crumpled to the floor due to the effort of thinking, Artíre, who had no desire to draw attention to himself, quickly stood up on Kanu's feet. "Trindor," he rasped, "I am well. Do not concern yourself, my friend."

Men had begun to gather around the sickly-looking Kanu and his concerned friend Trindor.

"Aieee, the blood has drained from his face!" declared one, pointing dramatically.

"Behold his skin, it is purple and waxy!" another hissed, horror tainting his voice.

Artíre tried to move the blood through the body by force of will, to no avail. Half an hour had elapsed between his possession of Kanu's body and his return to the temple, and Kanu's blood had begun to congeal. Kanu's body jerked awkwardly with Artíre's attempts to control it. His hands and feet were turning blue, and his eyes were becoming increasingly hard to control as they sank back into his skull. Since all of Kanu's muscles had completely relaxed, it was taking every bit of concentration the Watcher could muster just to keep on standing. He was carrying a dead weight in every sense of the word. Artíre was finding the whole experience increasingly oppressive, and longed to simply allow Kanu to fall. However, the attention of the people surrounding him was beginning to alert the people near the altar as well as the rebel Maiar to the fact that something strange was going on.

The irony of the situation he now found himself in compounded Artíre's discomfort. After all, he had sought Kanu's body out as a hiding place. Perhaps he could remain in it for a while longer if he allowed Kanu to drop and be declared dead. He could conceal himself in the corpse. Artíre looked towards the altar and saw Sauron moving towards him, and the Watcher realized he would have to end the pretense of being a Man.

Needing something to lean on, Artíre put his hand on Trindor's shoulder. Trindor leapt back in horror, unable to bear being touched by a dead Man's hand. He knew perfectly well that whoever was looking at him out of Kanu's glazed eyes, it was not the baker he had known for many years. Trindor struggled desperately against the corpse's grip, flailing wildly as he tried to flee the crowded temple.

The other Men nearest to Kanu, seeing Trindor's terror, also tried to escape, shoving other Men out of their way as they did so. Scuffles broke out as Men were pushed this way and that, and a rumour spread that a demon who devoured Men's souls had come inside the temple seeking victims to feast upon. Panic spread, and a riot began as some went to investigate while others tried to get away.

---

The King was furious that this display of outrageous behaviour should occur at the inauguration of the temple and demanded that the tumult cease forthwith. Striving to take command of the situation, he ordered his men to quell the violence and to restore order to the proceedings. His shouts fell on deaf ears as conflicting stories volleyed back and forth among Men of what had just occurred.

Sauron, who was standing beside the king, went to the main doors of the temple where the main fracas was, accompanied by some Maiar servants. Since they were all unembodied, they were not weighed down by the burden of bearing flesh, and could move easily between the agitated people as they roared incoherently about demons and monsters, spouting the superstitions Sauron and his minions had assiduously planted in their minds.

---

The temple would have emptied more easily if the temple guards at the main entrance were not trying so hard to force people back inside at spearpoint. Some of them laid about their fellow Men with cudgels, drawing blood as they as they beat them.

"What is happening?" the lieutenant shouted. He had never seen anything like this, though he had been present at scenes of drunken revelry at similar events.

"There is a demon in there, one who devours Men's souls!" screamed a desperate worshipper.

"At the inauguration? Surely you have been drinking!" scoffed the lieutenant. "Cease this foolish talk, you are starting a panic!"

Indeed, as he spoke these words, people were flooding out of the temple in a great wave like water from a burst dam. If he simply allowed it, people would trample each other underfoot and there would be unrest throughout the city as a result.

"Let me out!" begged another Man. "There is a Man in there who is dead, yet he walks and talks! He tried to seize me!"

"There is no dead Man, there is no demon, but there is a king who will surely punish us all if we do not calm down!" roared the lieutenant. What was wrong with these people? Had they gone mad?

"The demon is coming this way! Flee!" Trindor warned, scrabbling over some other Men in his haste to escape.

The lieutenant shouted in vain for order as a tide of Men overwhelmed him. As the lieutenant had predicted, people were indeed trampled underfoot as the crowd rushed out of the temple and unfortunately, he was one of them.

---

Sauron and his cohorts moved quickly to the doors, attempting to ascertain the source of the commotion, but by the time they arrived there, most of the common people had left. A few of them were lying injured or dead on the floor, some of them crushed beyond recognition. Sauron turned to his minions and said, "Go and walk among Men; listen to their conversations until you discover the cause of this commotion. I will not tolerate failure!"

He glanced briefly at the corpses lying around, trying to fathom the reasons for the panic he had witnessed, but nothing came to mind.

---

Artíre remained in his hiding place, keeping very still. He dared not do anything that might arouse Sauron's suspicions. He left Kanu's body as quickly as he could and found another one to house himself for the moment. Perhaps if he tried to seize a Man while he was asleep, he would be more successful. One of the limbs of the cadaver twitched, frightening the Watcher. What had he done to cause that movement? He dared not permit it to happen again. Surely Sauron would find him now, and would drag him back to Angband and report him to Melkor for ruining the inauguration of the temple of Moko. All hopes of sundering Sauron from Melkor would be dashed, and the punishments they would devise for him would surely be cruel.

Sauron noticed the movement and came to take a closer look.

Chapter 3

The method of artificial respiration I have mentioned here was commonly used on drowned people until modern CPR was introduced.

Read Chapter 3

On the floor of the mostly deserted Temple of Moko, the body of a dead Man lay twitching. There were other Men lying here and there, some of whom were dead. The living groaned in pain from being trampled in the riot.

The king of Rhûn stood surveying the scene. Anger curled his lips. Furious that the inauguration had gone so badly awry, he sought someone to hold accountable for the debacle. "I want a full investigation into this," he declared to the chief priest, the captain of the temple guard and the captain of his own personal guards. "You will find the culprit and bring him before me so that I may personally pass judgment upon him. His death will be slow and lingering for turning this sacred event into such a travesty!"

"Yes, my lord," the priests and guards replied.

Prompted by Sauron, who stood unseen beside him, the king asked, "Why is that body twitching? Is the Man not dead? He has gone grey all over."

One of the king's personal guards spoke up, "My lord, I have seen service on the battlefields, and I assure you this is common. A dead Man may twitch like that for several hours. It is most horrible to see at close range."

"Is that where you got that scar on your forehead?" the king asked, taking an interest in the guard for the first time. The scar was a large gash that ran across the Man's forehead at an angle over his left eye, just over the eyebrow. It gave him the appearance of being permanently sardonic.

"Indeed, my lord. I went to despoil a fallen enemy, who still held his sword. I had tried to take the sword, but his grip was tight upon it. A bright jewel caught my eye. It was on a pendant around his neck, and I bent down to take it. I was standing on his left side, and his sword was double-edged and held across his chest. As I reached for the jewel, he twitched and the sword slashed my face, just above my eye."

"Did you get the jewel?" asked the king, fascinated.

"No, my lord, but I did get a keepsake," the guard joked wryly, pointing to his scar.

The other men laughed, their tensions eased for the moment.

"Take the dead out and burn their bodies," ordered the king. "I like not the way they move. It seems unnatural to me, whether this is common or not."

Priests and guards hastened to obey the king, who left the temple in a foul mood.

---

As the temple emptied, Artíre remained hidden. Too afraid to stretch out his consciousness to find out if Sauron lingered close by, he remained where he was, in the stomach of the dead Man, who still twitched from time to time.

Some temple servants carried him out and put him in a dark room. The Watcher ventured out through the Man's mouth, glancing this way and that. He saw no sign of the other Maiar and left the room to search for another hiding place.

His original plan to use a Man as a vehicle had been flawed because he had attempted to assert his will over him. What if he tried to enter a sleeping Man? This was assuming that Men slept like the other creatures he had seen. Since Sauron was with the king, it made sense to attempt the possession of a Man who was close to the king. Perhaps he could contrive to cling to different Men until he could find a suitable host. It was simply a matter of finding a way to spy on Sauron without the other Maiar being aware of him.

A Temple servant came into the room to remove Kanu's body, where Artíre had briefly hidden. He paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, and another servant joined him. The Watcher slipped back into Kanu's body as they lifted it up, put it on a stretcher and covered it with a cloth. They took it outside through the back entrance and handed it over to Kanu's family. As they did so, Artíre stole a glance around him, and, seeing nothing alarming, he followed the temple servants back to the temple. He stayed with the Man he intended to make his next host until he finally finished cleaning up the temple and went to his quarters.

The Watcher had long understood that since Sauron was only interested in power and the rule of other wills, he never took an interest in the lesser servants of the beings he associated with. This, Artíre believed, was a mistake. He had gleaned the best information not from the rulers of the realms he had been in, but from the talk of the servants and functionaries whose duties it was to carry out the orders given by their overlords.

The Man Artíre was currently shadowing was called Jamboro, and he was the assistant to the cleaners' foreman. The Watcher waited until the Man had eaten and fallen asleep before trying to enter him. With the Kanu debacle fresh in his mind, Artíre let Jamboro slip deep into dreams before making his attempt.

 

He was running along a beach, playing in the surf as the tide came in. Women were gathered in small groups near the fishermen's jetty, washing and mending nets. A large wave came in and soaked him with spray and he laughed, chasing the backwash and pelting the errant wave with pebbles. He had gone out too far, though, and when the next, bigger wave came in, he was caught in the undertow and dragged right under the water. A woman screamed. His mother. She screamed and screamed as the darkness took him into its cold embrace. The screams grew louder, punctuated by sobs as she pleaded for help. The world faded out of existence; sight was already gone, and hearing was becoming a memory.

Thump! Pebbles dug into his chest and a sharp pain screamed through his chest. Someone... or something... was pushing him forward and letting him slip back? It could not be the sea. He could feel someone's hands pulling him forward, then letting him slip back, then lifting his arms, then dropping them over and over again, forcing stale air out of his lungs. A sharp slap in the middle of his back made him cry out - or try to. He coughed and spat out more water, vomiting and gasping, gasping for breath. He lay there panting, his head splitting in agony as information flooded his brain. He was on a pebbly beach and someone was moving him back and forth and up and down to empty his lungs and make him breathe. But there was so much water in him, and he was doing his best, but...

 

Jamboro woke up with a start. Something was different. There was someone in there with him. Looking around, he saw the chests of the other men in the dormitory rise and fall in the moonlight that filtered in through the shuttered window. Someone snored. Tired from a hard day's work, the Man slowly slid back into sleep, hoping that the nightmare would not come back.

When the Man's eyelids had finally closed, Artíre moved from under the bed and stood beside Jamboro again. He believed his attempts at possession kept failing because he was choosing the wrong hosts. He had heard some of the priests speaking of having the spirit of Moko inside them, guiding them from within. If he could find such a person, one who had access to the High Priest but who would escape the notice of the rebel Maiar, he could travel inside him. Finding such a person without the rebels being aware of him would be difficult, but was possible. There was always a way.

---

Eshtun walked behind his master, the High Priest. He attended to all of his needs, from assisting with the ritual washing of hands to robing him to selecting the various costumes the High Priest had to wear for different occasions. He himself was not a priest, but he was a great believer in the Way of Moko. While many people would find that living with a person of high rank would demystify him sooner or later, for Eshtun, living and working with the High Priest was the greatest honour, and after twenty years of devotion, he had never found fault with his master. His position was its own reward, as far as he was concerned. However, there was one thing he craved more than anything else: to become like his master. He did not seek the office of High Priest, but the experience of having a connection with the god Moko that his master seemed to have.

