»Again was it Melkor, who was not pleased with the
outcome. He grouched about the works of his siblings
criticized this animal and that landscape, amused himself
about many a thing and minified their making. His craft
alone was to be the only thought through.
He was mocking so long, until his siblings lost their
patience and began to razz him. And their tongues were sharp
and tipped.
In his ardent wrath, Melkor promised that he would create
something, what no one, not even Ilúvatar could mimic.
He retreated into the darkest corner of Utumno to hide his
plans from the eyes of the others.
The burned God took a hand full of nothingness, a drop
of water from every sea, earth, air, combined the
components in the manner as Ilúvatar might have done.
But in his anger, he did not regard the amounts he mixed, took
instead of a pinch an entire hand of nothingness and formed
monsters, disgusting creatures and other god-like entities called
Ancalagon, Hemeróc, Ishozar, Glaurung and Nedror who were in
their being just as sinister and terrible, as
Melkor had become.«
- Legend about the Making of the Second Gods
Ered Luin, Thamas Lorn, Early Spring in the Late Third Age
One of the two figures, who were holding their weapon exercise on the still snow covered courtyard, threw suddenly the shield aside, grasped the sword with both hands and advanced with a roar upon the enemy, who out of fear of being hit, retreated behind the cover of his blocking weapon and did not even dare to stick out the head. A kick of his foe against the iron clad wood threw him in the end unto the snow.
»It is a terrible tactic.« Istuir, who had followed from a window out the exercise-fight of his squire, shook his head. »And she does not have the required control yet. Wild assaulting is against everything what I have tried to teach her. Discipline is still a foreign word for her.«
»What do you expect, friend?«, Curugirion defended the winner of the fray. »Everything she knows about swords she has learned from hot-blooded young mariners in Edhellond, who confine themselves to unaimed striking and stinging.«
Istuir stroked over his black hair, followed with his blue eyes how Hwethlenn helped the Nethvaed up, whom she had brought to fall. »She has made progress without question. When the spring has fully arrived, I might send her off to some more demanding duties. She will not succeed always, but gather experience.«
Without another word did the Hirgonui turn away from the window and began to continue his way through the House of the Mithdirith. His walk was determined, the chin always slightly raised and told of a soul that knew exaltation. But Curugirion was old and maybe his manner was just a coverage for the pain he was feeling at times. Not only within spiritual bounds but also bodily. The many years in the saddle and the endeavor of wearing heavy armor and going into battle were demanding even a prize by Elves in the high age.
Quietly the two Elves strode side by side through the house, until they reached the broad door to the stables.
»It does not look well in Rath Teraig, does it?«, Curugirion asked before he opened and went to his steed. »Earinlin has made a few remarks about it.«
»I guess he is right, Hirgonui«, Istuir said with a pinched expression. »But he will surely tell you now all in detail. The Dwarves await at you and him at Duillond.«
With a snort Faelon emerged from the tub and wiped the remaining soap from the blond hair, that hung down to the shoulders from his head. Relaxed he let himself float inside the enormous vessel and enjoyed the warmth that surrounded him from every side and was loosing the tense muscles. The oils that had been given into the water were effecting him moreover.
The shape of his worst opponent appeared in the door-frame of the small bathing chamber, the warmest room in the house of the Mithdirith.
Hwethlenn threw a look on Faelon, who as always was punishing her with disregard. He was just the one I needed.
The blonde, good looking and especially aspiring Elf should have been the next squire of Lord Istuir, but the sudden appearance of Hwethlenn had undone all his plans. He had been given to another Warden, who by far could not hold with the prestige of Istuir. Faelon despised Hwethlenn for that, was hostile towards her whenever he could and let out no opportunity to embarrass Hwethlenn.
Coming along to the top, did the Lord Istuir seemingly drive on the education of the girl from Edhellond with all violence. The attention that was placed on her daily exercises were unlike higher than by the other Nethvaed. On the other side did hardly anyone inquire something about the past of Hwethlenn, no one knew to say something specific about her. Of noble descendence, Faelon was certain, she could not be by her missing manners. The envy was gnawing on him and he concentrated the anger about his affront entirely on his opponent.
»Be gone, louse«, he greeted Hwethlenn unfriendly. »The tub is full.«
»I do not even want to come inside. It swims enough dirt in there, that one would have to bath again«, laughed the young Elven woman with the shining green eyes and the shrewd freckles over the bridge of her nose.
