The Dark Mage of Rhudaur by AliceNWonder000137  

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Blogath's Sanctuary

The battle at the Tirthon rages to its conclusion.  Ethacali still has a trump card to play and he takes his forces back to Blogath's Vale.  Will this be more than he can handle though?

The Tirthon, Cerveth 21st, 1407

           

The defeat of the Dunnish tribes was stunning, given their advantages in numbers and magic, not to mention the trolls and Blood-Wights.  In the span of twenty minutes, Ethacali watched in horror as the massive bronze plate that protected the roof of the Tirthon fell on the siege tower, collapsing it and killing one of his trolls.  He raised his staff and drew upon his power to energize his warriors, driving them into a killing frenzy.  With howls of rage, they climbed the ladders in spite of boiling oil and arrows, oblivious to pain and fear.  He knew that Lumban was on the roof, clearing it of the enemy.  Rangers and the Siol Nȗnaw had penetrated the Tirthon’s gate and were ready to tear down the portculli.  Victory was still within his grasp.

Standing at the shattered gate, he focused his command of essence and aimed his staff at the first portcullis. He grit his teeth, and a fine beam of red light illuminated the metal bars.  With a shout, he closed his open hand, and the steel glowed orange and began to melt. In the corridor, arrows flew, and more boiling oil poured down on the attackers.  He had to get through now or he would have no force left.  He could feel the strain of his spell, but he had no choice: the path to victory and home to Logath lay through that gate.  The first portcullis was nothing but molten slag now and the second began to melt under the intense heat of his magic.

“The way is open!” he yelled at Hirgrim and Cagh.  “Get your men through!”  Tribesmen rushed in with rangers as arrows flew from murder holes in the walls.  A couple fell, but the charge made it past the defenses, stepping over the bodies of their comrades, shot with arrows or boiled with oil.  The screams of the wounded were horrific, but this was it.  He could feel it.  Lumban would have cleared the roof by now and Hirgrim would sweep the ground level.  He could hear fighting down the corridor. The mage would head towards the fight in a moment to bring his magic to bear directly on the enemy.    

He felt just a little short of breath from the power that he had unleashed, and he put a hand on his knee to rest.  He’d only need a moment because of the energy that Skrykalian had given him.  Her essence gave him vitality, vigor and youth and he felt that he could run back home at a sprint.  He raised himself back up just as Lumban’s body hit the ground near him.  Ethacali’s mouth fell open.  Blood soaked the barbarian’s leather armor, and his nose had been sliced off.  His eyes were open, but his neck was twisted far beyond what anyone living could endure.  

In another moment, the Siol Nȗnaw and rangers came pouring back out of the Tirthon, some in absolute panic.  “Turn around! Fight!  Where are you going?”  Fear, then rage gripped him at the thought of defeat.  He had planned everything down to the wire.  Nothing could have stopped him.  He grabbed one of the tribesmen and shook his staff at the man.  “You coward!” he yelled, and his staff glowed. The man screamed as blood poured from his eyes, ears and nose and he collapsed in the snow.  He could see the knight in gray armor leading a countercharge to drive his men from the corridor.  The man’s sword glowed blue as he hacked down tribesmen and rangers in their leather armor while their clubs just bounced off his full plate.  Ethacali growled with frustration and climbed back onto his horse.  He waved the three orc shamans back.  “Regroup at the woods.  We can turn this around.”  His voice was already weaker and more hollow, and his legs ached sitting in the saddle.

The mage rode just ahead of his fleeing force and stopped at the tree line of the woods.  He spun his horse about and summoned the Blood-Wights to him as the orcs caught up.  Rangers and the last of the Macha Mur straggled towards him, demoralized with a number of wounded.  He looked around but could not see Cagh or the Siol Nȗnaw anywhere.  Were they dead?  Did they betray him?  He didn’t have time to think that through.  As he assessed the dire situation, Nasen and his men ran up.

“Great mage,” Nasen said, “we did as you asked, exactly as you asked but Dagar yet lives.  I did my part.  I was supposed to become-”

Ethacali brandished his staff, and it crackled with energy.  “Silence cur!  I don’t give an orc’s ass about your petty family squabbles.  Follow and fight if you want to live.”  He sneered at the merchant.  “Do as I say and when we turn this around, I may be inclined to help you.”