For that he would do anything, no matter what. He had already cut the hearts from living children in search of his goal, and had experienced strange dreams in which he had been given an inkling of what it was to have his god nearby. This had served to further raise the High Priest in his estimation. If only he could have an experience of Moko in the way his master did.

---

Artíre was hiding just under the effluent grille beside the altar when Eshtun walked in behind his master. He had crept in after his attempt at possessing Jamboro had failed, and had stayed there, waiting for an opportunity to find another host. He could not sense the presence of Sauron and the other Maiar seemed to be absent, and when Artíre dared to look above the lip of the grille, he found that they were no longer in the building at all. Since none of the Men could see him, he walked among them listening to their conversations. He could understand their language now, because Kanu's memories lingered in his consciousness.

The High Priest approached the altar and bowed to the statue of Moko seated on a great throne. Eshtun stood to one side, gazing at his master as he made the ritual hand gestures and muttered incantations. How he wished he could do something to atone for the debacle of the previous day! As he stood beside Eshtun, Artíre heard him whisper, "I wish I could do something. Tell me, Moko, what can I do?"

"Are you willing to surrender to me?" Artíre asked him.

Eshtun slowly turned his head, looking for the source of the voice.

"Eshtun, are you willing to surrender to me?" Artíre asked again.

Conflicted, Eshtun looked at the High Priest at the altar and then to his left at the point he believed the voice had originated. Agreeing to surrender to the voice of Moko would allow him to have the experience he had craved for years, but it might mean that his devotion to the High Priest would have to come to an end. Looking back at the High Priest, he asked himself if it was better to be the servant of a god or of the servant of the god. The answer was obvious, though it pained him to admit it. "I am willing," he replied.

Delighted, Artíre poured himself into Eshtun's mouth and spread right through him. As he did so, Eshtun shuddered, and other Men noticed.

Suddenly, everyone went very quiet.

Chapter 4

Read Chapter 4

The High Priest, who had been calling out to Moko in front of his statue, turned around, aware that something strange had occurred. Though the people standing behind him had been silent before, there was a different quality to the atmosphere in the temple now. It seemed that, for a brief moment, everyone had stopped breathing.

Eshtun his servant stood looking at him expectantly, and as the High Priest stared at him, he smiled faintly back. If a feather from one of the sacrificial doves had fallen to the floor at that moment, the sound would have echoed throughout the temple.

The High priest noticed that all of the people were staring at Eshtun now, and it was clearly making him uncomfortable. Why were they staring at him? Had he said something, or moved in an unusual way? If that was the case, what exactly had he done?

The High Priest considered the matter. If he asked anyone what had just happened, it would be clear to them all that the spirit of Moko was no longer guiding him, and that he was no more spiritually aware than anyone else. They were staring at Eshtun for a reason. Could it be that the spirit of Moko had left his High Priest and entered this lesser being instead? Usually, when the spirit of Moko entered him, it was evident to everyone present: he shuddered, then his manner changed completely, and words were spoken with a voice that was not his. Prophesies were revealed, and things came to pass as predicted. This had been the way of things for twenty years, and his influence with the king had grown great because of this. If Eshtun was now the vessel of Moko, he would be made High Priest, and the servant would become the master. While this was an intolerable prospect, the idea of killing Eshtun was far from the High Priest's mind. Having felt the spirit of Moko enter him many times, he knew better than to anger him.

He knew what happened to people who did.

 

Twenty years earlier, Lokan was a shaman who plied his trade in the old quarter of the city, offering cures for assorted illnesses and telling fortunes. He read the entrails of animals offered as sacrifices to the local gods, and was respected as a Man whose prophesies often came to pass. He had an interest in dark magic, and sought the favour of many mages and sorcerers as he strove to develop his abilities and increase his knowledge.

It was as he studied the dark arts that he discovered necromancy. His efforts at communicating with the dead had led him to discover Moko. As he sought deeper and more thorough communion with his new god, he allowed Moko more and more control over him. He submitted many times to being completely possessed by his god, and reveled in the power granted him. His growing influence over many in positions of authority kindled envy in some men's hearts, and a plot was made to assassinate him. Warned of this in a dream, he sought out the plotters and confronted them, before a great crowd he laid a curse on them, in which he predicted that in three days they would all swell up and die in agony. Three days later, all of the plotters and the would-be assassins were dead.

Lokan was appointed High Priest of Moko on that day, and land was set aside for the Temple to be built upon.

 

Silence reigned in the Temple of Moko. Everyone stood still, waiting for the High Priest to either return to his incantations or for Eshtun to say something.

Sauron and some other Maiar entered the temple, unseen by the eyes of Men. Artíre, who was veiled in the flesh of Eshtun, servant of the High Priest, saw them enter and was afraid. Eshtun was aware of his discomfort, but could not see what Artíre saw because the Watcher had shielded his thoughts from him. It was obvious that Sauron was aware that something had just happened. What could he do? He searched Eshtun's memory, seeking a solution.

Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Eshtun sneezed. "Excuse me," he said, "I do not feel well."

"Go, then, Eshtun," said the High Priest, relief writ large on his face, "and rest, for the sickly are not permitted to be here in the Temple of Moko. When you are fit for service here again, you may return."

Having no choice in the matter, Eshtun walked slowly out of the temple. Artíre saw through Eshtun's eyes that Sauron looked at him as if he recognized him, but he was careful not to look back at him directly. None of the Maiar followed him out. Disappointed that he could not remain there, Artíre caused Eshtun to walk back to his quarters, hoping that the flesh of the Man would shield him from Sauron's eyes. The Watcher hid from Eshtun the knowledge of the presence of the Maiar, so that all the Man knew was that Moko had apparently possessed him, but was choosing not to make this known at the moment.

Sauron went right up to the altar at the back of the temple, where the High Priest was making the incantations with renewed vigour, and entered him. Turning around, he spoke to the small crowd of worshipers that had assembled. "The inauguration of this temple went awry because a spirit of mischief, an enemy of Moko, entered this place intent on disrupting this sacred event. This being, and the person who harboured him, must be punished with the greatest severity."

Eshtun, who was still inside the temple, continued to walk towards the door, but his steps had noticeably slowed.

"It was said by many that a dead Man waked and talked, and that he attempted to seize another Man to devour him," the High Priest declared.

Eshtun kept on walking. He had been ordered to leave, after all.

"Men panicked and fled, and many were trampled to death in the riot that followed," the High Priest continued.

Eshtun continued towards the door.

"Today, the spirit returned, intent on wreaking more havoc!" the High Priest shouted savagely. "He had the temerity to enter the servant of the High Priest of Moko, even as he was at his prayers! Seize him!"

Eshtun, who had almost reached the door, risked a backwards glance and saw an angry crowd rushing towards him. Panicked, he ran, and tripped on the threshold of the main doors as the guards turned around to seize him. Artíre immediately poured himself out of Eshtun's mouth and slid down a crack between the stones of which the temple steps were made, looking for a new host in which to hide.

---

A beetle, unnoticed by anyone, sat on the second step from the top. Seeing it, Artíre entered it, squeezing his essence into the smallest host that had ever held him, and scuttled away as fast as the tiny legs could carry him.

Artíre, who was sitting inside the tiny creature, guided it into a dark corner and made it remain there until the hue and cry was over.

---

Sauron exulted as the hapless Eshtun was dragged before him and thrown forcefully at his, or rather, the High Priest's feet. "Confess," he ordered him.

"C-c-confess t-t-to what?" Eshtun replied, getting to his knees, his voice taut with terror.

The High Priest slapped his face, raking his cheek with his long nails, and drew blood. "You harboured the spirit of malice who disrupted the inauguration of this temple," he accused.

"I-I-I was p-p-praying to M-m-moko, I swear it!" Eshtun stammered desperately.

"P-p-praying to M-m-moko!" the High Priest mocked. "Were you p-p-praying to M-m-moko when the riot broke out that killed seventeen Men and crippled many others, Eshtun? Were you? Were you?! Answer me!"

Eshtun's horrified face went a deathly shade of grey as all the blood drained from it. He trembled pitifully, sobbing like a child in the grip of night terrors. "I have always sought to serve you, my lord," he wept, "I never intended to betray you."

Sauron poured himself out of the High Priest's mouth and into Eshtun's. Spreading himself all the way through the Man, he probed his memories, seeking any sign that his enemy had been in there. When he had found what he wanted, he left the Man and returned to the High Priest. "Take this Man outside and put him to death," he ordered.

"How shall we put him to death?" asked one of the priests.

"Cut off his head and burn the body," the High Priest replied. "That is punishment enough."

"But my lord..." the priest replied.

"Are you questioning me?" the High Priest asked him. His tone brooked no opposition.

"N-no, my lord," the priest replied, stepping back.

"Know this," the High Priest announced, "the spirit of mischief is still here in Rhûn, intent on causing what trouble he can. Today I will teach my priests a spell that will bind this spirit to the body he has chosen to occupy. If you should see anything unusual or suspect any Man of being a host for this being, cast the spell and call for a priest of Moko to attend the scene as quickly as you can. Then the spirit will be rendered harmless and will trouble us no more."

The words of the spell were written down, and every priest of Moko was taught how to cast it. Then they left the temple, seeking signs of the spirit who had caused the riot that had ruined the holy day.

Chapter 5

Read Chapter 5

Artíre hid within the form of a beetle, sheltered in a dark crevice between the steps of the temple of Moko and the wall. The Watcher was surprised to discover that he could hide in the smallest of places, hidden even from the view of the rebel Maiar who sought to find him. His attempts at spying on Sauron had failed because he had been thinking on too grand a scale. His attempts at possessing even a willing Man had not succeeded because he had gone about the business of trying to spy on Sauron in entirely the wrong way.

If he had come openly to Rhûn and told Sauron that Melkor had sent him, Artíre would not have had to hide himself. If he had made attempts to possess others before he had come to this place, he would have known what would or would not have been effective as a host for his essence. The fact was that whether the Men he had possessed were willing or not, entering them altered their behaviour and this drew the attention of others.

Now he was hiding in a beetle in a dark corner, having been declared the enemy of Moko. If word of this got back to Melkor, he would have to go underground once again. The Watcher could not bear the thought of it.

Perhaps Melkor did not yet know what had happened here in Rhûn. If Sauron was too busy hunting the Watcher to send word to his master, maybe all was not lost. Artíre's new disguise would conceal him as long as the other Maiar did not look directly at it. The advantage of hiding in a beetle was that people were unlikely to pay attention to its behaviour. The creature could not think for itself, and had no will of its own. The Watcher could control it as he wished, and its death would be of little consequence. He could slip back into the temple unnoticed and spy on the proceedings if he so desired. Artíre opened the beetle's hard forewings, spread its back wings and bade it fly into the temple.

---

Inside the temple, Sauron, who had entered the High Priest, was teaching the other priests the spell that would bind Artíre to whatever host he inhabited. Sauron knew it was Artíre who had possessed Eshtun, the High Priest's servant, because the impressions left in Eshtun's mind as a result of Artíre having been in there evoked in Sauron the same feelings he experienced whenever he was in the presence of the Watcher, as if the Man were a garment that the Watcher had worn and left his scent on. An entity who sought out drama for its own sake because he enjoyed observing conflict and destruction had inhabited the Man for a little while.

