Lords and Lordship by WendWriter

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Chapter 6

When the Maiar surrounded Rautanor to destroy him, Artíre seized the chance offered by the distraction of their feeding frenzy to slip between the bars of the grille by the altar. As a spirit being, this was a simple matter for him. There were advantages to not having a solid form.

Stretching forth his senses, the Watcher discovered a series of grilles leading up to the main bed of the altar, on which some remnants of the last sacrifice still smouldered. He poured himself like smoke up through the grilles and hid among the embers so he could observe what was happening to Rautanor.

The Plotter's end was horrible. Artíre discerned Rautanor as a spirit of malice and deceit, and he watched as this cloud of suspicious malevolent intentions was torn asunder as wisp after wisp of his essence was wrenched from his being by the other Maiar. Artíre shuddered as he lay hidden among the embers. The heat of the smouldering ashes did not harm him. If he had not disappeared when he had, that could easily have been him in the circle of evil Maiar being ripped apart.

When they were finished, Narcawë asked, "Where is Artíre?"

The other Maiar looked around, and did not notice the Watcher hidden in the embers on top of the altar.

"Search the city. He cannot have got far!" instructed Narcawë. "No doubt he is making his way back to his master to report, as is his wont. Ingrate! I thought it would please him to see his nemesis destroyed once and for all!"

The other Maiar dispersed at once, seeking the Watcher out. Since Narcawë's attention was on them, Artíre seized his chance to cast the binding spell, fastening the Defiant One to a corpulent priest as he waddled past, oblivious to the horror that had just occurred. Repeating the spell over and over again, Artíre reinforced the spell before assuming an Elf-like form and punching the old priest, who was alone at the time. By the force of his will, Artíre blinded the priest and crushed his vocal chords so he could not speak the words of the unbinding spell. Unable to articulate himself, the priest was now dependent on the Watcher.

"Come, Narcawë," said Artíre, "it is time to leave Rhûn now. We are going to Angband, to face Morgoth."

Narcawë croaked and gasped, unable to speak.

Artíre led the priest to the robing room, his memories from his time possessing Eshtun, servant of the High Priest, guiding him. He found some cowled robes with hoods, and put one on. Finding a heap of cloaks, he put one on himself and another on Narcawë to disguise them. The Maiar who were hunting for the Watcher were unlikely to see past the flimsy disguises if they did not look too closely at them. Besides, they were looking for one Maia and not two priests. Artíre cast a spell of concealment on them both, to be on the safe side. This was not guaranteed to protect them, since the Watcher's knowledge of magic was scant, but it was as effective at concealing Artíre and Narcawë from the gaze of the Maiar searching for them as a black cloak in the shadows.

The journey to Angband was fraught with peril, since robbers lay in wait round every corner and Narcawë's followers were ever watchful. They soon realized their leader had also vanished, and rightly attributed this to the wiles of the Watcher. They also discovered that one of the priests was missing, and were searching for him. This, they believed, was the key to the mystery. They knew that when Artíre returned to Angband, he would tell Morgoth about the demise of Rautanor, and they feared the wrath of Sauron, Rautanor's master.

They laid plans to destroy Artíre, and to conceal their deeds by pretending that the Watcher was to blame for Rautanor's death. When their searches failed, they began to panic, and dispersed in terror of Morgoth's wrath.

The disguises affected by Artíre to conceal himself and Narcawë were many and varied. Sometimes they were starving peasants, at others they were heavily-armed bandits; Narcawë trudged along, unable to see or to speak, but waving a sword around as if he was as dangerous as Artíre.

Narcawë, unable to see or to express himself, and distracted by the aches and pains of the journey as he stumbled unwillingly along, had a great deal of time to reflect upon the events that had led to this outcome, and came to the conclusion that it was all Sauron's fault. 'Yes,' he told himself, 'Sauron left me in charge of Rhûn and of the temple of Moko, then decided to abandon it altogether. Someone had to take control, and I was the most suitable person to do so. Now he is jealous of me and of the followers I have gained, and that is why he sent his minions to come and seize me. The lies he has told about me! What chance will I have of telling my tale at the court of Morgoth, with my throat so cruelly squeezed so that I cannot speak?'

"Stop that!" Artíre shouted, and struck Narcawë, who recoiled in pain, hating the Watcher more than ever.

Though the Defiant One now knew the Watcher could detect his thoughts, his arrogance continued to pour selfish malice into his heart and soul, further entrenching him in his position as the victim of a conspiracy by those Maiar loyal to Sauron and Morgoth, and diverting him from the truth of his actions as a rebel and a traitor to both the Valar and to Morgoth.

Artíre transformed the Defiant One into a horse and rode upon him for a while, past the starving peasants who stood listlessly in the rain that now fell on the land, too late to water their crops, which had dried out months before. The curse was lifting from the land.

