((Note: I am not the author of this story. This was written by the player of Anguloceyon and is being posted with his permission.))
The witch never came out of her tent unless the orderly processes of the camp demanded a harsh correction.
Akalzir faced the assembled penitents, orcs kneeling in an arc about the central tent with dark-eyed and dark-souled men standing tall behind them. Yet his eyes ever turned towards the canvas curtains which would reveal their judge.
Some of the orcs brought from Angmar were weary of the small game and root vegetable boil served for dinners these last weeks and had shown their weariness by raiding the prisoner pens and slaughtering two of the largest, tearing their corpses apart in a feeding frenzy. The Guild of the Unsealed's votaries brought a cessation to the released, bestial hunger only by the power of their blades and alchemical weapons. More orcs than prisoners died, which was a bearable loss; orc victims were not fit for the purest blood magics. More orcs would die now also. Isra was not merciful.
The entrance flaps lifted in the hands of her attendants. Those women who served Isra most intimately stepped out and drew the way open with them, like the dun wings of a lordly perched bird ready to eviscerate the small prey of the earth. Isra emerged.
She was beautiful. Terribly beautiful. Akalzir was captain of those Unsealed which were not her personal retinue and so saw her often, yet not often enough for how wickedly alluring the witch was. She walked slowly, each step measured so that the rise and roll of her hips seemed to send a soft hill of concealed flesh and muscle astray under the draped belts which adorned her dress. She wore her chasm-dark hair in a blend of free-fallen veil to her neck and ornate arrangement as a small coronet. A man could fall into that hair as Akalzir had nearly fallen the first time he saw her. There were bodies on bodies thrown screaming into those channels. If he could pass his fingers through the strands he might tease out the haunted cries of her many victims. But she was above him in the order and in the esteem of their lords, and a misstep in striking for her bedroll would earn him a brutal execution to appease her outrage. One day he would try at the risk of his life. Isra, deadly beauty, if you demand my death I will make you smile to see my entrails fall at your feet.
She went first to the pile of dead orcs thrown before the prisoners, the ones who had to die to cow the rest. Most were hacked apart and pierced, with blackish-brown blood crusted on ragged wounds. Some had faces and chests burned open by flame or melted by acid. She gave time to every corpse. It was not only a count, but a delight in the potency of the Unsealed, some of which was her own creation. Her chin, prominent and with a delicate cleft, jutted at some remains more than others, and the motion turned her brow high and her eyes low. The light of the old elf-country shone in those eyes and made them as shadowed opal.
She gracefully and deliberately paced around to the ring of orcs.
“Akalzir, come.” Her voice was faint and cracked as though she was in thirst ever. Surely she drank blood like water and must quench her desire constantly.
He strode forward, made even with her, then turned to face his commander and kneel at her side. A powerful, spicy perfume of pitch and pink blossom filled the air about her, always, and prevented a sense of her true smell. “I serve the North and you, Isra.”
“Rise then, servant, and tell me why I must address my camp.” She never put her gaze to him, but passed across the line awaiting her choice.
“My lady, these orcs put under our order have killed two of those held for sacrifice. They demand more meat in their rations.”
“More meat? They demand it?” She never looked at her captain. “Since what hour do minions make demands of their masters?”
He did not answer. She needed no answer from him.
“And yet they shall know me to be a master who hears their grievances and a master who keeps her servants well and in good health. They demand meat. I shall provide them. Akalzir, start on the end of the line and make your count of nine. Nine for the rings under our lord of Angmar.”
He did as commanded, and as uncommanded but expected he stood at the ready before the squat brute so selected. The orc had long, hairy arms and his knuckles rested by his heels, which turned his wrists in an ugly mass. His breath passed as from a bellows between tusks as his brows came together, puzzled because the stupid creature could not use reason like a man.
“Kill him,” Isra ordered.
Without a delay, Akalzir’s curved dagger was out and across the orc’s throat. The thing grabbed at the fountain of blood and fell face-down in the dirt while trying to plug the open arteries with its palms.