The spell Sauron taught to the priests was one that included Artíre's name. This was necessary, because the other Maiar risked being fastened to the bodies of any Men they might possess if the name of the being to be bound was not specified.

---

When Artíre flew in, the priests were repeating the words of the spell that the High Priest was teaching them. Luckily, since he entered as they were repeating the last few words, the spell had no effect. He landed on the ledge of the window nearest to the altar.

The High Priest, wishing to ensure that his priests knew all of the words of the spell, bade them to repeat it. They did, and Artíre suddenly felt a horrible sensation of being tightly wrapped all over. It was just as well he was sitting on the window ledge, else he would have fallen to the floor. When the final word was intoned, Artíre's essence was bound to the beetle's tiny body.

Sauron was completely unaware of what had just happened because he was occupied with teaching the binding spell to the priests, and Artíre was still on the window-ledge. Still inhabiting the High Priest, he continued to repeat the spell, adding layer after layer of binding to Artíre, who was fastened to the body of the beetle he was currently sitting inside.

"If you see a Man you suspect of harboring this evil spirit," the High Priest said, "and speak the words of this spell, he will be bound to that Man until he is killed. There is a way to fasten a spirit to a Man who is dead and to keep him there, but it is not fit that I should tell you this, else all who offend you would find themselves bound thus, and the order we desire to maintain here would descend into chaos. It is a terrible thing to bind a spirit to a body to which it does not belong, and an even more terrible thing for that spirit to be brought before Moko for judgment!"

Sauron dismissed the priests and they left the temple in search of the evil spirit. Once they were gone, Sauron the Deceiver left his host and gathered the other Maiar around him. "These Men will search the city for signs of Artíre," he told them, "but they will not find him unless he takes another form. He who loved to observe has learned nothing from his observations; for he sought not to learn, but to be entertained. Now his lack of knowledge counts against him, for he can be caught more easily now. He will not flee far, for he knows he is being hunted. Search every grating, every hole in the ground, and you will find him with the insects and the maggots, where his kind can always be found."

---

Narcawë arrived at the temple at that moment and Sauron stared at him, surprised. "Did I not order you to find Artíre before I left for Rhûn?" he asked the Maia.

"Indeed you did," Narcawë replied, looking confidently back at Sauron as if he knew something the Deceiver knew not.

"Then why are you here, as bold as a wolf in front of a flock of sheep?" Sauron asked him, annoyed at his manner.

Narcawë grinned slowly, his smug expression infuriating Sauron, as he knew it would. "I sought the Watcher in every place I could think of, and then it occurred to me to look in a place that you might not have considered. I went to Angband, the stronghold you kept in trust for our lord Melkor. I explained that you had ordered me to seek out the Watcher, and that he was considered an enemy of Melkor. Do you know what our lord told me?"

Sauron was outraged by the sheer impudence of this Maia, but he decided that nothing would be gained by challenging the authority he pretended to have, so he answered, "Tell me."

"He said," Narcawë paused briefly for effect, "that Artíre the Watcher was ordered to come here to Rhûn to observe the work you do and to report back to him about it. Furthermore, if you attempt to obstruct him in the course of his duties, he is to send you back to our master at once."

Sauron was furious. "Who do you think you are, Narcawë, strolling in here as if you were the chief lieutenant of Melkor?" he shouted. "Did you keep a stronghold in Middle-earth for Melkor when the Valar came and destroyed Angband? Did you continue the work of our master, ensuring that there were Balrogs, Orcs and monsters of every kind waiting to serve Melkor on his return? Did you gather the scattered servants of Melkor and reorganize them after the War of the Powers? Did you? Did you? No! Then be very, very careful how you speak to me, Narcawë, or when my wrath falls upon you, my friend, it will fall hard."

Narcawë smiled gently back at Sauron, infuriating him even more. "So I have been told. Nonetheless, you must submit to the will of our master, and it is his will that Artíre the Watcher should be permitted to observe the work you do here unhindered. Where is he?"

Sauron stared back at Narcawë, unwilling to answer him, but afraid of the consequences of ignoring him. "I do not know," he replied.

"Rautanor, your aide, has told me that you have declared the Watcher to be an enemy of Moko," Narcawë persisted.

"Yes I did," Sauron admitted. "It is because he disrupted the inauguration of this temple."

"Is Moko supposed to be Melkor?" Narcawë asked politely, as if discussing the weather.

"Indeed," said Sauron, pleased to be able to report on the progress of the religion he had created to persuade Men to worship Melkor.

"But," interrupted Narcawë, "when the voice of the High Priest changes, is it not the voice of Sauron that issues forth?"

"Well, yes it is," said Sauron, upset at being interrogated in this fashion.

"So then, it is reasonable to assume that Moko is actually Sauron, and it is he who is being worshiped in this place," Narcawë asserted.

"I am not disloyal to Melkor!" Sauron shouted, convinced that Narcawë was trying to put him in an untenable position.

"Well, to the... untrained eye," said Narcawë in reasonable tones, "it might look that way."

"I suppose it is possible," Sauron replied sullenly, convinced that he knew where this conversation was going.

"It looks even worse, of course, that Artíre has been declared an enemy of Moko, and that a spell is being taught to Men to bind him to any body he may see fit to possess," Narcawë explained.

'This has gone far enough,' Sauron thought. 'I will not take orders from some mere minion who thinks that taking orders from Melkor makes him a favorite.' "Your friend Artíre," he said firmly, "caused a riot by putting into action an ill-conceived plan to possess the body of a Man. He killed this Man and caused him to walk into this temple during the inauguration. Other men panicked when the dead Man touched them, convinced that he was an evil spirit intent on devouring them. The riot killed seventeen Men and severely injured many more. Do you mean to tell me that Artíre did all this simply because he had been ordered to come and observe me?"

"Why are you so certain that Artíre caused the riot?" asked Narcawë. "Did you see him?"

"Well, no," Sauron said, "but I did look into the mind of another Man whom Artíre possessed, and detected a trace of his presence there."

"Did you detect a trace of the Watcher's presence in the body of the Man who allegedly started the riot?" asked Narcawë.

Sauron went quiet. If he argued about this, Narcawë would tell him to go back to Melkor at Angband. If he refused, Melkor might well come to Rhûn to deal with him personally. He could lie to another Maia, but never to Melkor, for though he had depleted his essence by making Balrogs and other monsters, he was still a Vala, so Melkor much more powerful than the Maiar.

"How do you know it was Artíre who started the riot, then?" asked Narcawë.

"Why would the Watcher enter a Man's body at all?" asked Sauron, trying to rescue his reputation.

"That is not an answer to my question," Narcawë declared. "Where is the body of this Man, that I might examine it and see for myself whether Artíre possessed it or not?"

"All of the bodies of the Men concerned have been burned," Sauron told him, frustrated.

"If all of the bodies of the Men involved have been burned, how can I examine them?" Narcawë asked him.

"You cannot," Sauron spat, his fury simmering.

"Then I have only your word, Sauron, and no proof," said Narcawë.

---

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Epilachna, my beta, for helping me with this detail. Beetles have hard forewings that open up to allow them to fly. They use the back wings to do the actual flying.

Chapter 6

Read Chapter 6

On the window-ledge near the altar, Artíre the Watcher overheard every word exchanged between Narcawë and Sauron. He desperately wished that their conversation would turn to the curse that bound him to the body of the beetle he currently inhabited. The idea of using the beetle as a hiding place had been a good one, but Artire had not intended to remain in that form permanently. He felt as if he had been sewn into every fiber of the tiny creature. The sensation of being tightly wrapped, which had come upon him while the spell was being uttered, had not left him. What could he do?

---

Sauron was at a disadvantage, and he knew it. Whatever could he do? He could not fathom why Melkor, his liege lord, held him under suspicion nor why he had sent two other Maiar to spy on him. Surely this was Artíre's doing!

Narcawë was grinning arrogantly at him like a wolf. That could not be a good thing. It meant that what Narcawë was telling him was true. Did the other Maia mean to supplant him?

Probably.

Would Narcawë be able to hold a fortress in trust for Melkor if the Valar should come again?

Probably not.

The other Maia lacked the cunning required to be particularly useful to Melkor. At best, he could lead Orcs into battle against the foes of Melkor. He had no building skills, nor was he adept with magic. He could only speak of himself as if he really had a place in Melkor's council, but he was just a spy and nothing more. Perhaps the excessive self-regard Narcawë exhibited  could be used to Sauron's advantage. The Deceiver grinned inwardly at the thought. Narcawë was going to pay for every word, every gesture, and every slight against Sauron. Oh, yes, he would pay, and pay dearly.

"I was going to ask what you were planning to do about our mutual friend before I came along," said Narcawë, his tone more odious than ever.

Sauron froze. He had just sent his priests out with orders to bind the Watcher. What if Narcawë had discovered this?

"I overheard your priests mumbling something about binding Artíre to the body he is hiding in," added Narcawë.

"I believed him to be responsible for the riot that killed those Men," Sauron protested with great vehemence. "What was I supposed to do? I have been entrusted with a sacred task. I could not allow another to interfere."

"Do you not realize that if the body he inhabits should perish, Artíre will be diminished?" Narcawë challenged.

"That did not matter to me when protecting Lord Melkor's interests was paramount!" Sauron argued.

"Well," replied Narcawë in a silky tone, "now you know that Lord Melkor's interests include your permitting his servants to go about their business unhindered."

"That remains to be seen," Sauron countered.

"Indeed," said Narcawë, "although, at the moment, you are not in a position to argue with me. Tell me the spell for unbinding Artíre, and I will forget to tell Sauron that you composed such a spell in the first place. It would not do to offend our liege lord, after all."

---

Artíre remained on the window-ledge as Sauron chanted the spell and Narcawë repeated it, asking Sauron to repeat it several times. Each repetition lifted a layer of enchantment off the Watcher, until the sensation of being tightly wrapped dissipated. The Watcher metaphorically stood up and drifted down to the ground outside the temple.

There were no other Maiar around, as far as he could see, so Artíre had some time to consider what to do. He would simply have to learn a counter-spell to protect himself so he would never be bound like that again. He also decided not to attempt to possess another creature, whether animal, Man or Elf, ever again. It was too risky.

After some consideration, Artíre decided it would be simplest to just walk into the temple and allow Narcawë to support him. Fleeing was not an option. If Sauron tried to bind him again, the other Maia could release him. This, he mused bitterly, meant taking sides again. The trouble with taking sides was the obligation it placed upon him to aid the people he had elected to join, whether it suited him to do so or not. The Watcher was unhappy about this. His only desire was to find a comfortable position observing the lives of others. He did not like getting involved with the plans and schemes of would-be overlords. The need to exact revenge on Sauron was now acute, and he was determined to gain some recompense for the ordeal he had just endured.

His choice made, Artíre went to the main door and entered the temple. "Hail Sauron, Lord of Rhûn!" he declared as he walked up the main aisle. "Hail Narcawë, trusted servant of our lord Melkor," he added for good measure.

Sauron turned and faced the Watcher, quivering with outrage. Only Artíre could make a compliment sound like an insult. "Is this not the Watcher I see before me?" Sauron spat. "You walk in here as if you have only just arrived and accuse me of treachery before this... underling. How dare you?"