Nasen bowed his head and raised his hands in apology.  “I’m sorry, great mage.  I spoke in anger.  We will follow you.”  The merchant motioned Penda and his three men to join the battered force.

Naranantur and Skrykalian landed nearby, and their wings retracted into their bodies.  They closed their eyes and raised their hands and said something in Quenya.  The blood coating their bodies lifted off of their skin in a red mist and they inhaled the droplets into their mouths.  Nasen and Penda recoiled, horrified by the vampires.  Skrykalian walked past them and bared her fangs, causing them to step back again.  She pointed at the merchant and his thugs.  “Food?” she asked the mage.

“Where were you two?” Ethacali asked impatiently as he looked to the Tirthon for any sign of pursuit.  There was none yet.  The Vulseggi also took a beating, and they may not be in any shape to attack.

The Blood-Wight looked confused, and she tilted her head to one side.  She turned to her brother, and he gave the same expression.  “I…I thought you told us to feed on the wounded,” she said innocently.  “That’s exactly what we were doing.  I feel so fresh now,” she added and then reached up to touch his white hair.  “I was going to say ‘young’ but I’m always young and will always be young.  You know, orcs are so…bitter, but the Dunmen…mmmm, delicious.”  She looked at Nasen and sucked on her fingers.  “I’ll bet the little merchant would make for a tasty treat…I mean would be able to make a tasty treat.  Do you bake, little merchant,” she taunted, standing a full head taller than Nasen.  “I just love biscuits and cookies.  I mean in addition to blood and flesh.”

Ethacali raised his fist, and it glowed with the power of the rune.  “Enough,” he said as he saw Vulseggi gathering in the yard of the Tirthon and they began mounting horses.  He might be able to stand and fight here as he still had an advantage in numbers but just barely now.  No, it would be too risky, and he still had one trump card to play.  “We must return to the vale.  We must free your sister.”

For the first time, he saw true terror in the eyes of the Blood-Wights and he found that he liked it. Skrykalian put her hand over her mouth. “Are…are you certain, great mage? My sister…she…I really think that you should reconsider.”

Seeing her fear convinced him that it was the right thing to do.  “Every time I listen to you it is to my detriment.  Come, back to the vale.  We will free Blogath and win this day yet.”  The tome told him that the eldest sister was more powerful than the other three combined, having been the closest to mighty Sauron.  She would crush his enemies with barely a thought and his goals and dreams would still come to fruition.

They were able to stay ahead of the Vulseggi along the trail through the Yfelwood.  A few of the wounded fell in the snow and no one looked back.  Ethacali couldn’t help but glance down at Skrykalian’s body, which had returned to a healthy flesh tone from her feeding.  She began talking to Athrug in a very suggestive manner and he maneuvered his horse between them.  His confidence slowly returned at the thought of turning his defeat into victory.  “How long were you in the vale?” he asked her, more out of wanting idle chatter to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“Oh, let’s see now,” she said, speaking as if she were a girl in school.  “Do you remember the Dagor Bragollach?  No, of course you don’t.  How about the Nirnaeth Arnoediad?  Oh, how foolish of me.  You’re a human,” she said in a voice dripping with disappointment.  “Well, we’ve been here since a time between the two…if that means anything to you.”

He felt stung and resumed his silence, but he continued to watch her, half out of lust and half out of not trusting her.  She cocked her head, and he knew her well enough to know that she was probing someone’s mind, and it wasn’t his.  His curiosity was piqued, and he kept a close eye on what was happening.  From behind her, Penda and his three thugs along with Nasen kept inching closer to her with their hands on their weapons. Apparently, they didn’t take too kindly to being humiliated earlier.  Naranantur moved in next to his sister and they began speaking as if they were unaware of what was transpiring.  Ethacali knew better than to believe that.  Although Nasen had done his bidding, they were still willing to betray their own people, and the mage wasn’t particularly concerned about what would happen to them.