'How cruel he is - he will ruin the land and do great harm to the people, who trusted me to attend to their welfare. How will they survive without me?' Narcawë whined in thought. The humiliation of being a beast of burden for his enemy burned his soul, and he formed plan after plan to gain revenge on the Watcher, who seemed to be amused by his thoughts.

Many were the shapes Artíre imposed upon himself and on the body Narcawë inhabited as they journeyed. Most of this was for his own entertainment, if truth be told. The Watcher rarely affected a form, and was discovering the different shapes he could construct for himself and for his prisoner by the force of his will. He needed a body to control Narcawë, anyway. The Defiant One was blind and unable to speak, and was completely dependent on Artíre for everything.

The strain of the many changes to a body that was never meant to be stretched and shortened the way Narcawë's was by Artíre began to tell, and his bones creaked and groaned in protest as he trudged along, his joints swollen stiff and his skin laddered with stretch-marks. The Defiant One's skin went yellow with jaundice as the damage to his internal organs took effect. The Watcher noticed this and realized he would have to stop or his prisoner would die before he got him to Angband, and Narcawë might escape the prison of the old priest's body and wreak a similar revenge on his captor. This was a risk the Watcher was unwilling to take, so he eased the effects of his abuse of his captive by the force of his will, repairing the damage to the innards and the joints enough to allow the Defiant One to continue to travel. Artíre knew little of medicine and healing, but he did know from personal experience how a Man's body was supposed to work.

Eventually, they reached the borders of Morgoth's territory, and began the ascent the highland path by the river Narog as it flowed past the Shadow Mountains. The scrubby terrain clawed at Narcawë's feet and legs, and the feeling of being constantly watched never left the two travellers as they walked through the land.

The Defiant One felt the weight of his impending doom increase with each step he took. He slowed down as much as he could, dragging his aching feet and protesting with gasps and wheezes. He tried to reach out to Artíre in his thoughts, begging him to turn around and at least restore his sight so he could flee and be gone forever, but the Watcher was having none of it.

'Release me!' cried Narcawë in thought. 'In the cruelty of your malice, you have humiliated me in front of everyone, Man and Maia. You have made sport of me through all the lands of Men so they could laugh at me. I am the song of drunkards and the joke of mockers!'

"Your conceits will not avail you in the court of Morgoth!" replied Artíre, loud enough for all to hear.

'How dare you call me conceited, you who plot and scheme against me, and other Maiar?' the Defiant One wailed mentally. He felt defensive enough without Artíre shouting their business abroad like a street hawker selling his wares.

"Let Morgoth decide who has plotted and schemed when he pulls forth your memories like a Man pulling carrots from the ground," Artíre declared. "I will say no more. Spare me your constant complaining, or I will take a stick and beat you with it."

'You would not dare!' Narcawë asserted. He was a Maia, a lord among Maiar. The Watcher would never get away with such an act, and in front of everyone, too!

The Watcher snapped a dry branch of gorse from a dead bush and beat the Defiant One with it until he ran, stumbling, falling and rolling, to get away from the sting of the swipes Artíre gave him with it. He was quiet after that. Only his wheezing and gasping punctuated the journey as the two Maiar made their way to Angband, Narcawë limping heavily on a sprained ankle. The pain shot up his leg with every step he took, but the Watcher gave him no rest.

"We are approaching Haudh-en-Ndengin, the Hill of Slain," the Watcher announced.

Narcawë felt his heart drop into his boots, the soles of which had come loose long ago. The doors of fate were closing, and he was being locked in. Was there nothing he could say or do? Morgoth would side with his treacherous minions, no matter what he said. This was so unfair! How was he going to speak in his own defence, anyway? Artíre had seen to it that he could not speak aloud, and his thoughts were jumbled up, swirling around and around in a maelstrom of terror as they drew nearer to the fortress of Morgoth. He did not need the Watcher to tell him they were nearing the gates of Angband - the horror was growing greater and greater in his mind, crushing him with the weight of the certainty of his demise.

A harsh voice crashed into the Defiant One's reverie. "Who approaches the gates of Morgoth?"

"Artíre the Watcher, and Narcawë the Defiant," announced Artíre.

"What is the password?" asked the guard.

"Ungoliant's Web," replied the Watcher.

"Enter," the guard said, and let them in.

The dust in the air caught in Narcawë's throat and he choked and coughed as he limped in. He could feel the crushed bones and lumps of pumice from Thangorodrim underfoot. Every step was torture of the worst kind, worse than having his Man's body stretched and bent into unnatural shapes by Artíre, because he knew that when he stopped going forward, it would be because he was finally in front of Morgoth's throne.

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