"We are all underlings to Melkor, Sauron. Well, those images upon the wall and that statue over there look remarkably like the Maia form you have been known to wear. What would you have us think of them, if not that you have claimed lordship over these lands? Know you not that our lord Melkor has sent me here to see what you are doing and to report on your... progress... to him?" Artíre retorted with relish. This was a sight he had been aching to see for a long time.

"Do you deny the possession of the Men Kanu and Eshtun?" asked Sauron, pointing dramatically at the Watcher.

"Why would I possess Men? You are the necromancer, this is what you and your followers do, but I am not your follower, Sauron. I am the servant of Melkor. Besides, you can easily fashion a form for yourself from the dust of the earth. What need have you for the frail flesh of Men?" Artíre asked, affecting an innocent tone.

"Has your spying not revealed this to you, Artíre?" Sauron asked, suspicion hardening his voice.

"Narcawë and I have been asked to observe your progress here and to report to him," Artíre replied, moving to stand beside Narcawë. "I hope we will have good news to tell him."

The Watcher grinned. He had Sauron right where he wanted him. "Oh," he added, "I believe I overheard something about binding me to whatever form I might inhabit. I hope you do not intend to hinder me in my work."

"I would not dream of committing such a crime," Sauron said, a sour edge to his voice. "Not at all. You may... observe me at your leisure."

"That I will," replied Artíre. "Come, Narcawë, let us see what our friend has been doing here in Rhûn." The Watcher led Narcawë out of the temple, confident that he would aid him if any of the other Maiar should attempt to detain him.

Outside the temple, the sun was setting, and Narcawë and Artíre walked through the streets of the city, looking around them. People went hither and thither about their business, but quietly, as if afraid of being noticed. A pall of fear hung over the city, a sense of impending doom. Invisible, the two Maiar went among them, listening to their conversations to discover what was going on.

"I hope that walking dead man has been destroyed," said one Man to another.

"Did the demon responsible not possess Eshtun, the servant of the High Priest? They had to cut off his head and burn the body," replied the other.

"The servant of the High Priest?" the first Man asked too loudly, his eyes wide with shock. "Then none of us are safe!" With that, the Man turned and fled.

The street cleared in a matter of moments as the frightened crowd dispersed.

"This is very bad," said Narcawë to Artíre. "Did you have anything to do with this, whether intentional or not?"

"What does it matter?" Artíre replied. "Neither of us cares enough for Sauron to wish him well. I was there when he humiliated you in front of the others and sent you away with your tail between your legs. Now you return to him, your head held high, scorning him in his own temple. Surely you care not if he comes to ruin?"

"I would not mourn too deeply if he did," Narcawë declared. "He thinks too highly of himself, and seems to think that nothing he does is ever as bad as what others do to him. He slays Men easily enough, yet if anyone does so without his permission, he objects; yet he cares little for them, he merely finds the loss of certain individuals an inconvenience."

"He has it fixed in his mind that all should answer to him for everything, and that he is second only to Melkor," said Artíre, indignation filling his voice, "except when Melkor is absent, in which case we must all answer to him. He is merely a Maia, not even a Vala. Why should we answer to him at all? Oh, yes, I nearly forgot - he is the Lord of Rhûn, venerated as a god by the Men of this land. Must we also bow down and worship him? What has he done, except accuse us of treachery, sundering us from our friends and making us afraid to show our faces anywhere?"

"What harm has our existence done him?" asked Narcawë. "None at all! Join with me, Artíre, and together we will bring him down!"

Looking this way and that, Artíre gave careful consideration to what Narcawë had just said. None of the other Maiar appeared to be around. "Very well, my friend," he replied. "What do you propose?"

Chapter 7

Read Chapter 7

In a darkened doorway, Narcawë and Artíre hatched their plans for Sauron's downfall.

"Well, we have both been ordered to report on Sauron's progress here in Rhûn," Artíre began, "and Sauron can do nothing about this; if either of us fail to report back, he will be suspect, and he knows it. Therefore, we are safe for the moment."

"We also have evidence of Sauron's claims of lordship of Rhûn," replied Narcawë, "The images of Moko look remarkably like Sauron's Maia form. This, however, will not be enough to convince Melkor of treachery. Sauron could easily argue that his influence over the artisans had caused them to make the carvings and statues the way they were, and Melkor can hardly be represented as he now is - a burned and limping thing."

"I have been meaning to ask about that, Narcawë," said Artíre. "How came our lord to have that cruel crown upon his head, stuck fast that he may not remove it? Is it a punishment of the Valar?"

"As a matter of fact, I heard someone mention the crown as I made my way to Angband," Narcawë replied. "The Elves are complaining that Melkor stole their jewels, which have the light of the Two Trees captured inside them. They also say they were hallowed so that no evil being could touch them without being burned. They call our lord Morgoth now - dark enemy, and have sworn to regain the jewels from him. Even now they are banding together to challenge him until they have reclaimed the Silmaril."

"So it is possible to remove the crown and take the burning jewels off?" asked Artíre.

"Indeed it is," replied Narcawë. "While I was at Angband, I told him that the Elves were massing against him, seeking to steal his jewels."

"'That they are,' he replied, 'but for all the suffering I have endured both in the winning of them and the keeping of them, I would fain let them hound me unto the end of the world if I may be permitted the pleasure of keeping them.'

'But they burn thee,' I cried. 'I see how thou sufferest! Take off the crown of pain and cast it at them! Let them burn, while thou walkest about free from pain!'

"He would not listen, for he deems that the pain is worth the privilege of holding them, whether it destroys him or not. Indeed, if we leave him for long enough, his lust for those jewels, coupled with the pain that even now drives him mad, will eventually destroy him."

"That is a strange thing indeed," replied Artíre, and for a while he was too amazed to say any more. Finally, he said, "I wonder what would happen if someone was to take even one of those jewels from him?"

"That, my friend, does not bear thinking about," Narcawë whispered, fear tightening his voice. "He may be freed in some small measure from the pain of their burning, but he would feel the greater burn of humiliation, and the sense that he is no longer in control of his own realm. He would lose his reason, and who knows what he would do then? His retribution would be terrible for Elves and Men, and I fear to imagine how he would deal with us. Do not speak of this again!"

"I will not," replied Artíre, the germ of a plan beginning to form in his mind. If he could somehow contrive to snatch away one of the jewels and give it to Sauron without his knowing the means by which it came into his possession, surely Melkor would turn on his lieutenant and destroy him? Then he would be avenged indeed for every slight, every insult and every moment he had endured hiding in fear from his erstwhile friends. The difficulty would be setting a plan into motion without making Sauron or Morgoth any the wiser. Since Narcawë was too fearful to even consider the idea, he would have to do it by himself. Artíre would do it. He would find a way, and he would see it done.

Narcawë was silent for a while, then he asked, "What are we going to do about Sauron?"

"Nothing, for the moment," replied Artíre. "Let us do as we said we would, observing the progress of Sauron's work here in Rhûn and preparing the reports to bring back to Melkor. Our lord told me he would have no squabbling in the ranks, so our report should contain nothing bad about his lieutenant. Let Sauron believe about us what he will. His own suspicions may yet condemn him."

"Indeed," replied Narcawë, "for he ever seeks to sunder us from our friends, and if we present a better picture of him than he does of us, then he will be seen as the one who is working against our lord's interests when he complains about us."

"Then that is what we should do," said Artíre. "Give him as little to say about us as possible while intimating that we are not impressed with him at all. His own mouth will condemn him at the throne of Melkor in Angband. Now there is but one thing to do: this curse must be lifted from me. If the other Maiar see me, they will surely bind me if they can. Do you know of any spells that I can use to protect myself?"

"Yes, I do," replied Narcawë, who not only taught him the counter-spell for the binding, but also a protective spell to prevent the binding in the first place.

"Truly you are my friend," said Artíre as he took his leave. "Now I can travel throughout this land and see for myself what Sauron has been doing without fear."

"That spell I taught you will protect you from most harmful enchantments," Narcawë told him. "Farewell, Artíre, and may our enemies receive the just punishment for their misdeeds."

"They surely will," replied Artíre, who made his way straight back to Angband, thinking of ways to put his plans into action. The Elves wanted their jewels back, did they? He would see what he could do about that. After all, It was not right for a Vala to suffer as Melkor did.

Chapter 8

Read Chapter 8

In the temple of Moko, Sauron sat on the High Priest's chair and brooded. Contending with Artíre had been bad enough, but now Narcawë had declared enmity towards him. Surely a plan was afoot to destroy him or to sunder him from Melkor by sowing mistrust between them. This would have to be firmly dealt with, but how?

Narcawë's arrogance only proved that he had, indeed, been ordered by Melkor to spy on him. If either Maia should fail to report back, Sauron would surely be blamed for their disappearance. Therefore he was forced to tolerate this appalling situation until he could find a way of regaining control of it.

What was the worst they could say - that he had made images of beings who looked like himself? That he had made a spell to bind Artíre because he thought him responsible for the ruin of the inauguration ceremony? Those statues and other images could be interpreted as resembling any of the Maiar or Valar who usually took forms that looked similar to those of the Firstborn. As for the binding spell, who else but Artíre could have been responsible for the disruption of the inauguration of the temple?

There! He was justified... but only in the eyes of those who would accept his word.

Unfortunately, the evidence so far could be misconstrued as an effort to overthrow Melkor. Something would have to be done if he was to prove his loyalty to his Lord.

Sauron regarded the statue at the back of the temple. If he made it look more like Melkor as he wished to be seen, then a plank of the evidence against him would be gone. Focusing his will on the stone, he softened and stretched it, moulding it to the desired shape. When Sauron had finished, he stood back and admired his handiwork. The statue now looked more like Melkor had before he laid hands on the jewels. Sauron had, however, crafted an iron crown very much like the one Melkor wore now upon the statue's head. It only required three jewels to set in it, and the image would be perfect. Sauron decided to pay a visit to the king of Rhûn. Surely he had some large diamonds he could spare to perfect the image of Moko.

---

At the house of the High Priest, Sauron entered him and bade him go to the palace.

As he entered the palace, Sauron, looking through the High Priest's eyes, noticed that Men feared him more than ever. Word of the walking dead man and of demon possessions had spread, and every Man believed he was at risk. All of them recoiled from him as he walked unchallenged through the doors and into the throne room.

The king was waiting for him, and the room began to empty as the members of the Court quickly found other things to occupy their time. Only his trembling bodyguard remained.

"Greetings, O King," said the High Priest in affable tones. "I hope you are well."

"As well as can be expected," retorted the king. "Fear and panic sweeps over my land like a cloak. My people are terrified of this demon that devours men's souls and moves their bodies like a child's puppet. I agreed to the building of the temple of Moko only because I was afraid of the curses you would lay on my house if I refused. Now I see that, whether you will it or not, curses follow you like hungry dogs after a butcher. I remember the fate suffered by those plotters who sought to have you assassinated, how they swelled up horribly and died in agony, but that may well have been a coincidence. There are many diseases that can cause such misery and pain. You promised us blessings, Lokan. Where are they? Only curses have we suffered, and terror and fear. I am weary of it!"

"Have I not brought prosperity to this land?" asked the High Priest, annoyed that the King addressed him with such familiarity. To be named thus was to give him the rank of an ordinary Man. He very much preferred to be called "High Priest."

"The seasons came and went, with plenty and famine in their turn before you arrived, bringing the foreign god Moko and his horror in your wake. Now we must not only do as you wish to avoid famine and disease, but also give up the best of our children and young people, since Moko desires to feast on their flesh! Thus we are diminished, with nothing to show for it. Where now are the power and glory you promised me? I have grown old before my time, and when my people come to me, it is to complain about their suffering," the king replied, despair drowning his fear.

