[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The red mist became a torrent of blood before his eyes as he watched Caranbaith fall, and Ambarturion threw off the orcs who held him. They had taken his sword, but seizing the nearest of the monsters he slew him with his bare hands. At least a dozen orcs rushed at him, seeking to hold his limbs, but in the greatness of his wrath he brushed them aside like insects. To some of the orcs, those who had lived many years and fought in many of their Dark Lord’s wars, he appeared then as a terrifyingly bright star that blazed with the hated light of the Mariner, from whose glow they would cower in distaste. Again they tried to seize him, but Ambarturion ripped the head from the first to lay hands upon him, and struck another upon the chest with such force that he shattered the beast’s frame.

In all the long years that he had fought and struggled, he had seen many of his friends killed by the Enemy. But never before had one of his students been cut down before his eyes. Never before had he been forced to watch, helpless in defence, as the cruel hands of monsters deprived so youthful an Elf of the millennia that had been his birthright. As he blazed in his wrath, his mind went back to the battles of his own youth. When he had been but a few years older than Caranbaith, he had wept scalding tears at Nirnaeth Anodad, and he did so again now, for in the present age there was no hope that vengeance would come from those who dwelt in the West. There was only the despair of knowing that he had failed in his charge, and that only revenge was left to him now. It was a bitter cup, but as it was the only cup available, he would drink from it, though it tasted of ashes.

He surged toward the one-eyed creature that had so cruelly and cowardly struck down the youth, but the evil Men of the south had joined the orcs. They were mortal men, weaker than the orcs and more prone to pain, but they were more cunning than the beasts, and more patient in restraining a prisoner. They threw ropes about him, and Ambarturion roared in fury as he tried to pull them from his limbs, but with every rope he snapped two more were cast about him and soon he was bound and caught like a fly in a spider's web. Throughout his humiliation One-Eye had watched from the outer fringes of the mob, an ugly smile catching at his lips and contorting his face. It was a look that Ambarturion had seen many times before: the cruel pleasure of an evil being who delighted in his own wickedness. But there was yet something about the orc that set him apart from the rest. He was no orc rabble from the Mountains, nor was he a maggot-spawn of Mordor, bred but recently as fodder for the battlefield. This orc was truly an urûk of the Dark Lord, bred in long centuries past and possessed of a demonic fury. Ambarturion had slain many such creatures and knew them for what they were: cunning, calculating and cruel. Untouchable by pity or remorse, driven only by their desire to serve their Master and to harm the Elves from whom they had been bred and so hated with their very being. Yes, Ambarturion had killed many such beasts, but all he wished for his life at this moment was to feel the lifeblood of one more flowing between his fingers.

The ropes that had been cast about him dragged him to the ground, and as he fell he heard the jeers and taunts of the Men and orcs about him. He did not care for their cries, for to him it was as the calls of rats and snakes. There came to him, however, a sound that cut him to his very soul. Megilaes was weeping. His agony ripped through Ambarturion’s mind like a ragged blade through fabric and for a moment he was almost overwhelmed by the depth of his student’s grief. The brothers had been born together and in the centuries since that day had never once been apart. “Ai! Ai!,” Megilaes wailed. “Caranbaith! My brother! Where have they taken you? Where have you gone? Why can I not follow you into the darkness? But for a short time will I wander in this world of waking shadows, only until I can avenge your death and destroy the creatures that have killed you!”

“No!” Ambarturion roared to his student. “Think not of vengeance Megilaes. It will taint your mind and your soul, for you are but young yet and unused to the dangers of such temptations. Leave the vengeance of your brother’s death to me. I swear that I shall drain the blood of all the Men and orcs who stand about us this day.”

One-Eye strode forward. Whether he understood the Silvan tongue or not Ambarturion did not know, although he found it unlikely, but he clearly understood the tenor and intent of their conversation. “Shut up!” the beast roared in the Common Tongue, at the same time kicking Ambarturion in the ribs so viciously that the Elf’s very bones creaked. “Shut up, or I’ll spit the she-Elf like I did that other one!” In his hands, the orc held Ambarturion’s sword, now dull and cold. While he was clearly glad to possess it as a prize, it galled the orc greatly to be holding the instrument of so many of his people’s destruction.

Ambarturion remained silent and met the single-orbed gaze of the orc. For a moment that seemed like an hour, the noise and movement of the mob seemed stilled and the two enemies regarded one another from within the purity of their hatred. In their eyes there was neither pity nor mercy: only the undiluted desire to destroy the other, mind and body. It was Ambarturion who spoke. “I will destroy you urûk. By the Lady of the Golden Woods, I will destroy you, and your name and face will be forgotten by all who live to see the days that follow.”

The orc sneered and taunted him, but he had been made uneasy by the manner of Ambarturion’s words, for they had not been made in threat.

It was a promise.