Two of Penda’s thugs drew daggers and crept in right behind the Blood-Wights, then it seemed as if everything moved in slow motion.  One man made a stab at Naranatur, but the Blood-Wight stepped aside and swung his sword upwards between the man’s legs.  The man dropped his dagger, mouth open, unable to speak, his eyes huge.  Naranantur drew the sword upwards to the man’s abdomen and then his hand became a claw, and he tore the thug’s throat out with a sweep of his talons.  At the same time, the other man made a stab at Skrykalian’s back, but in a blur of motion, she turned and grasped the man’s wrist, stopping his attack.  With a twist of her arm, she snapped the man’s wrist backwards with a sickening crack of bones breaking.  The man shrieked, his eyes wide as saucers.  In another blur, her mouth filled with razor-sharp fangs and bit his wrist in two.  She tossed the hand and dagger away.

As Naranantur fed on the dying man, Skrykalian’s attacker tried to pull his arm away.  She shook her head and wagged her finger at him. “Uh uh,” she said and then drank from the blood that flowed from his wrist.  Then, she pushed him back to his comrades and he cradled the stump with a look of pain and horror.  As Naranantur stood with his black sword and faced them, Skrykalian circled them slowly, licking her fingers.  “Mmm, thank you for the power.  I’m still riding high from the blood of the orcs and tribesmen, but this is like dessert.” She pointed at the wounded man and then the hand and weapon in the snow.  “Don’t forget your dagger.  I think you’re going to need it.”

She approached Penda and the big man started shaking.  She stood a few inches taller than him and ran a bloody finger down the bridge of his nose.  “Have you felt it?  My finger digging through your mind?  My tongue, licking at your thoughts, memories and feelings?  Yes, that was me.  You just can’t decide if you want to kill me or lie with me,” she said, and then gestured down her body.  “Just ask Ethacali.  I know his every secret by now.”

Ethacali found that he enjoyed someone else being the target of her manipulations.  That was, until she turned back on him.  Her silver eyes widened, and her pupils contracted to catlike slits again.  She curled her lip up.  “Except for one thing,” she said accusingly.  “The cure.”

The mage thought that he had successfully hid that secret but he knew that he had let his guard down.  He wanted to end this exchange before it got out of hand.  “Enough Skrykalian.  You’ve had your fun.  We will free your sister and that is the end of it.  Then we can discuss a potential cure.”

She chuckled cynically and then lifted Penda off of the ground with one hand.  The man had to outweigh her by at least twice but she was fueled by the power of blood.  She tossed him a short distance without any effort, and it was clear that she was holding back.  “Please, try that stunt again.  You have a lot of blood in those veins.”

Penda scrambled back up and ran to his friends.  Skrykalian flipped her hair back and continued walking towards the vale.  “I thought we were lovers, Ethacali.  You disappoint me.  We will talk of the cure when we reach the caverns.”  Naranantur scowled at Nasen, his eyes glowing red for a moment.  When the commotion had died away, Ethacali and Hirgrim looked at the corpse of Penda’s friend, innards spilled on the snow with his throat and lower jaw ripped away. His eyes held a look of terror that was now frozen in death.

“The Vulseggi may be an hour behind us, and they are on horseback,” Hirgrim said and then sucked his teeth.  “We best keep moving.”  He spat tobacco on the corpse.

Ethacali nodded.  He would turn all of this back around. There was still time.  They passed into a clearing and the vale was in sight, a winding pathway down to the caverns where Balisimur and Blogath awaited. Having used the final rune, the mage bound Balisimur to his will, but the eldest sister remained untethered.  He thought about how to perform a binding ritual and there was no chance he could succeed alone without a rune of binding. It would take the power of all of the shamans to give him any hope of bending Blogath to his will.  If the eldest sister was anything like the youngest, he would have his hands full.

He saw excavation equipment, half buried in the snow along with the burnt huorns that he slew to clear the way into the vale.  They might have served as a trap for the Vulseggi, but it was too late now.  That was two years ago…two years since he had seen Ethanya and his family.  He imagined that his son, Ethorno, would be stoking the fire about now in the hearth of their home as his wife read by candlelight.  His grandchildren would be swarming at his feet, begging him to play a game.  How did he get so far away?  Alliance with the Necromancer was to bring him power, prestige and pride.  But it seemed that all he had received was shame, defeat and this unending chill in a distant land.

