Artíre's Revenge by WendWriter

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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

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