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One month later: Dol Guldur, Southern
Mirkwood
The gray-robed figure carefully made its way through
the underbrush. Although he had his sword drawn, Gandalf knew that secrecy was
his best weapon here. He had made his way through masses of orcs and other evil
creatures with the help of his magic but the closer he got the more dangerous
that was and now that he stood at the entrance, the wizard was well aware that
any use of magic would give away his presence invariably.
The construction was a massive dark perverted form of
a tower with countless chimneys spitting sooty smoke and unhealthy fumes,
gutters from which stinking liquids poured forth, pooling in repulsive ponds
all around. And like a heavy cloud the foreboding of evil laid over this part
of Greenwood the
Great. Gandalf could feel it and he knew immediately this was not the doing of
a Nazgul.
This was bigger.
Sauron?
Well, he would never find out if he stayed outside,
would he? Fastening his grip around both staff and sword Gandalf waited for the
sun to come out. In the light of day the creatures of darkness would hide and
it would be easier to enter.
+++
Inside it was dark, cold and damp. Gandalf could hear
the turning of big wheels, the throbbing of large hammers and the further he
progressed into the maze of corridors the more he felt as if something
inhibited his steps. All those hallways were dimly lit with torches dripping
with tar and filling the air with burning smoke, obscuring sight more than they
helped. Gandalf chose his path purely on his sensing of evil that was as clear
to him as was a red thread spun along his way. Meandering through hallways, up
and down until the Istar had lost the last remains of orientation he suddenly
faced a large double-door, made of black wood
It was more instinct than
anything else that made Gandalf flinch. That and a good nose - the creature's
stench was betraying its silent
approach. Unsheathing Glamdring as he jumped aside, Gandalf spun around to face
the foe. The sword glittered coldly for a moment, the sparks flew as the wizard
parried the blow of an iron mace.
The orc growled, trying to
evade a false attack and thus more or less throwing itself into the sword's
deadly arc as it came hissing through the air, cutting flesh and breaking bone.
One orc was no opponent for Gandalf who had by now been trained in combat for
years by the best elven warriors. Glorfindel had taught him the somewhat meaner
moves that now should indeed come in handy for the first time.
Stepping over the foul
corpse, Gandalf proceeded even more careful than before, with almost elven-like
stealth and a grace that seemed so unfitting to his appearance. Peeking around
another corner he saw a small troll.
Altogether, Gandalf was
surprised how little the defenses inside Dol Guldur were. //I guess like any
dog even he cannot see his own throat.// The troll seemed stationary but
solitaire, so Gandalf decided to charge.
The troll was quite another
caliber than the orc and swung a giant club made of iron, adorned with spikes
with such ease that Gandalf wondered if it weight anything at all. The wizard
escaped two blows by hair's breadth before he struck successfully for the first
time, slicing the troll's left arm. The wound was not deep and the troll
right-handed, so the strike did not
matter at all - except that it enraged the creature even more. Driving the
wizard back the way he had come the troll pinned Gandalf in a corner. The Istar
parried a deadly blow. The sword's vibrations went through his arm and he
almost dropped the weapon with a loud groan. Club sliding slowly along the
blade, the troll could not understand why this figure was so strong.
Gandalf concentrated, then
suddenly ducked - the club tore shards from the wall behind and Glamdring was
thrust deep into the evil creature's bowels with a war-cry of Gandalf's.
Ripping out the blade again he severed the right arm from the doubling-over
troll and then decapitated it.
Not taking time to dress
his wounds Gandalf set out on his path again. His sword-arm hurt from the blow
parried earlier, it was probably broken, cracked it was for certain.
Eventually he reached a
double-winged door made of black wood and enforced with bands of black iron. It
was unlike the other doors, not crude orc-craft had worked it, but somebody
else. It was hot to the touch and first Gandalf could not determine the style
but then found it did resemble Numenorian work.
No handle was to be found,
no lock, nothing that would hint at how to open the large, heavy doors. Gandalf
pressed his palm against it, amazed that it opened effortlessly despite it's
size.
Ever so careful did the wizard take a step inside.
Then another. And another. Nothing happened. A look around revealed that
Gandalf stood in a vast room with a domed ceiling. A room that was completely
empty! A strange sense of foreboding let his hair stand on end.
Then it happened: a soft breeze brushed his face and a
low whisper was carried on the slight move of air. The whisper grew louder,
into a hollow laughter that seemed to come from every direction.
“Now, who are you?” the disembodied voice roared its
amusement, the sudden gust of wind tearing at Gandalf’s robes.
“A mere traveler, lost and weary.” The bent old man
answered. “Who are you? Will you not show yourself?”
“Do I not know you? It deems me...” the hot wind
whirled around the Istar, faster and faster until he was being spun around
“hmmmm..... ah, yes! Mwahahaha, it is YOU, Olorin!” all of a sudden Gandalf was
released and he stumbled and fell roughly onto the ground while the voice
laughed hysterically.
“Is that all they can muster? The fool, the dreamer,
the coward, the soft heart? Have you come to rescue me, Olorin?” the voice was
still shaking with laughter.
Gandalf, who had realized who he was facing here,
struggled to his feet. “Nay. You are hopeless. Had I known it was you, I would
not have wasted my time coming here.”
“Well, well, now that you have come – I would have
that body of yours. It is ugly yet still better than none. Will you leave
voluntarily?”
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”
The voice laughed and then roared a spell that hit
Gandalf like a hard fist. The wizard gasped for air and straightened again. He
had not awaited such a sudden strike. Now he countered, confronting his
opponent with a powerful incantation, but he couldn’t even finish before it was
parried, slamming the gray-haired figure into the wall. Gandalf’s cracked bone
finally gave and he cried out in pain. He needed a moment to compose himself
and the invisible fiend did not hesitate to take advantage of the situation.
Gandalf had never been the bravest, strongest or most
courageous one. What let him stand out among his kin was his compassion, his
patience and his unconditional love for the people of Arda. None of the Valar
had forseen that of all Isari sent, it would be Olorin to face Sauron, ever!
The pull was painful, excruciatingly so, as Gandalf’s
spirit was being driven out of his body. With a last effort he forced his body
to stand and then the wizard started to sing. Evoking the brightness of the
Trees and the goodness of the Valar. Drawing strength for himself from that
song, Gandalf focused on his love for the elves, for Curumo, drawing power from
that emotion and his chant changed, from the creative power of love he shifted
to a terrible note of destruction in his final attempt to stop the annihilation
of all he loved, adored and had pledged to protect.
Sauron countered. Although still too weak to assume a
physical form, the Maia was a powerful being who had learned many evil things
of grand power from Melkor. Such was their duel that the foundations of Dol
Guldur were shaking and when Gandalf realized he would not be able to withstand
another rune, a shrill shriek was heard, a final gust of wind threw the wizard
to the ground.
Silence.
To his amazement he was not forced from his carnal
hull! For a long time he laid in the dark, feeling the confusion around him.
++++
Gandalf did not know how much time had passed when he
exited the dark building. His hair disheveled, wild around his head, the broken
arm dangling twisted and useless at his side, blood running from his nose and
many wounds on his body. He found it hard to breathe and guessed he had at
least one rib broken. At some point he had lost his boots and the acid rain
burnt his skin and soaked his clothes until he was wet to the bone. He crawled
more than walked, away, only away from this place he wanted to go. He found a
cave and crawled inside, his mind drifting into a state of trance, leaving
behind his battered body and the pain.
TBC...