Without taking note of the cursing of the squire, she retreated with a grin into the armory, where she could, unseen by anyone, wash herself and change her clothes.
Hwethlenn put down the chain mail in a hurry and jumped out of sweaty clothes. After she had completed the daily combat exercise, the training with the crossbow would follow. The handling of the ranged weapon was easy to her, but she knew that she could do far better, if she'd be given back the crossbow that she had built by herself. But her lord Istuir disliked this sort of weaponry and took her away to drill her endurance in hour-long runs whenever he could.
With the padded hauberk now on and the chain mail worn above it, did she jog into the hall were the exercises for the heavy ranged weapon were held. On her way she had strode through the kitchen and taken three winter apples in case she would grow hungry over the rest of the day. Shortly after her did Faelon arrive.
Alfiriel, one of the more experienced wardens appeared and coordinated the lesson. From straw made, round targets were positioned in a range of fifty feet. Would Hwethlenn still have her own crossbow, she would have broken out in loud laughter at the sight of this distance. The Nethvaed were repeating the procedure of firing and loading in silence and well ordered. The warden left the hall.
It was too boring for the girl from Edhellond simply to hit the center of her target. Hence she began to form a straight line with the bolts, from the top to the lowest point. The first shot hit right into the farthest of the nine colored rings, exactly above the dot of the center. Satisfied did she reload.
Faelon laughed up. »See, how unerring she is.« He was using the winding handle to pull the tendon backwards and placed the bolt shortly after almost perfect into the target. »That is how you do it, you ne'er-do-well.«
»To fire on unmoving targets is speaking not of great skill«, Hwethlenn answered disdainfully. It is about time that I show him that I do not let him go through with everything.
Her rival smiled. »And do you have an idea from where we should take such a target?«, he inquired in a challenging tone. »Did you think of yourself, by chance?«
»Yes«, the young Elven woman nodded and loaded her weapon. »Each of us goes to one end of the hall, equipped with ten bolts. And then we walk up to one another and fire every three steps.«
Faelon's face showed his surprise about the proposal with all openness. »Have you lost your mind?«
»Does that mean you are a coward?«, Hwethlenn countered with relish, took shortly aim and fired the projectile into the very center of the straw disk. »Then we do something else, until you dare to accept my challenge.« She revealed one of the apples. »One of us will throw the fruit into the air. Who can hit it, will win and the looser will have to do the chores of the victor for one entire day long.«
In the meanwhile, all the exercises had come to rest in the hall. Everyone wanted to see how the competition between Hwethlenn and Faelon would end.
»Agreed«, said her rival. »I go first.« The first bolt whistled past the flying apple, at the second attempt it was being dealt a scratch. »I think that will be enough.«
»For you maybe«, said the young woman from Edhellond, took up the apple and threw it up. It described a curve, like she had intended and landed right in the hands of Faelon.
The crossbow aimed straight for the apple, that the confounded squire held infront of the middle of his body. »I did not say that you would need to hit it within its flight. You should have listened better.« The other squires laughed. Hwethlenn's eyes were darting into those of her rival. »If you ever dare to call me a ne'er-do-well infront of the others again, Faelon, then you will experience the feeling of how it is to get a bolt between the ribs. I am worthy even as much as you, brother. You may be older, but not better than others. And now throw.«
Caught insecure by the sudden hardness and determination that he had not thought Hwethlenn to possess, Faelon complied. On the highest of its flight was the apple splintered into several pieces, destroyed by an unerringly fired bolt.
»What is going on here?«, did the returning wardeness Alfiriel shout. »I will teach you all what discipline means!« She let them lay the heavy crossbows on the back and run circles along the entire hall until they were groaning of exhaustion.
By the looks of the other Nethvaed, Hwethlenn could see in the remaining time of the day, two things. For one had she been accepted by many more of them and to the other, had she found in Faelon an complete enemy, who would try to make her life bad whenever he could.
What would life be without a true challenge?, she thought with a grin. In high spirits did she fire another bolt right beneath the last she had placed into the target and hence began to complete her line shot for shot.