"You claim to fear Moko, yet you speak to me thus," replied the High Priest. Sauron was angry. What more did this ingrate want? Did he not have the finest temple in all the land, with visitors from all over the country coming just to see it from the outside and to marvel over it? Did they not spend what they had in the inns and taverns as they lingered in the city, bringing wealth to the merchants, butchers and bakers who supplied their needs?

"My personal physician says I have the canker, and that there is no cure, Lokan. There is nothing more for me to fear, now that the lingering death of the tumours is upon me. The blood of my eldest son was required to bless the foundation stone, and my other sons were killed in battle as they fought to steal treasure from our neighbours to pay for the building of this edifice of yours. Whatever you want, I have nothing left to give you," the king replied wearily.

Sauron, inside the High Priest, paused for thought. Looking around through Lokan's eyes, he saw that the throne room was empty now, apart from the king's bodyguards, who were steeling themselves not to turn and flee. "I see you do not trust me any more," said the High Priest.

"Behold!" said the king, opening his robes. Pulling back the sleeve of his tunic, he revealed an ugly dark tumour, which was pushing its way through the skin just forward of his armpit. "I am dying already, and in terrible pain. The medicines and drugs do not avail me, they just make me insensible. Begone from this land, for the curse is with you, and the darkness has covered us all."

Sauron paused again. If the king died thus, the kingdom would fall into disarray. His youngest son had just turned twelve, and needed time to grow into the role prepared for him. There was trouble enough as it was. Order was breaking down. He was losing authority. After what he had just heard, Sauron now realized he could not blame this failure on Artíre; he himself would have to shoulder some of the blame. But could Sauron's hands, that had harmed so many, now heal? If he could remould stone, surely he could heal the king of this canker? If he did this, perhaps the people would cease to think of him nothing more than a bandit and order would be restored.

"Let me see that," the High Priest said, pointing at the tumour. "I may be able to help."

"Can the destroyer also heal?" asked the king, incredulity straining his voice to a higher pitch.

"My lord," said the High Priest, his mouth guided by Sauron, "you just told me you have nothing left to lose. Let me look."

Standing up with all the dignity he could muster, the King made his way down the steps from his throne to the High Priest. "If you can help me, then do so," he said, defeated.

Gazing at the king's wasted body, Sauron saw through Lokan's eyes that he was gaunt and haggard as the ravages of the disease ate away at him. Concentrating on the Man who stood before him, Sauron gazed through bone and muscle and sinew. He beheld the tumours that had spread throughout his body, colonizing his innards and distorting them so that they could no longer work properly. He saw that this was of natural origin, but there was no way he could expect the king to accept this truth. The fact was, the king held him responsible for the disease that was destroying his body in the same way as Sauron's policies were destroying his country. If his attempts at healing the king should fail, there was every possibility that Rhûn itself would fall. The people would panic and riot as frightened Men were prone to do. He had seen this wild terror in the temple of Moko on the day of the disrupted inauguration. If he permitted that to happen again, the order he had sought to build would descend into chaos as the country fragmented. This could not be allowed to happen. What could he do?

Staring intently at the king, he began to chant a spell that caused the tumours to recede, swallowed by the organs they clung to. He sought every cell of the canker and drove them all into the king's bloodstream, to be swept into his intestines and bound to his dung for removal later on. The chanting continued until the last of it was gone, and a healthier Man stood before him. "Go and get something to eat," he told him. "You will find you can keep it down, now."

"Thank you, High Priest," replied the king, "I feel better already. Go in peace with my blessing, for you have blessed me. Is there anything you want from me?"

"Yes, O King," the High Priest told him, flushed with success. "I wish for three of your biggest white diamonds for the crown of the statue of Moko. Alterations have been made to it."

"Take whatever you need from my treasury, High Priest," replied the king, and immediately he ordered his men to bring the High Priest to the treasury, and to carry back to the temple anything he chose.

The men, awed, obeyed at once, and word spread throughout the palace that the king had been healed by the High Priest of Moko.

---

On his way through the wastelands to Angband, Artíre decided to be careful not to say anything overly negative about Sauron, but rather to let Melkor come to his own conclusions based on what the Watcher would tell him. He considered that it might also be useful to go to Angband and find out more about Sauron's doings there, so that he could form an idea of what it was that Melkor usually thought of him.

The Watcher insinuated himself among the Orcs and moved among them, gathering what information he could about the state of their master's affairs.

---

Six months later, on the occasion of the second inauguration of the Temple of Moko, the event went smoothly and entirely according to plan. Even Narcawë was impressed at the sheer majesty of the ceremony, and the king looked hale and hearty as he observed the proceedings from his throne. The statue and other images of Moko were beautiful, and Narcawë had to concede that they did indeed look more like Melkor now, as he had appeared before he had been taken to Valinor in chains.

Only Artíre was absent, but Sauron was not surprised. He was probably skulking somewhere, afraid. Fear had as many advantages as disadvantages, Sauron mused. Since everything was now under control in Rhûn, it occurred to him to find out for himself where Artíre was, and what he might be doing to undermine him. One thing was certain: Narcawë had no idea where the Watcher was. Sauron had his suspicions. He also now knew Narcawë's mind.

Since the other Maia craved lordship, Sauron asked him to oversee the work being done in Rhûn, and to keep order for him until he returned, as he intended to go back to Angband to report to his master himself. Unable to resist the opportunity to exercise power over others, Narcawë agreed at once. Sauron was now free to leave, and he did so at once. With a final backward glance at the temple, which was full of dignitaries and other people of note, he left Rhûn and made his way to Angband. Surely Artíre was there, pouring poison in his ears about him to Melkor. This would have to be dealt with properly.

Chapter 9

Read Chapter 9

Twelve warriors, disguised as Orcs, walked along the river Narog near the Shadowy Mountains. They had come upon an Orc company and slain them, stealing their gear and clothing themselves in their apparel so they could pass unhindered through enemy lands. They made their way deep into the highlands towards Angband, approaching the western pass with all the speed they could muster.

"Finrod," said Beren, the only Man among them, "these disguises are good enough for now, but what will we do if we are asked for a password or some other proof of our allegiance?"

"I do not know. I do know there are watchtowers here like the ones we have at Nargothrond, and the enemy is as cunning as we are at hiding them. Therefore I know not where to go to report, even if I wanted to. I believe that he is aware of our presence here, for a shadow and a threat has been growing in my mind for some time now," Finrod replied. "Something approaches, I can feel it; be on your guard!"

The twelve warriors drew their weapons and prepared for the worst, all of their senses straining to catch the slightest indication of the presence of their foes.

---

In a concealed watchtower, Ratrash the patrol leader surveyed the road. His position gave him an excellent view, permitting him to see the most of the valley without being seen himself. A group of Orcs were approaching, moving warily up the road as if afraid they were being followed. That seemed unusual. Surely these Orcs were on their home ground - why the need for caution?

"Hey, Kantrap, c'mere!" he grunted at another Orc, who was squatting on the floor mending a strap buckle.

Kantrap got up and stood before him. "What d'you want?" he asked in surly tones. "I haven't finished fixing your strap buckle yet!"

Ratrash seized Kantrap and flung him against the wall of the watchtower. "D'ya see that lot over there? Go and find out 'oo they are and what they're doing 'ere or I will have you flogged."

"All right, all right, I'm going!" Kantrap whined as he made his way down.

"And take a few of the lads along with you, in case they give you any trouble, right?" shouted Ratrash.

"Will do!" called Kantrap, and he went on his way muttering and cursing as he gathered some others to apprehend the strangers.

Ratrash stood there for a moment more, then went to report to Sauron what he had seen. Orcs or not, strangers usually meant trouble.

---

Sauron had established a place of his own at Angband, a suite of rooms where he could carry out his designs in secret, away from prying eyes. Most of his plans concerned necromancy and spell-casting, which he practiced on captured enemies. Having immersed himself in the study of these things for so long, Sauron had discovered ways of increasing his power and influence, so that he was almost as powerful as a Vala.

This power was something he wished to conceal from Melkor, whom the Elves called Morgoth, for his master now regarded him with suspicious eyes. He was asked to devote himself to the task of producing more Werewolves, for they were greatly feared by both Elves and Men. There was something about werewolves that they found more frightening than Orcs. Perhaps, he mused, it was because Orcs were so foully twisted the Elves felt some sympathy for them. Werewolves, on the other hand, had a kind of dark beauty, a sort of purity that made the Children admire them. No-one could admire an Orc. They were ungainly diseased things full of hate and envy, who killed because they hoped to be killed themselves. Werewolves, now - they killed for the thrill of it, their savagery born of the love of the hunt and the joy of capturing prey.

Sauron loved his Werewolves and was very proud of them. He often wondered if Melkor was proud of his Orcs. No. How could he be? Melkor had great power, but he could not make things, he could only corrupt and destroy them. His frequent rages meant he could not focus on any task for very long, and it usually fell to Sauron to continue what he had started. Perhaps this was why Melkor was so ready to accept the things Artíre whispered about him: when Sauron altered something, it was not to ruin, but to perfect it.

Ratrash entered Sauron's rooms warily, for the Deceiver had been known to slay those Orcs who disturbed him. Ratrash had been born in Angband, and he knew his place. Those who failed to learn where they fitted into the scheme of things did not last long, and Ratrash intended to live for as long as he could.

Sauron was sitting at a desk writing in a book of spells, most of which he had made himself. He looked up as Ratrash shuffled in. "Yes?" he asked him.

Ratrash looked up at his lord, who had assumed an Elf-like form in order to write in the book. He looked at him and hated him, reminded in a way that he would never be able to explain that he had lost something and could never regain it. Steeling himself to be respectful when he would rather attack the being who sat before him, Ratrash reported, "Strangers have been seen in the highlands - a group of maybe a dozen of 'em. They look like Orcs, but have not reported in. I've sent Kantrap with a few of the lads to take a look at 'em, sir. I thought I'd better let you know, just in case..." he trailed off, unable to bear being in the same room as his lord.

Sauron regarded the Orc for a moment. "Bring them to me at once," he said, and dismissed him.

Ratrash shuffled back out of the room as fast as his feet could carry him.

---

On the highland path, the twelve warriors continued their cautious journey to Angband. Every sense screamed that their enemies were near, but they saw nothing. Their progress slowed as they took note of every bush, every tree, every rock: anything that might conceal a foe. Thickets of thorns hedged each side of the rough path, and as they drew nearer to Morgoth's stronghold, the growing sense of unease that pervaded the atmosphere began to stifle them. There was a constant feeling of being watched that gnawed at their nerves. They found themselves wishing that an enemy would spring out from behind a rock or a bush just to give them something to fight. The tension was unbearable.

Just ahead of the group was a pile of rocks surrounded by a deadfall. The land was almost completely barren - poisonous fungi and twisted thorny scrub was all that would grow there. The only way forward was to skirt that obstacle, for on the other side was a sheer drop. It was the perfect place for an enemy to hide.