“Every ninth, do the same. Butcher them and store the flesh so the rest can have their meat. We will kill one a week after those rations are gone. Report to me when this is done.”
She turned slowly and retired to her tent as he bent in a bow with arm across his breast. The prisoners would not revolt and mob him. They could not count to know which was to die, but they were canny enough to realize that most of them would live if they did not oppose the judgment. Fools. Slaves were made only of cowardice and useful tissue.
He gestured to his force for those behind the orcs to step through the kneeling line at the proper intervals. Then a chop of his bladed fingers through the empty air cut down a ninth of the orc attachment. Those left alive had escort back to their quarter of the camp while the fresh kills and even the old ones left for Isra’s review were dragged off to the cook for butchering. Orcs loved the meat of men most of all, but they would consume their own with good cheer if given the option, or left with no other.
Once the center court of the camp was cleared of all but the patches of stained grass, Akalzir went to Isra’s tent.
“Captain Akalzir reporting as ordered.”
The entrance opened and he passed between the flanking attendants. They were both lovely young women chosen by Isra herself, cruel and capable, yet they could not withstand his power and skill if it came to a combat. They were both fetching bodies also, yet not nearly the equal of their lady.
The tent was divided by small folding walls into sections of use. There was a small chamber for the attendants’ quarters, another slightly larger division for brewing and testing potions and concoctions, and a larger chamber for Isra’s leisure that merged into her hall with the tent support poles as bare, pine columns. The entirety seemed flooded with a fog, though no vapor seeped out of the tent. There was a mirror of some form in every partition. Vanity would be cause enough, though while Isra was always presentable as an icon of admiration, she did not ever show distraction in her appearance. In the grand hall the mirror was a full-body oblong glass able to be tilted on its two flanking legs. That one stood near the seat of rule for the camp. Her bed was concealed by a patterned folding panel behind that.
Isra sat on the large, carved and cushioned chair with a matching footrest holding her long legs out in recline with ankles crossed. She had changed her dress from the ceremonial judgment garb to a casual and simple style of pale violet. It may have been done for him, to put him at ease. Surely she had noticed the man’s watch over her in all their councils. The cling of her plain fabric gave much to watch now as he held himself on the edge of her long, maroon audience rug.
“Approach,” she ordered. “What news of the land?”
He came to the midpoint of the rug. One of the maidens-in-waiting followed silently after him and stood on the hem at his back, hand on the haft of her war sickle.
“My lady Isra, Eregion is abandoned as foretold ere our departure from Angmar. The ruins are empty but where beasts make their nesting, and there are no elf scouts to be seen.”
She cackled at that last. “Nor would any see an elf scout. If they choose to attack us, we will not know of their plans until they are killing our guards.”
Akalzir glowered. Her voice was enchanting, but her mockery made him shrink and bristle. “As you assess it, it is true, lady. My men know to be of preparation for deadly affray at any hour. I alone secretly hold relief and confidence that the old elven realm is left to us unopposed. Your purpose here may proceed.”
“May it? Very fine words. You are not the only one who has confidence that the elves will not interfere. They left this country long ago and have retreated into their hollows, glades and vales, their harbors and forests. They will not bring open war against any who do not invade where they now huddle, awaiting the turn of the world into shadow.
“They are late to decide if they were to surprise me with an attack regardless. I have found what I sought. You will choose a dozen from your votaries, and half a dozen from the pens, and come with me to the hills beyond the forging furnaces. We go tonight.”
Akalzir bowed once again, but dared to turn his eyes up at the witch from his low posture. Her eyes were upon him, and a twist of what must be pleasure spread at her lips. He made bolder yet and returned a smirk of his own when he rose, then spun around to carry out the command.
The prisoners did not moan to be tied in a line together. They woke each day and spent their waking hours in perpetual shock, with certain death always a razor span away. Gaunt and weak, they plodded beside their Unsealed captors through the ruins of the elven forges.