He pointed to the entrance of the caverns.  “Hirgrim, set your men here.  You’ll be the first line of defense.  I will leave Oologg with you.  When I free Blogath, we will come to your aid.”

The scarred ranger nodded and directed his fourteen remaining men to take cover.  The Cultirith began pulling dead branches and other debris in to conceal their positions.  Ethacali led the way into the caverns and a deep chill and dread filled his heart.  The passed through the crystal caves where the orc shamans gathered weapons and items of power and then proceeded down the long stairway into Blogath’s halls.  The sense of familiarity came back to the mage as he led the way into the black marble foyer where Naranantur and Skrykalian had to stoop to avoid hitting their heads on the ceiling.  He stopped at the old door that appeared to be made of blood that swirled in a circle. The design was remarkable if unnerving. “Kaul dar!” he commanded in the Black Speech and portal swung open silently.  He looked back and saw a worried expression on the Blood-Wight’s faces. This surely was a good sign.  As they entered the central hall, he could see ghostly shapes fade into the walls, leaving a wispy mist in the air.

Skrykalian tugged at this sleeve.  “Trust me, you don’t want to do this.  You can take whatever is left in the treasury.  We accumulated much during the eons of our existence.  Take it and return home to Ethanya, beyond the reach of evil here.  Live your life.  Be free. It is all that I have ever wanted since Thuringwethil tore me from the tower of Tirith Aeluin as Thangorodrim erupted.”

He stopped for a moment, thinking on her words.  There was no influence or power behind them.  She was speaking from the heart.  Part of him wanted to give her the cure and to return home.  She looked down the hallway, seemingly sad at the dilapidated condition of their once elegant home.  He shook his head.  “I cannot run now, Skrykalian.  I have to see this through.  Word would go east and Khamȗl would have my family murdered if I fail here.”  He gave her a sympathetic look, eyes soft. “I…appreciate the thought though.”

She appeared about to protest when an old copper coin flew through the air and struck her in the chest. She staggered back a step, more stunned than hurt.  She bowed her head and raised her hands.  “I will say no more, sister.”

They continued down another long stairway, past an empty guardroom where more spirits faded into the walls.  The sacrifices of a century and a half of blood and terror still walked the corridors.  They passed into the waiting room and Ethacali used the tip of his staff to inscribe a rune of warding on the ground.  He led the group down the long corridor, oblivious of the rune evaporating into thin air as if it never was.  Ethacali thought he saw a dark shape on the ceiling crawl past him, but when he looked up, there was nothing there.  He then heard a shriek that was cut short, and he looked back to see that one of the last four of the Macha Mur was gone.

The three who were left scrambled forward, shouting in panic.  “It just took him!  It just took him!” they cried out.  “Claws and silver eyes in the dark!”  They crowded in with Nasen and Penda.  Including himself, they were down to eleven now.

Skrykalian took his arm and held him tightly.  “That would be my brother, Balisimur.  You could invoke your rune of binding, but he is the strongest of us.  It would weaken you greatly in the process.”  They passed three empty rooms on the right of the hall, and she looked at them with an expression of bittersweet nostalgia.  “The kitchen, the pantry and the library.  I would sing and dance here for my family. You would have loved it, Ethacali, the lore of the ages with music from fair Valinor,” she said as she motioned to a chamber full of dust.  She began to hum a tune that he had never heard.  She looked at him and smiled nervously.  “I do this when I’m afraid.  It’s the Lindë Arannor, the song of eternal days.”

There was another shriek to the rear, and they looked back to see that Penda’s unhurt friend was gone, replaced by a pool of blood.  “Whatever it is, we need to do it soon!” yelled Nasen.  “Otherwise, we’re out of here!”

Skrykalian pointed at the man whose hand she bit off.  “I told you; you’re going to need that dagger.”