Finrod held up his hand and the company came to a halt. "We have traveled long in the enemy's land," he said, "and though I like to think our disguises have availed us thus far, the truth is more likely that the enemy is playing with us as a cat with a mouse before she devours him, for it is usual for patrols to report to their officers when returning from their tours, and the one we are impersonating has not. Therefore their leaders would be suspicious first that the patrol they sent out is now fewer in number and then that they have not reported back. The answer to the question of whether I am right about this or not is behind that rock. If we all go at once, we are more likely to be killed than if one of us goes first with the others to support him if necessary."

Edrahil stepped forward. "O King," he said reverently, "give me this honour, for it is one thing to say I would lay down my life for you and another to do so."

Moved by this display of valiant loyalty, Finrod nodded his assent.

Edrahil walked a few paces, then charged up the deadfall to the top of the rocks and dropped down behind it. Everyone held their breath.

"Come!" he called. "There is nothing here."

The others walked around the obstacle and caught up with Edrahil, whose knuckles were white around his spear.

"Where are they?" Finrod wondered aloud.

The group took a few steps forward into a scrubby pathway leading downwards and were immediately confronted with a forest of spears as Orcs stood up from where they had been crouching all around them. Looking up, they could see more Orcs rise from their hiding places point weapons at them, and as they gazed around, it seemed that ever more Orcs were springing up.

"Lord Sauron wants to speak to you," Ratrash rasped. "He wants you alive, so don't give me no trouble."

Looking at each other, the members of the group realized that resistance was pointless now, but there might be an opportunity to escape later on. They dropped their weapons and surrendered.

---

Artíre watched from a vantage point near the rock pile as the Man and the Elves dropped their weapons. Some years had passed since his return from Rhûn, and while he was nominally welcome in Angband after bringing back a favourable report about Sauron to Melkor, he was still regarded with suspicion in some quarters. Sauron had managed to convince Melkor that the best use of Artíre's talents was to send him out among the Orcs to see that they were obedient to their lord and that they were not idle in the defense of his realm.

Before Melkor, Artíre and Sauron were civil and spoke well of each other. Behind his back, they plotted each other's downfall. Sauron's memory was as long as his list of Artíre's crimes, both real and imagined. An earthquake that had damaged a workshop of Sauron's was attributed to the Watcher, even though, as a spirit of air, he was unable to do such a thing. Old offenses from the Elder Days before the Sun and Moon had been created were regularly reviewed in case more charges could be laid against Artíre. Sauron's aide Rautanor, hoping to raise his standing with his lord, eagerly fed his master's hatred of Artíre with rumours and whispers from those Maiar who were loyal to Sauron, along with a few he had simply invented based on some personal prejudices. Artíre's former effort to remain neutral in the conflict between Melkor and the Valar was costing him dearly.

The Watcher regarded the group being taken to his enemy for questioning, and considered his options. He was currently tolerated here in Melkor's realm but he was not in a good position. Suspicion dogged his every step as others sought to exploit his situation for their own advantage. If they could bring Sauron proof of treachery by Artíre, he would surely reward them. The Watcher was being watched. He could not simply remove himself to another location, for he had sworn allegiance to Melkor and was under his orders. If he should leave without his lord's permission he would surely be hunted down, captured and imprisoned. 'Sauron might be forging a chain like Angainor even now just for me,' the Watcher thought ruefully.

His only hope of freeing himself from Sauron's tyranny was to find some fault that could be brought before Melkor as proof of Sauron's treachery. If he could get hold of some damning evidence against the Deceiver, he would finally be free; for Sauron now had Melkor's ear, and the Watcher had been relegated to spying on the Orcs to ensure that they were carrying out their duties properly.

The Man glanced in Artíre's direction. Was he aware of him? No, that was impossible.

Artíre made a decision. He would find out why the prisoners had come here and would aid them if he could, then pin the blame on Sauron for their escape. Following Ratrash and his captives, the Watcher smiled. Sauron would soon learn how it felt to be hunted and watched, afraid of a single misstep

Chapter 10

Read Chapter 10

The prisoners were marched swiftly to Sauron's audience chamber at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, where the Deceiver was waiting for them. The room itself was high-ceilinged and grand, hewed from stone. High vaulted arches framed every doorway, and tall, slender pillars twisted up to support the ceiling of the vast chamber. Everything about the room was designed to make those who entered it feel small and helpless.

Sauron's throne was a large affair, nestled atop a flight of steps flanked on either side by large skulls, though it was not nearly as magnificent as Melkor's. Sauron sat, a threatening, brooding presence as the captives were led in.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" the Deceiver asked them. "Speak!"

The prisoners said nothing.

Sauron regarded them curiously. They looked and dressed like Orcs - whom did they serve, if not himself and Melkor? Had Artíre set himself up as their lord? Were they skulking about under his orders? "Who is your commanding officer?" he asked, hoping to get to the bottom of this.

A thick silence pervaded the room as the prisoners and the Deceiver regarded each other suspiciously.

"If you will not speak of your own accord, a way will have to be found to loosen your tongues!" Sauron declared. He began at once to chant a song of power in the hope of unmasking these creatures, for though they looked like Orcs, they did not act like them at all.

The fellow who appeared to be their leader swayed for a moment, then surprised them all by chanting a song of his own.

Back and forth the Song swayed as each of the combatants fought for the mastery. Sauron realized early in the conflict that his rival was one of the Elf-lords connected with those Noldorin who had crossed the Grinding Ice to contend with Melkor for the Silmarils. The idea! Elves against a Vala? And now this upstart wanted to duel with him, here, in his own home? How ridiculous! But as an ant may bite a Man and cause a stinging pain, the Elf-lord's Song caused Sauron to doubt himself at times, for the upstart was powerful.

He sang of the Elves and their bliss in Valinor, calling on the Valar to aid him in his quest for justice in the names of those whose blood had already been spilled in the conflict. He sang of hardship on land and at sea, and of the perils the Elves had already faced in their efforts to establish a foothold in Arda and to bring their war against impossible odds to a conclusion. He sang of valour in the face of hopelessness and desperation, and of the sorrow of those left behind as they hoped for the return of their loved ones.

Sauron sang of the power of darkness, of dread and despair. He threatened cruel destruction of every home and of all of the people of Beleriand. His Song encompassed all the misery of Angband; all the Orcs and monsters whose lives were meaningless and utterly expendable. With one final bar of music, he shattered his foe, who fell before him, defeated. "Strip them," he ordered his Orcs, and the group stood before him naked and afraid. "Now tell me your names, Elves, and your purpose here."

The prisoners made no answer.

"Tie them up and cast them into the pit until their tongues are loosened!" Sauron roared.

Ratrash stepped forward with his troops and dragged the prisoners away.

---

In the pit, the twelve companions struggled against their bonds gagging at the musty stench of rotting flesh that pervaded the air. A vague light filtered down from above - torchlight flickering dimly from a bracket high above them. It took some time before their eyes adjusted to the deep gloom, but being able to see brought them no comfort. The pit itself was dank and bare - they discovered no shards of bone or chips of stone they could use to cut their bonds as they groped around with their feet as best they could, their minds full of plans of escape - Sauron had evidently considered that possibility.

"Close your eyes, then open them slowly," Finrod ordered. "Your eyes will adjust and if you turn your head sideways, you will be able to see ahead of you. You will not be able to see what is in front of you by looking directly forward. This also works for Men, I am told."

"Indeed it does," answered Beren. "I perceive that this pit leads into a larger cavern. If we wriggle around, we might be able to get hold of some sharp stone or bone to cut our bonds with."

"If only they had not tied us to these posts!" Edrahil complained. "Can anyone get out of the standing position they are tied in?"

"No!" the others chorused.

All of them continued to drag their feet around the ground in the hope of picking up something with their toes that they could use to cut themselves free. Moving up and down in an attempt to saw the ropes against the smooth posts also failed, and the metal rings the ropes were threaded through were smooth all over. Far above them, there was a hole in the ceiling through which the torchlight shone; they had been brought to this place along a tunnel and tied to the posts. There was no escape, though they struggled and writhed against their bonds.

Hours passed, and they were aware of the comings and going of Orcs far above them. From time to time they would cry our for food or water, but they were given none.

"I suppose you could tell Lord Sauron who we are and what we are doing here," an Elf replied. "Then he would let you go, though I doubt he would be so kind to the rest of us!"

"After what he did to Gorlim, I doubt he would be kind to me at all," retorted Beren. "There would be no profit in surrendering to him, since the Deceiver cannot be trusted to uphold his end of the bargain."

"What do you think he will do to us?" an Elf asked fearfully. "What is that?!"

The others turned around, looking in the direction in which the Elf was staring. A pair of dim yellow spots approached them, moving together. They stopped.

"What is this devilry?" asked Beren, who had faced other monsters before.

The lights dipped and went out, then came back on again.

"Eyes... but what kind of creature?" asked Edrahil.

A low growl sounded in the cavern, and the captives shuddered and struggled desperately against their bonds. Whatever it was, it was going to spring upon them any moment now. A werewolf appeared, a creature that was bigger than a wolf and had a body that looked like a Man's. Its face was that of a wolf, and its muzzle was long and full of vicious-looking teeth. It walked on four legs, but the front paws had long fingers with terrible claws that could grip like a Man's hand. A frightening intelligence shone in its yellow eyes. It was obviously hungry.

Confident that the prisoners could not fight back, it walked around the posts sniffing at them. At one point it stood up on its hind legs and ran its Man-like hands along the flanks of one of the prisoners, causing him to shudder violently. Sweat stippled the foreheads of each of the captives and they all gasped as they tried to calm themselves, believing that the wolf would take the one who showed the most fear.

Without warning, the wolf snapped at the throat of the prisoner he was handling, and ripped out the flesh. Blood gushed out all over him and the wolf lapped it up, tearing and gnawing at the Elf as he devoured him. The others screamed in terrified horror at the dreadful sight, but the wolf continued to eat the Elf until he had torn him from his bonds so he could drag his body away and finish his meal in peace.

With terrified wails, the Elves prayed to Elbereth and all of the Valar to come and rescue them at once, but their prayers went unanswered. There would be no escape from this foul pit, or from Sauron's clutches.

---

Artíre learned from the Orcs' conversations that the Man and his Elven companions had been cast into the Pit of Werewolves, so he went there to see how they fared.

The deep dark gloom of the pit did not affect the Watcher's ability to see what was happening, since Artíre did not experience sight the way embodied beings did. Whether in darkness or in light, he was aware of their doings. As he made his way along the tunnel to the cavern where the prisoners languished in miserable terror, he heard the crunch of breaking bones and the sound of flesh being torn. A werewolf was feasting on one of the prisoners within earshot of the others. The Watcher knew they were aware of this because they flinched with each bite of the limp body of the victim, writhing against the posts they were tied to and sobbing their distress into the night. The werewolf continued to devour their companion with deliberate slowness, knowing how each bite he took tore at their hearts.

As the werewolf gnawed on the body, Artíre regarded the captives. He had no idea why they were there, but if he could learn their purpose, he might be able to use it to his advantage. Since their situation was not his problem, he cared little for them. He remembered that an Elf-lord had once held lands here - was their mission to spy on this place in an attempt to win it back? The Watcher decided to observe them until they revealed their reasons for being here. Once he discovered that, he would decide what to do. The Elves and their friend might simply want to regain their land, but unless this could lead to a way to bring about Sauron's downfall, Artíre had no use for them. He did, however, derive a perverse pleasure from watching them suffer.

---

"Beren, do you remember the tower we beheld in the distance as we approached this place?" asked Finrod.

"Yes," Beren replied.

"I built that," Finrod declared.