There was a mural within whose craft remained unflaked by long ages without any artist maintaining. It showed the Great One over all in beautiful guise delivering knowledge to the elves of Eregion, commemorated their beguilement by promises of skill beyond even their ability. The fools could not see beyond form to realize their danger. Akalzir reverenced the mural’s image along with his votaries, but he spat on the ground for the elves and their weak, trusting minds.
The train followed Isra’s slow pace after she allowed them the ceremony to honor Sauron. They passed through an enormous circular colonnade around an ancient and ashless furnace. Wind had cleaned and scraped the firepit clean so not even lumps of spent coal filled the basin. One day this place might be used again to create tools of their master’s master, but Isra’s purpose was other than metalwork. She led them through to a plain behind to where a footpath broke the hills and wound into a dense holly forest. There they took a moment’s rest.
“I proceed from here with my maidens,” she spoke, slow as her gait. Her breath was heavy from the walk, though their journey had been brief. Her strength was not in her muscle but in her spirit. Hearing her strain to recover and keep composed expanded his ribs proudly. “After I have treated privately with the power which resides in this forest, then you will bring the offering.”
One captive woman in the line wailed pitifully then, knowing that in that forest was her death. A merciless goad into her throat silenced her and unbalanced the others in front and behind, though her slight weight did not topple the rest to be so battered. Her lips quivered and she sniffed runny mucus down into her bruised throat, but she made no more cry.
Isra smiled pleasantly at the handling of her prisoners. The Unsealed knew how to govern souls cased in flesh or otherwise, and Akalzir trained his guards best of all. Once the unfortunate offerings were brought to stillness beside the gates of holly trunks, Isra walked into the bough-shade. Her purple gown and leather mantle melted away like rainwash on street cobbles. Her attendants likewise vanished, or they must have done. His mind was on the witch alone.
The evening passed. Wind whistled an eerie flute tune between the arches and pillars of the disowned elven hold. Wind sent jagged leaves to scrape on their fellows in the forest, as though a host of centipedes crawled in the branches. The prisoners were put onto their haunches to keep their limbs ready for the final procession.
There was a howl in the air.
It wasn’t only a howl from one throat. A collection of primal voices struck up at the gloaming and the early stars in the orange-blue sky. It came from the camp. The ringing of steel and garbled screams of the dying followed all too soon.
The other Unsealed cast their eyes about the hills and the towards the woods where their commander witch had left them. They did not lead because they could not understand quickly enough. He motioned for one to take his orders.
“Go back through the ruins to see what has happened, then return.” The man was too wild in obedience. “Wait.” Akalzir spat the command. “Go quietly with all haste which does not cast away stealth. Your purpose is to return. Be sure you do so.”
The man nodded meekly more than he bowed to his captain and made a panicked run back into the ruins.
The screaming subsided, but the howls grew louder. No, not louder. Closer.
His scout broke through the empty gate frame of the forging hall, stumbled onto his palms and carried on like a beast for a cycle of steps. He was barely upright in his flight when he reached his captain. Akalzir grabbed his surplice and yanked him to attention.
“Master your fear and report.”
“M-my captain!”
“I said give me your report!”
“A-aye!” The man gulped. His neck’s apple collided with Akalzir’s knuckles. “The orcs are in revolt. They have taken the camp and are coming for us.”
Akalzir shoved the man aside. The coward’s legs gave out and he fell. No hand went for him.
“We can wait no longer for our lady’s time. We must present our offering or Angmar will lose faith with the power that has come here. Follow me and bring them.”
He did not wait to see if the craven scout would gather himself or not. The forest gnawed air at a secure distance. Its entry was the fanged ring of a worm’s mouth, full of desire to swallow them all.
For all the gloom of the woods, the path was clear of roots and detritus which might make feet stumble. And it was clear to the eye which ways were wide enough for a man and his train to reach the heart. He knew when he had found it.
The close-packed, sharp leaves spread out into a theater for senseless ancient trees. In the center was a singular holly of black bark and purple berries. It stood twice as tall as the rest and its crown was a sickly canopy over the glade. Some healthy color had returned in the stump where it anchored in the soil, and there stood Isra, alone, her maidens nowhere in sight, with a supplicant hand cradling a bunch of the low-hanging diseased berries.