Angmar, Caverns of Carn Dûm, Early Spring in the Late Third Age
As unharmed as if it would lie on the ground, did the elvish blade rest on its bed of glowing coals that were hissing and threw up sparks, spread within the forge. Not even the adamants were showing a sign of soot or an occurrence that could have been led back to the effect of the intense heat that they were exposed to.
From one moment to the other the fire began to change its color.
The small flames were licking over the coals in a bright orange. Moved by unseen powers did the bellows work and fired on the temperatures, until the unnatural bright fire shot up around the sword.
The blade was surrounded by a silver, unremarkable shimmer that spread in a great speed about the parry guard and the pommel. The blade lost from the top on, unstoppable its form and dissolved.
The glowing trickle of metal sought like a desperate serpent its way through the ardent heat of the fire, leaked through between the coals, ran through a thin channel and through a screen, in which the adamants were left and was caught in the end in a square mold.
The fascinating procedure of the melting took several minutes, then there was nothing left that would have reminded of the once so proud blade of Gondolin. The flames of the forge were extinguished, the torches in the room awoke to life again.
»And so made another of the wonderous weapon its way into the nothingness« Mortva said quietly and satisfied to himself.
The mold was thrown into a bucket with ice-water in which it, causing white steam to rise up, sank slowly to its ground. Mortva hummed a quiet song, crossed the arms behind the back and waited patiently. Fifteen blades have we possessed, four we have undone, he thought, while he was recovering from the exhaustion of the procedure.
With the help of his powers and the required ritual he had been able to loosen the elvish spells that had been made from the most powerful smiths of their race and to melt one weapon after the other. He was not able to break their craft entirely however, but as clumps of metal, the earlier swords could not do him and the servants of the Dark Lord any harm anymore. The heavy squares would soon lie at the bottom of the sea.
At first he had planned to show patience and destroy them when he had all legendary elvish swords together, but an unwell feeling of not being able to reach every weapon had brought him to hurry. Nothing should be able to harm him or his plans.
As the protective spell that was lying over the weapon was incredible powerful and was supposed to defy any evil, the rituals were demanding him so much, that he had begun to lessen his teachings for the children of the Black Númenórean lord who had been once his pupil. The young siblings were able to increase their skills on their own by now.
Still humming did Mortva take the cooled down mold out of the water, opened it and placed the hot, square-formed metal piece on the black ground next to a cupboard.
He unlocked the cabinet and made sure the traps he had installed were set off and opened the wing doors. With a certain amount of disdain, he placed the clump that had once been an renowned elvish sword, into the lower regal to the other three und closed the cabinet carefully.
Those I would have almost forgotten. With his mere hands he fished the adamants out of the screen, scratched the last remains of the cooled steel from their surface and let them fall into one of the pockets of his perfect sitting uniform. How negligent of me.
Mortva shook another blade from the leather-bag, in which he had transported them and let it fall to the ground. Because of the rust-like color that he identified as blood, he knew that this was the blade that his vassal Hemeróc had brought him from the Trollshaws.
»The next please«, he said frivolous and threw it into the embers. Let us see if I am able to undo two of these weapon at one day. In older days I was able to perform much greater things.
While the bellows rose and descended in a steady tempo and the flames were growing, the man, who looked always like he would be in his thirties, with the beardless face and the quick-silver hair, sunk into deep concentration. His lips formed loudless invocations, the slim fingers were drawing dark symbols into the air. One torch after the other went out and the shine of the forge was mirrored on his face.
The spiritual strain rose at this second attempt so greatly, that he was threatened to loose the control over his shape so that the human form was more and more undone.
With a curse did the man end the procedure. That risk he did not want to enter. With a good deal of effort he assumed his usual shape again and opened the eyes, which magenta colored pupils were slowly becoming a deep grey again.
»What by Melkor does that mean?«, it broke out of him as his eyes fell on the glowing coals.
The elvish blade was dissolving like butter in the sun, the apparent jewels and adamants were shattering in the intense heat. Confounded he gazed on the dispersing sword.
A cursed counterfeit! He has brought me a replica from the Elves!