"What, with your own hands?" asked Beren, intrigued. The horrible sounds of their companion being eaten had ceased, and the remaining prisoners needed a distraction from the horror of this place.

"I helped with drawing up the plans for the tower, and helped with laying some of the stones myself," Finrod told him.

"Was this dungeon a part of the plan?" asked Beren, hoping Finrod would remember some route that would lead them out. If only they could break free!

"No," said Finrod, guessing Beren's intent. "This is probably a part of the sewer. It may have been dug by the enemy, or perhaps it was already here and Sauron simply took advantage of it."

Though they were in the pit for many days, they were given no food or water. A spell of Sauron's devising kept them alive while hunger and thirst added to their woes. Sleep was fitful if it came at all; they were all fearful and upset, overwhelmed by the horror of this place and restrained in an uncomfortable positions.

The prisoners were aware of Orcs coming and going at long intervals high above them. They seemed to be patrolling the corridor that led to this pit. It was after the third patrol that the werewolf came again, or perhaps it was another. Two yellow points of dim light kindled in the darkness and approached the group with evil intent. Again, they had to endure the torment of watching a companion being eaten right beside them while they were powerless to do anything to help.

The attacks came at random. There was no knowing when the next one would come, or who would be taken. They stood straining against their bonds in the gloom, straining their eyes and ears to hear the slightest sound or to see those awful pinpricks of light that indicated the onset of a werewolf attack. When this did not happen after three more patrols, they found themselves wishing that a monster would come after all, because the tension had built to an unbearable pitch. Sometimes they heard the sounds of footfalls in the distance, or faintly perceived a darker shadow moving just beyond their range of vision, and at those times they would tense in anticipation of another attack. When nothing happened, they would feel some disappointment, almost as if they had been invited to a feast but turned away at the door. Their enemy was toying with them in the cruelest manner possible.

Horrible cramps caused by the tension of their terror seized their stomachs, twisting and churning their guts. Always on edge, the companions shivered not just because of the cold, but because of the creeping fear that would not leave them. Clammy with cold sweat, they twisted and turned in an attempt to warm themselves by exercise as much as to escape, but to no avail. Despair gnawed their spirits like the teeth of a werewolf and their prayers faltered at last.

Edrahil was taken in the fourth attack, and as their numbers dwindled, Artíre whispered to the Elves that striking a bargain with Sauron might put an end to their fearful misery.

"He wants to know why we are here," said one of the remaining Elves, "perhaps if we tell him, he will at least take us out of this pit and put us somewhere else. I cannot bear this waiting while we are picked off one by one! Let us tell him and beg for mercy!"

"Know you not the bargain he struck with Gorlim?" Beren sneered. "Cease this foolish talk!"

"I know nothing of Gorlim," answered the Elf, "but I am desperate to get out of this terrible place!"

"Gorlim was a companion of my father's, and was faithful to him through all of the hardships they suffered," said Beren. "He loved his wife, Eilinel, and when he was told that Sauron would reunite them if he betrayed my father and his companions, he agreed to do so. Gorlim told him where they were to be found, and he was indeed reunited with his lady, for Sauron the Deceiver slew him! I found the bodies of my father and his companions dead and scattered like carrion for the crows to feast upon. This is the bargain Sauron strikes - to offer you hope and give you despair! Remember Gorlim!"

"Ai!" said Finrod. "That is a terrible tale, and I weep for your loss, Beren. Curse Gorlim for revealing the whereabouts of your father and his friends!"

"No," replied Beren, "curse him not, for 'twas for love that he revealed the secret, else he would have died to keep it. I forgive him, though he caused me such pain, for lo! My love for Lúthien the Fair of Doriath has led us to this fearful place. Remember Gorlim as proof that Sauron cannot be trusted to bargain fairly."

"Forgive me, Beren, I was angry," said Finrod.

"There is nothing to forgive, friend," replied Beren, "though I crave pardon from you for bringing you to this terrible place."

"It is the only thing I have to give you," Finrod told him, with a grim smile, "and you have it."

---

The werewolf attacks continued until only Beren and Finrod remained. Artíre continued to whisper to them, knowing that Sauron wanted to save Finrod till last because he seemed to be a powerful Noldo of great wisdom who knew the most about the mission of the twelve companions. If the Watcher could discover this first, he might be able to use the knowledge to his own advantage.

As he observed the fortitude of the survivors, Artíre's frustration chafed at him. He was angry with Sauron, whose duplicity had robbed them both of the chance to discover the mission of the captives. They would not speak of it because they could not trust him to keep his word. The Man Beren had given him an idea, though. If either he or the Elf could be aided to escape, the Watcher would be able to find out what their intentions were by following them. The Elf was able to discern him but dimly, while the Man had no inkling he was there. It would have to be the Man who survived the next attack, then, and he would unwittingly lead Artíre to a means to the downfall of Sauron.

His decision made, the Watcher lay in wait for the werewolf to come, determined to aid the prisoners when it attacked them.

---

"Finrod," gasped Beren, his throat dry from having had no water for several days, "is there nothing we can do to escape? Is there no-one to pray to for help? Must we die in this accursed place?"

"Beren, I am sorry that I ever came to this awful land and led my people to their doom," replied Finrod, "yet my heart forebodes that there is a doom upon us that we must fulfill. I feel the weight of it upon me - the hour of its completion is at hand. A new strength courses through my veins, power gathering in me like a wolfhound ready to spring upon its foe. When the werewolf comes again, it will come for you, and I will be ready."

"Why were you not ready before, when the need of our companions was great?" asked Beren, outraged by this statement.

"I do not understand the workings of the wheels of fate, I only know they turn in strange ways sometimes," Finrod responded calmly. "We were meant to be here, to suffer thus, and perhaps to overcome in a way that no-one will ever be able to fathom. You will think the words I speak now are nonsense until you feel the weight of doom fall upon you."

"I am tied to a post waiting to be devoured by a werewolf!" Beren retorted. "Surely this is doom!"

"I am sorry that I cannot make this clear to you, Beren, but I need you to remember it when the time comes," Finrod pleaded.

Beren sighed, then flinched. "The wolf is here. It has come for me!"

Finrod went quiet, and seemed to collapse.

Artíre went behind Finrod, and by the force of his will, he aided the Elf to break his bonds. Focusing on Finrod, he gave him the strength he needed to wrestle with the werewolf, and he bit its throat as it had bitten his friends. The werewolf fought back savagely, snapping and biting at every part of Finrod he could reach. Artíre, realizing that the Man would be easier to manipulate, freed him as the Elf battled the werewolf. As Beren threw off the rope, a heavy thump told him the fight with the werewolf had ceased.

"Beren!" called Finrod.

Dimly perceiving the Elf-lord in the distance, Beren went at once to his side and pulled him out from beneath the body of the slain werewolf. The Man knelt and held the mortally wounded Elf-lord close to his heart.

"I go now to my long rest in the timeless halls beyond the seas and the Mountains of Aman," Finrod gasped as he drew his last breath. "It will be long ere I am seen among the Noldor again; and it may be that we shall not meet a second time in death or life, for the fates of our kindreds are apart. Farewell!" He shuddered as his spirit left him, and his body went still.

"NO!" Beren cried as the Elf-lord shuddered with his last breath. The Man hugged the body of his friend and rocked back and forth, weeping like a frightened child.

Chapter 11

Read Chapter 11

Artíre stood a short distance away, confused by Beren's behaviour. What was the point of that foolish howling and rocking? If the Man would only listen to him, he would be brought to safety. If nothing else, Sauron would be made to look foolish because one of his werewolves was dead and the weakest of the prisoners was now free. Why would the man not come? Did he want to remain down there, to be devoured by another werewolf?

A strange sound rent the air. What was that? It sounded like Elvensong, a Song of Power. Had another Elf-lord come? The Watcher went to investigate just as the roof of the cavern collapsed.

---

Lúthien stood on the bridge that led to Sauron's isle, Huan of Valinor, the wolfhound of the Valar, at her side. As she finished her song, she heard Beren sing one in response, a song of challenge he had made in praise of the Seven Stars, the Sickle of the Valar that Elbereth had hung above the North as a sign for the Fall of Morgoth.

When she heard his voice, she sang a song of greater power, and the isle itself trembled. Ceasing her song, she listened intently for the sound of Beren's voice to call forth again, but she heard nothing. Standing there with Huan, she waited for some sign of her lover, but the only sign of life was a wolf approaching her with a menacing growl.

Huan seized it by the throat and flung it over the bridge. Another soon arrived and was dispatched the same way. Wolf after wolf approached, and all were thrown into the gully by the mighty wolfhound.

---

Artíre the Watcher heard Lúthien's song and trembled. He had no idea who she was, but since the roof had just collapsed, it was clear to him that she was here to challenge Sauron, perhaps to destroy him. He crept up to the bridge to see what was happening, and saw a werewolf tumble down. Huan of Valinor was there. Artíre trembled. Had Oromë the Hunter, Huan's master, come to Tol-in-Gaurhoth to contend with Sauron? Torn between the desire to see what was happening and fear of the wrath of the Valar, Artíre stayed where he was for the moment, making himself as small as he could, straining to hear any indication that he was being hunted, or that more of the Valar were on their way.

---

Sauron stood at the front window of his tower regarding the scene at the bridge. He had heard of the daughter of Melian. The idea of an Elf siring a child on a Maia was outrageous to him. That Melian would so degrade herself that she would unite with a lesser being appalled him, but when he beheld Lúthien and saw how she and Huan defeated his werewolves, he began to think of her in a different light. The idea of handing her over to Melkor occurred to him - surely his reward would be great!

As the werewolves were defeated one by one, Sauron became more and more enraged. How dare this woman challenge him? He sent Draugluin, the lord of the werewolves, to attack her and to bring her to him dead or alive.

---

Lúthien stood on the bridge, near the middle. Looking around, she could see the devastation she had wrought with her song. Captives who had been kept in the dark had begun to emerge, fleeing into the night. The Elf-maid remained where she was, for Beren was not among them. She could not bear the thought that any harm had come to him, but her heart told her he still lived.

Another werewolf came towards her, older and more savage than the others before it. Huan crouched ready to spring. The werewolf approached the hound cautiously, as if weighing the likelihood of surviving the encounter. Lúthien stood firm, unafraid of this monster. Huan would dispatch it as before.

The werewolf came to a halt, glaring at them with evil eyes. He looked from the maiden to the hound, apparently waiting for something to happen. They merely looked back at him, waiting for him to move. He growled low and fiercely, hoping to terrify them, but they stood resolutely in their places. Leaning back, he let them see his long yellow fangs, which he snapped together threateningly.

Huan launched himself at the werewolf, snapping as he went for its throat. Lúthien watched anxiously as the two of them rolled around the bridge, growling and snapping, biting each other when they could. The battle raged for more than an hour, with neither combatant gaining the advantage. Finally Huan managed to pin Draugluin down and tear a lump out of his shoulder. Bleeding badly, the werewolf fled.

 Lúthien remained where she was. She knew there was one more foe to face, and she wanted to choose where the confrontation would occur. Surely Sauron would not flee? Would she not make a worthy gift to present to his master? The lady waited for the Deceiver to show himself.

---

Draugluin dragged his bleeding body into Sauron's audience chamber and collapsed in front of his master. "Huan is here!" he gasped. Shuddering, he died where he lay, his blood spreading in a pool on the floor.