“It had forgotten what it was,” she spoke as though musing to herself rather than addressing the harried company. “But it will heal and grow once more. And in its growth it will bear fruits of my wishes into eternity. Mine alone. Shared with none.”
“My lady, the traitorous orcs have turned against your command. They have slaughtered our camp and come for us next.”
“Of course they do,” she seductively cooed, and spared a turn of her head to him. It seemed as if another light covered her than that of the glade. Bands of crisp, linear shadow ran across her figure. “You cannot kill so many of their number and yet so few as would fail to weaken them to a point of submission. Your numbers were chosen to split my Unsealed forces into easily overthrown frailty, Akalzir.”
“You wanted our deaths?”
“Why, my stricken-hearted, my captain, haven’t you pledged in silence of thought that your life is mine, ready given on request? I need your death, all of your deaths. What I have done or not done here cannot be made known to any. Men will talk. Those feral orcs will not.”
His knees buckled and slammed into the mossy earth. There was no strength to hold his shoulders high, but he kept his eyes on her body, on her twilight-sheen eyes. “Yes, my lady. You own my life. Isra, I die for you, together with you.”
The Unsealed behind him broke into dismay as their captain faltered. Some fled back towards the gates of the woods where the orcs would meet their escape. Three screamed in rage and began to hew and pierce the helpless captives. Blood poured and sprayed. Isra put the tips of her long fingers to her mouth and cackled at the mischief and misfortune.
“Together? Sweet, simple Akalzir, I am not dying with you here. Resign yourself to life’s end in this place. If you die well, I may think of you with admiration, when the mood of reverie finds me in the most sapping extremes of boredom.”
“Isra!” he called, and put a leg forward to rise, to chase and pin her to his demise.
She began to disappear.
It was as though some wide curtain lifted along her legs, revealing not more of her but rather the world behind without her in view, the wretched tree and the gloomy holly wood only. Another line soon came down from the top of her hair. The world was closing on her, closing her in an invisible box. She laughed at him as he staggered and froze with a pleading arm at the band of torso left. There was a thin strip of blackness limned in white glow at the last, and then she was gone, voice and image at once.
The howls were in the forest now. They were coming swiftly.
Akalzir unslung his pickhammer. More orcs would die than him, but he would die tonight. His lady commanded it.
_______________________________________________________________________
Isra closed the lid of the chest. The image of the Unsealed captain was locked within now, the spell gone as the prized item placed there was at last and finally severed from its owner.
“There lie until the world shatters. You have been my constant aid in many trials. Let no unworthy hand sully your form. The power of the woods will provide your protection.”
There was nothing to see in the outcome of the battle. Battles were tiresome affairs with all the grunting and screaming, and the vows and the impotent curses, more so when the outcome was assured in advance. Doubtless the man would make a pointless accounting of his skill and courage.
She pushed on one thigh to raise her body from the ground where she had knelt to close away her treasured possession. Standing put shards of pain down her spine and fairy spears through her knees. Gnarled fingers with tightly drooping skin and roped veins on the hand grasped her walking stick. The illusions of youth and beauty never held for her own eyes. She was ancient in the life of a woman. She looked it, and felt it, and she would strangle the truth of her advanced age if only it had a neck. Her power was ending, but she had made her legacy and hidden her secrets. There was none who could learn of her secrets anymore.
Off through the paths of the ruins, the orcs trampled while they ripped and screamed. They had been blinded to her, and would remain blinded for her departure. On the roads north again, to the land where she would soon lay her bones to a final rest, she would be to all only a pitiable, old, pilgrim woman. The southern men were all so committed to their chivalry that they would offer food and comfort to even their most dire enemies if met in a guise of need.
Years past that foolish weakness in men would have made her grin. There was no more mirth in the deceit when her game was ending, to be no longer so much as a spectator. Even the seed planted was not truly enough, though it was better by far than meek acceptance of life’s limit. It would be a shadow doll, a fragment of Isra that was, though a fragment which would ever be.