»Hemeróc!«, he said quietly but with a clear sound of order in his voice. It took a while, then a man with a three-day-old beard and clothed in a sinister looking leather armor stepped into the room. »Would you explain to me what you brought me there from the Trollshaws?« He nodded into the direction of the bubbling remains of the metal. »What does that look like to you?«
The being in the form of a man with utterly dark eyes looked apathetic into the forge. »It was not a sword of Gondolin?«
»No!« Mortva shouted and Hemeróc's head retreated a bit. »You brought me a cheap replica.«
The dark eyes became narrowed. »And why did the Elves defend the weapon then so valiantly? I had to take on a High-Warden and one of the Circle as they passed through the Trollshaws.«
»What about a maneuver to fool us?«, Mortva proposed. »They wanted to make us believe that we would have acquired a weapon from the time of Turgon, while the original was kept save somewhere else.«
»Which the Mithdirith know?«, Hemeróc thought out loud.
»With all certainty«, he agreed. The index-finger placed on the chin, the other hand on the back, did Mortva wander up and down in the forge. »These Elves of Mithlond and the hidden vale really dared to raise their hand against me. They know that someone collects the weapons of the First Age.«
»Then we should finally get rid of the Elves of the West«, did the sinister man propose serene. »I hear that many of our Lord's servants are eager to pillage their lands.«
»But it was not intended like so«, Mortva was angered. »I would have liked to wait a bit more before I weave my next webs that would drive Angmar into war with the south. But I guess, there is hardly a way around, then to begin the preparations.«
Hemeróc took a bit of the glowing metal into his hand and formed a small mere sword out of it, without that it seemed to harm him. »But how am I and Nedror supposed to recognize what a true blade of Gondolin is and what not?«
The man with the silver hair bend down, picked up a fine splinter that he had scratched from an adamant and rammed it into the back of the hand of the being that stood infront of him in one swift motion. Angered did Hemeróc groan as the needle-like splinter was penetrating his skin and advanced into his true being.
»Only the blades of the ancient Ñoldor are able to hurt you both like this, did you forget that already?«, he asked in a sugar-sweet tone. »I do not demand that you two will behead each other for a test, or that you cut off your arms.« With a sudden jerk, he pulled the splinter out; a drop of translucent liquid hung on it. »A faint cut will bring you certainty. And now go.«
Hemeróc bared the teeth and stared at the silver-haired man. »Do not overdo it.«
Calmly did Mortva answer the challenging look, until the sinister man lowered his head and left the forge with a hiss.
Mortva threw angered his mantle over his shoulders and left shortly after the almost completely in ruins lying forge as well, that was well hidden behind a passage in the rock, just a bit off from Carn Dûm's palace. Taking every time a different road, he returned to the largest building of the palace.
Officially was the forge abandoned, as too old and not to be used, but it served very well for his purposes. It was lying far off from curious eyes and ears, so that he could go undisturbed about his business. No one would come to the thought that he was hiding there, the most likely strongest weapons on Middle-Earth.
By all plagues of Arda, I hope that we do not have more replicas in our collection. I will need to check that immediately. The last snow-flakes were falling down from the clouds, usually mixed with some rain. In the north of Middle-Earth there was thaw, the winter's reign came to an end.
It is about time that we start our campaign, did the silver-haired man think, climbed up the steps to the entrance and threw his mantle to one of the servants. But first I will take care that the Mithdirith will have played their last role on Arda. I will probably come into the possession of the one or other weapon of Gondolin. And that will hopefully not be any replicas.
Without halting anywhere, he made haste to his chambers, opened the doors to the massive cabinet and looked at the ten remaining swords, that hung in all their pride in their holding. Not one of the weapon made the impression to him of being a counterfeit.
Carefully he pulled the first sword from its sheath and drove with his thumb over the blade. It seemed incredible sharp to him. As he dealt himself a light cut on the hand, he had to press his teeth on each other. That had to be an original.
Cursing he hung back the sword and repeated the procedure, until he had made a find again. One blade was not able to penetrate his skin when he cut over it slightly.
With a growl he hammered the weapon against the wall and witnessed how the blade broke off right over the parry-guard. Disdainfully he threw the handle unto the ground and left his chambers. He had to act now, before the Elves would fool him further.
Two counterfeits, by Melkor, that is bad, he thought on his way. Where have the leaf-ears hid their prized weapons? His fingers were gliding once through the silver hair. What is going on, on Arda? Plans do not work out as intended and now the Mithdirith feel called up to no longer play heroes, but now they want to be heroes. Unintended he formed his hands to fists. What comes next?