Ethacali stopped at the entrance to Blogath’s sanctuary, and the light of their lanterns flickered and dimmed.  He was filled with doubt, but he knew that he had no choice now.  He had to go forward.  He took several deep breaths to calm his nerves.  Blogath was a demon of the ancient world…someone to be reckoned with. At her greatest, she might even be a match for one of the Nazgȗl.

He was about to cross over the threshold into the waiting room when Skrykalian pulled on his shoulder.  “Are you absolutely sure, Ethacali?  I beg you to go now.  Take the contents of the treasury: you’ll be rich in Logath, and your family will be taken care of.  I’ll meet with the heralds of Angmar and tell them that you were killed.  No one will be the wiser.  Go home to your family.  I know how much you miss them.  If only I had someone who loved me that much.”

He closed his eyes and inhaled a long breath.  How he wanted to take her advice.  He let that breath out and shook his head again.  Throughout his sixty years he had never failed, the very reason that he was selected for this task above all others.  He had to succeed.  “No, we must go on.  I tell you, I will give you the secret to the cure when we are done if that is what you want.”

Her eyes widened, soft and silver, dark pupils filling the irises of her eyes.  Then, she looked down as if thinking.  “I…I have been a demon for longer than twenty thousand of your generations.  I know of no other way now…but I still dream of being an elf…a woman.  I would appreciate that and think on the consequences of a cure.  In case you are unaware, when we elves pass, our spirits journey to the Halls of Mandos in Valinor, where he will sit in judgment of our lives.  I cannot imagine that he will be merciful to me, and I expect to be cast into the void for all of eternity.  I have never before had to face that reality.  I am afraid, Ethacali.”

“I did not know that about elves,” he said sympathetically.

She put her hand on his shoulder.  “If you continue, would you please let my brother and I remain here?”

“I cannot.  I need you going forward.  It will take all of our combined powers to rein in Blogath.”

She sighed, seemingly resigned to her fate.  “As you wish.”

When he stepped across the threshold into the waiting room of Blogath’s sanctuary, the darkness was oppressive, and their lights dimmed.  Their six remaining followers were trembling with fear and one of the Macha Mur had wet himself.  The air seemed as thick as soup, and it took a conscious effort to breathe.  Even sound seemed distorted, and their footsteps rang out louder than they should have been.  Skrykalian continued to hum her tune softly as she clung to Ethacali’s arm.

She pointed to the left. “The dining room.  We had the most elegant feasts here.  Food, I mean.”  All that remained was dust and debris.  She rubbed his ear, and a vision formed in his mind, and he heard laughter.  He looked into the dining room and saw finely crafted furniture and magical lanterns illuminating the area.  He could smell fresh venison, cooked with herbs and spices.  He saw bowls of fruit and salad, topped with cherry tomatoes and other greens.  Four siblings sat at the table and toasted with crystal goblets full of wine.  It was hard to imagine, but the Blood-Wights also ate food.  Skrykalian was dressed in a silk and velvet gown of sky blue with silver trim, the colors of the House of Fingolfin.  A brooch in the shape of a swan was pinned to her collar.  The vision of her turned to him and smiled.  Then, she picked up a flute and began to play the most exquisite music that he had ever heard.  It was like the notes of the instrument were in his heart and it pulled on the strings of his soul.  Then, it was gone, replaced again by dust and debris.

“We must turn right here,” Skrykalian said, pointing down a junction in the hallway.  Her voice was wavering.

There was another scream from behind and another Macha Mur staggered forward, his head missing, blood spraying into the air.  The others in the party cried out in terror, huddling together.  Standing to their rear, Balisimur held the head of the man. The Blood-Wight was heavily muscled, and his form seemed to shimmer, shifting back and forth between that of an elf and that of an eagle.  He tossed the head aside and bowed.  “Welcome home, brother…sister,” he said, his voice reverberating with energy.  With a taloned hand, he pointed at the mage.  “You cannot go back now.  The way is blocked.  Your path is only forward.  Our sister has prepared a greeting.”

Naranantur and Skrykalian bowed in return.  “Come,” she said to Ethacali.  
We have no choice now.  Balisimur would tear us all to shreds.”

“But I have the rune,” he protested.

