In Dorthonion
The Broken Ouroboros
So, he was running.
Mairon smiled and bellowed a laugh.
Angrod was a coward, but he was no fool. This fortress was no longer defensible, the Maia’s forces had surrounded and overwhelmed the defenses in a matter of hours. He held dominion here on land and in the air. Only a paltry force remained to guard the citadel, elves and men meant to throw their lives away to grant
Angrod and his followers a chance to escape. Mairon watched from his position on the upheaved earthen pillar as a force of a dozen or so brightly armored elves burst from the gate. For a moment, the desperate ferocity of their attack drove his forces back. They formed a wedge and pushed into the orcs, cutting through them like a scythe through wheat. The air was then filled with musical voices, high and clear. The elves were singing, even within the castle there came a sound of instruments and melody such as he had not heard since the days before the world was formed. The sound dismayed his forces. The orcs stumbled before the wedge as it gained more and more ground. But then it stopped. The orcs fell back, running, skittering, fleeing. All except one. Mairon peered through his visor at the lone figure, armored in scarlet and midnight. The figure was slighter than most orcs, wiry and sinewy. Two hook swords were in his hands. There was a tense moment, a pregnant pause before the figure whirled forward, the twin blades spinning like a whirlwind.
Mairon watched as he dodged the elven spears, darting inside their reach and slicing away at his opponents. A shield wall was attempted but the orc, or whatever it was, simply bounded up and over the wall, landing behind them. Mairon couldn’t see everything the thick haze of smoke and ash, but he heard the lyrical singing voices turn to horrified screams. One by one, the defenders fell. The figure moved so quickly and with such dexterity that no spear or sword was able to get close to him. His hooked blades turned opponents aside then ripped through armor and flesh like parchment. There was very little beauty in the works of the Elder King, but this thing, whoever it was, was a thing of beauty. Mairon had seen such swordsmanship from only a handful of individuals.
The tide of the battle turned once more. The defenders were caught outside the gate and slaughtered, the scarlet armored warrior leading the charge. The orcs surged forward again, moving like an angry tide.
Carníheniel chittered gleefully at his side, rubbing her gore smeared legs together in anticipation. She clambered down from her perch on his shoulder and re-entered the fray. He soon lost sight of her but could hear her victims’ screams. She had learned how to make her victims suffer and how to feed on the energy of that suffering. She would someday surpass her sire, Mairon knew, in terms of size, cruelty, and power. He could follow her path into the fortress by the sounds of ripping and tearing flesh, bones being pulled apart rather than broken, skulls being crunched by eight powerful legs, brains to turned soup by her wasting poison. The way she killed was a work of art. One elf lay completely untouched save for a mass of webbing so thick around his face that he suffocated.
High above him, he heard the screeching of the Prince of the Lower Aerial Kingdoms. Four-winged
Pazuzu wheeled about overhead, careening toward one of the castle’s despondent towers. The demon hurled himself bodily into the tower; it exploded with a sound like a great iron gong.
Pazuzu’s shrieking cry rose above the tumult.
Mairon finally moved forward, his legs carrying him swiftly over the killing fields, bodies packed so tightly together in a killing press that he could use them as a walkway. The gates were shattered, wood and iron twisted and bent until they no longer resembled anything like a gate. The great Maia sorcerer strode through and entered the forsaken domain of his quarry,
Angrod. The screams and the sounds of battle were growing dimmer and dimmer as few and few of the defenders were left to stand.
Out of the gloom, strode the figure from before, the one armored in scarlet and carrying two hook swords. He was covered head to toe in blood and gore, his twin blades shone like hungry stars. His grin was wide and savage. “The castle is ours, Your Grace.” His voice was not the rough, guttural sound of the orcs but rather a sophisticated vibrato. His eyes gleamed angry and red.
“Who are you, soldier? You are no orc, that is clear.”
The solider dropped to a knee and held his blades outstretched on the scorched earth. “I am called
Fleeg. I am no orc. I am a goblin.
The goblin, Your Grace.”
Mairon lifted his helmet from his face, his blood red hair spilling down his shoulders like cascade of blood. He smiled. “Rise,
Fleeg. You have done well today. You turned the tide, I think.”
The goblin stood, but kept his head bowed. “All it takes to stop a raging bull is a thick enough wall. I was that wall today.”
“You are one of
Swiltang’s, aren’t you?”
The goblin looked up again, red eyes gleaming. “I am. He is a masterful teacher.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant,” replied the goblin.
Mairon considered the creature for a moment. He had heard about this being’s creature but had never seen him in action until now.
Melkor commissioned some of his magician-torturers to create a new breed of soldier, something smaller and more compact. They tried a hundred times to create something satisfactory and failed until they created
Fleeg. Rumors abounded at his creation and the “proprietary blend” of elf, boldog, orc, and nameless thing that made him. And rumors were all there was ever going to be.
Fleeg had killed his creators, torn them apart so that nothing like him could be made again. But that was only the half of it. Eleven others had been made alongside
Fleeg, none as powerful or as strong. He took the weakest amongst the goblins and experimented on him, tearing him apart bit by bit to see what made him tick. From the knowledge he gained, he built an entire force of goblins, all looking to him as their lord and master. “Carry on then. I’ll leave you in charge of the destruction of this place. I want every stone and tree uprooted here. Nothing that the starspawn created and grew here is to be left standing. If we are to build, we must build anew.”
“What of the elves?” the goblin asked.
“You will have need of rations,” the Maia said matter-of-factly.
The goblin nodded and scurried away, barking orders to the soldiers that had begun to mill about, shouting curses at them to get moving.
Mairon nodded his approval.
Master, may I stay? The voice inside his head was silky smooth and filled with glee.
Yes, my child. Stay and feast, spin your webs and drink your fill.
It was good that
Carníheniel wanted to stay. He would be moving at great pace with his army and she was not yet large enough to keep up as she needed to. She would be of much more use here, tearing out the rotting infestation of the elves and rebuilding and remolding this place into the images they so craved.
Thank you, I shall not disappoint you.
Mairon strode through the remains of the fortress, inspecting the destruction. Chains were being wrapped around towers and pulled down, trees were being uprooted and thrown in the fires, fueling the ash that blotted out the chariot of
Arien.
Pazuzu descended from the sky, folding his upper pair of wings over his eyes as he made obeisance.
Mairon stood and regarded him. The Prince of Lower Arial Kingdoms was a fickle creature, once a spirit of the air, now a dæmonical claimant over the dominion of the skies. He would ally sometimes with
Thuringwethil but often he would serve his own end rather than anyone else’s. He drew back his wings and sheathed his twisted greatsword, the Evershriek. “My spies tell me that
Angrod is moving off toward Ladros. He is looking to meet with his sibling, I think.” The demon spoke with an odd clicking sound. His face was almost that of an Eldar’s save his mouth which formed a monstrous vulture like beak. His eyes were black pits. His body was well proportioned with his limbs ending in prodigious talons.
Mairon nodded. He had guessed as much but the wind lord’s confirmation meant he needed to make all haste. “Gather your forces then, we march to Ladros then. I want to catch the princeling before he and his brother are able to join their forces. Go!”
The massive creature’s wings unfolded again, and he ascended into the heavens. His shriek sent a shockwave through the castle. The skies then burst into answering calls. A gale of wings ripped through sky then vanished, leaving the world strangely quiet for a half moment.
Mairon put his helmet back on and called with his Voice, mimicking the sound of a great celestial trumpet, calling his forces to move. He had an appointment in Ladros he meant to keep.