Artíre's Revenge by WendWriter

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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.

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