“And you would use all of your energy to bend him to your will.  You will need all of it to face Blogath.”  He nodded, unsure whether to trust her.  They took the right turn, their lanterns becoming ever dimmer. Even the mage’s staff shone less bright, and he could only see a few feet ahead now.  They were near the chamber where he first bound Balisimur and sealed Blogath back in.  He could see the white sheen of the barrier that he had placed.  He saw misty white forms stepping out of the walls, holding rusty daggers and swords; the spirits of their followers and sacrifices.  The mage held up his staff and channeled power into it and the ghostly forms faded away, but the weapons remained floating in the air.  

Ethacali was about to speak when the form of a woman floated up to the barrier.  He could see her red eyes through the gloom, and they bored into him.  “Welcome back, Ethacali…brother, sister,” she said in a voice full of power that shook the halls.  She unfurled her falcon wings and tucked them behind her.  “I have had some time to prepare for your arrival.”  She raised a hand, and the barrier began to waver.  It was as if he were being pounded by waves of energy.  “Come, please allow me to be a good hostess.”

“No,” said the mage sternly. “You will kneel to me first.”

Blogath let out a laugh that chilled him to the bone.  “Come to me, Balisimur.  Feed.” Then, she pointed to her other siblings. “Kneel,” she said, and they did so.

Ethacali was losing control of the situation.  He heard the shriek of an eagle and then screams from behind.  There was the sound of fighting and then shrieks and gurgling. He had no choice now.  He raised his staff and invoked the runes.  Energy surged out of him and engulfed the three younger Blood-Wights.  The sound of battle stopped, and he saw the last of the Macha Mur torn apart like rag dolls.  Nasen, Penda and his last man quivered on the floor.  Balisimur floated in the air, his eyes white as did Naranantur and Skrykalian.

The mage’s body ached, and he felt exhausted at the effort.  The barrier faded away and Blogath floated out from her chamber.  He pointed at the orc shamans.  “Begin the chant!  We must bind her now!”

The three put their fists to their chest and began the chant in Black Speech.  “Krimp doturog lat!  Krimp doturog lat!” they cried out.  Ethacali poured the last of his power into theirs and they glowed from the magical force.  Pulses of magic crashed into Blogath, and she recoiled.

“You are not being good guests,” she said with a grunt and then pushed her palms out and the chamber fell silent.

Ethacali stood in horror as no sound came from their mouths and Blogath floated towards them.  Penda had had enough, and he came at her with his hand axe, his mouth twisted in silent fury.  As he swung at her head, she caught the weapon by its blade, the sharp edge not even breaking the skin of her palm.  With a flick of her wrist, she snapped the steel blade into shards of metal, one flying back and imbedding in Penda’s cheek.  Blogath watched the blood trickle down his face and her eyes widened and she quivered.  “Sit down, child,” she ordered, her voice reverberating.  She pushed her hand down and he fell to the floor, shaking and crying. “Now, calm yourselves, children.  We are just getting started.”

She raised her hands, one at a time and the room began to swirl and change, becoming the magnificent chamber that it once was, paneled in rich wood that was painted in crimson with paisley patterns etched into them in black and gold.  Luxurious furniture appeared, padded couches and seats along with magical lights.  “Please, have a seat,” she said and then Nasen and Penda marched mechanically to sit down.  Tears and snot ran down their faces.  Ethacali felt that his body was no longer his own and he struggled to resist but found himself seated at a table, made of walnut and high-quality resins, across from the orcs.  “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” she said soothingly, which only heightened his fear.

Ethacali’s breath came in terrified gasps now and he could see the horror on his party’s faces.  “Release me, Blogath,” he said through gritted teeth, unable to move his jaw.

“All in good time, my dear.” She snapped her fingers, and her siblings awoke and came to her side.  “You will be happy to know that I erased all of your runes, and we have more guests outside now.  We have not had a gathering like this in these halls in…in say…how long has it been, sister?”

Skrykalian’s lower lip quivered.  “Three thousand, two hundred years now, sister.”

Blogath leaned in next to Ethacali’s ear.  “I love to entertain.” 

Chapter End Notes

I want to showcase the power and horror of the Blood-Wights here as well as some more of the history behind them.  

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