Furious at the defeat of his werewolves, Sauron cast a spell that transformed Draugluin's body into a host for him. He added strength and power to the beast's form, making it larger and stronger than Draugluin had been and went to face the maiden and her dog. He would make them pay for every loss, then he would hand them both over to Melkor for his pleasure. The reward for this would be great, and afterwards, he might be able to study this strange creature who was half Elf, half Maia.

He rushed out towards them and sprang upon Lúthien. Huan leaped aside. The maiden fainted.

As Lúthien fell, a fold of her enchanted cloak fell across Sauron's eyes and he stumbled for a fleeting moment. Huan seized the opportunity to attack him, and they howled and bayed as they snapped and rolled in their violent battle. The Elf-maid quickly recovered and as she stood up again, she beheld the fight between Huan and Wolf-Sauron. It seemed for a while that Sauron might win, but Huan refused to be defeated and eventually seized Sauron by the throat and pinned him down. The Deceiver shifted shape from wolf to serpent, but Huan would not release him. Sauron tried every spell he could think of and switched to every shape he had ever worn, but Huan retained his grip on him.

"Release me, Elf-witch!" Sauron ordered Lúthien. "Else I will call my army of Orcs to destroy you!"

"What army?" the Elf-maid replied, laughing at Sauron's arrogance. He was not in a position to threaten anyone.

"The Watchers on the walls of Ered Wethrin," Sauron retorted. "I will call them and order them to slay you both! Release me at once and I will let you escape!"

Lúthien laughed again. Perceiving Sauron's fear of death, she declared, "Let his ghost be sent quaking back to Morgoth, Huan! There everlastingly your naked self shall endure the torment of his scorn, Sauron, pierced by his eyes, unless you yield to me the mastery of your tower."

The Deceiver hesitated for a moment, apparently weighing his options. Clearly, he knew that the shame of this day would follow him into eternity, but he had no choice. If he was to be killed by Huan, he would be diminished. Sauron's confusion was written all over his face. "So... you have bound me to this form, Witch!" he snarled. "Very well, enjoy your moment of victory - I give you the tower. Take it for all the good it will do you - for you shall not hold it for long!"

Huan released Sauron, who immediately took the form of a vampire, great as a dark cloud across the moon, and he fled, still dripping blood from the wound in his throat that Huan had dealt him.

Taking a moment to savour her victory, Lúthien declared her power and called on the stones that held the building together to collapse. All the pits were laid bare and the gates thrown open. Prisoners long kept in captivity were released and came groping into the moonlight, but Beren did not come forth.

"Beren! Beren! Where are you?" Lúthien called, but there was no answer.

Chapter 12

I added the story of Beren and Lúthien to this story to anchor it to canon and to explain the amazing things that happened.

Read Chapter 12

Huan raced baying towards the brothers and pursued them for miles. Artíre followed him and told him of a herb the Elves used to treat bleeding wounds. Finding the herb, Artíre bade Huan to carry back to Lúthien in his mouth. With the herb Lúthien staunched the bleeding, and using her power, she healed her lover. When Beren recovered, they made their way back to Doriath.

From time to time Artíre, mindful that Lúthien might well be aware of his presence, whispered to Beren when he could do so without Lúthien's knowledge. He reminded him that though he could enjoy the company of the Elf-maid, he could not take her as his wife unless his oath to bring the Silmaril to her father was fulfilled. Fearing to lead her into danger, Beren crept away just before dawn, prompted by the Watcher. Committing Lúthien to the care of Huan, he mounted the horse of Curufin and rode away while she slept.

Artíre was frustrated by this thing the Man and the Elf-maid called love. He could understand the need to have someone to protect and to aid, but to leave a powerful companion for fear that she might come to harm was ridiculous to the Watcher, and not what he had intended at all. Calling to Huan, he bade the hound to rouse the maid and carry her on his back to Anfauglith, where Beren was singing a Song of Parting in her honour, unafraid that evil ears might hear him.

When he heard his song, Artíre led Huan and Lúthien to him, and hid as Huan spoke to them of the doom they were to face. The hound parted from them, taking the same path as the horse which Beren had freed; and Lúthien used her powers to disguise herself as the vampire Thuringwethil and Beren as Draugluin the werewolf.

---

Artíre, meanwhile, put the next part of his plan into action: the part that would absolve him of any blame in this affair. He wanted no part in the actual theft of the Silmaril, and he wanted to be certain that Sauron would be blamed for what would surely happen. With that in mind, he went to Melkor at once to warn him that Huan had returned to make war on him.

In his throne room, Melkor heard Artíre's report and was afraid. "Are they far from here, Artíre?" he asked.

"No, my lord. Should I tell Sauron that the Elf-maid who defeated him may have come with Huan?" the Watcher asked. "He will need to prepare for battle."

"Go," said Melkor. "I have a weapon of mine own, long prepared against the might of Huan. Carcharoth the Red Maw will not easily be defeated, for I have raised him myself, and put mine own power into him. Here he lies before my feet, huge and hungry. I will send him to wait for Huan before the doors of Angband, and there the doom of the hound of Valinor will fall upon him."

Artíre fled at these words, hardly daring to look behind him as the mighty werewolf of Melkor arose from before his master's feet and went outside to stand in front of the gates.

---

In his chamber at Taur-nu-Fuin, Sauron was informed by his servants that Artíre had come with urgent news. He admitted him, eager to hear what he had to say. His hatred of the Watcher had not lessened in the months that had passed since the Man and the Elf-maid had defeated him and left him weakened and ashamed in this fortress, and he held him responsible for all of his woes, both real and imagined.

"So, Artíre, you have come here to gloat at my distress, have you? Speak! For I would hear your excuses and lies. Word has come from Rhûn that Narcawë has turned against me and has taken the temple of Moko as his own, declaring himself lord of Rhûn. Surely this is your doing!" Sauron declared.

"I had nothing to do with that, nor was I aware of it," Artíre replied. "I have come to warn you that Huan of Valinor has returned to make war on us, and to bid you prepare yourself. Our lord Melkor has sent Carcharoth the Red Maw forth to defend his gates and has sent me to tell you to be ready when Huan returns."

"Where were you when the Man and his Elven spies came here to attack me?" Sauron countered belligerently. "I believe you had a hand in it somewhere! Surely you hate me and wish to destroy me? When Narcawë is questioned he will tell me all, and your schemes and lies will be exposed, for I have sent my servants to arrest him and to bring him back here."

"While it is true I bear no love for you, Sauron," Artíre reasoned, "I see no reason to continue our feud when the powers of Valinor approach us both arrayed for war. The trouble with Narcawë surely stems from your choice of an arrogant Maia to take your place in Rhûn while you laid plans to continue your plots against me here. Why do you continue with this when all you can achieve is your own ruin? Do you think I would permit you to succeed in turning Melkor against me? Do you think I will allow you to have me driven away to be unwelcome anywhere I go? Of course not! Take counsel with yourself..."

"Do not think that honeyed words will convince me that anything you say is true, Artíre!" Sauron interrupted him. "Begone, Watcher, for all you have ever achieved is the ruin of my plans to bring this Middle-earth under Melkor's control. Everything you touch turns to dust and rot because you cannot make things and you will not fight in times of war. You can only skulk and lurk, looking for news to bring to whom you will in an effort to gain favour with the winners and to entertain yourself with the chaos that results from your meddling!"

"But Melkor says..." Artíre began, only to be shouted down.

"I care not what you say Melkor says, Artíre!" Sauron roared. "I have spies of my own, and I will trust their word above your own every time. Begone from here - go and find a place to hide while those of us with the courage to do so go forth to fight our enemies!"

The Deceiver watched as Artíre went forth, clearly frustrated at his latest effort to stir up trouble. Maybe the Watcher was telling the truth after all. His news was usually reliable, but Sauron had decided that attempting to separate the nuggets of truth from the Watcher's intentions was no longer worth the effort. He was better off without him. As Artíre made his way out of the fortress, it occurred to Sauron to have a servant watch the Watcher and report on all of his doings from now on. This would surely keep Artíre from doing him more harm.

---

As he made his way outside, Artíre considered the best course of action. Should he find a place to hide from the wrath of the Valar or should he go back to Melkor and tell him what had transpired at his meeting with Sauron? He had noticed a difference in the Deceiver: he seemed weakened somehow. Had his form died while he was still bound to it? Sauron had not tried to detain him. Was the Deceiver afraid of him now? A dreadful noise caught his attention, and the Watcher went to investigate.

Fleeing Orcs and other monsters brought a terrible report: an Elf-maid of incredible power had caused Draugluin to forsake his master and had defeated Melkor in his own lair. Carcharoth had gone mad and was slaying everything in his path as he fled towards Doriath, and the Eagles of Manwë were attacking the defenders of Angband. At this moment Artíre remembered the words Sauron had spoken in anger to him.

"Everything you touch turns to dust and rot because you cannot make things and you will not fight in times of war. You can only skulk and lurk, looking for news to bring to whom you will in an effort to gain favour with the winners and to entertain yourself with the chaos that results from your meddling!"

Whether he wanted to acknowledge this truth or not, he would have to do something more than running and hiding or simply reporting this matter to Melkor, who surely knew all about it by now. Something changed in the Watcher as he realized he would have to take responsibility for the first time in his existence. Calling on the Orcs and other monsters, he gathered them together and bade them form into their companies as best they could and prepare to face the onslaught that was surely about to take place. As soon as he could ascertain the situation at Angband, he sent word to Melkor to tell him that his followers in Taur-nu-Fuin were ready to carry out his orders, then he set guard on the borders of Melkor's realm and ordered all of the Orcs back to their posts.

Sauron came out of his tower and, seeing Artíre working for the benefit of his master, was amazed.

"Let us put aside our differences, Sauron," said the Watcher. "It makes no sense to continue in this manner."

Sauron, wearing his accustomed form, regarded Artíre with a baleful expression on his face. "I will never fully trust you, Artíre," he announced, "but I see that continuing this feud can only lead to our destruction. I do not wish to fight you any more."

"Agreed," said Artíre, not believing a word the Deceiver said. The Watcher left Taur-nu-Fuin in a much stronger position than when he had first arrived. He had taken his revenge, and was thoroughly enjoying it. Sauron was weak and Melkor was aware of his lieutenant's defeat at the hands of an Elf-maid, a Man and a hound. Surely Melkor would blame Sauron for the loss of the Silmaril from his iron crown, since the Deceiver had been charged with the defence of the realm? Artíre's leadership after the attack on Angband had sharpened the contrast between the Watcher and the Deceiver. Even if Melkor did not punish Sauron, he was unlikely to regard him with the same favour as before.

Artíre gloated at the notion that he would rise in Melkor's estimation while Sauron would have to work hard to regain his former status. He would have to put aside his enmity with the Watcher in order to do so, since both of them had other enemies to contend with. Continuing their feud would surely lead to their mutual destruction if the Valar should return. The Elves had won a great victory this day. The next step would be to gather their forces and prepare to attack while Melkor was still reeling from the theft of the Silmaril, and Sauron was diminished after being attacked by Huan and his form destroyed while he was bound to it. Now was not the time for infighting.

'Vengeance is a complicated thing,' thought Artíre as he made his way to Angband, 'and it can be perilous to all concerned. I will stop trying to bring about Sauron's demise as long as he upholds the truce he has declared. I may not be even with him but he knows not to trifle with me. That will suffice.'

The End.