The Ghostly Castle by Anton Pieck

Over the years, scribes and learned men of the East and West have recorded many accounts of brave, steadfast men who were reduced to a state of gibbering lunacy by the horrors which they had encountered in the Morgul Vale. To protect their realm, the sorcerer lords who ruled the valley had wrapped a veil of enchantment over the land. For almost a millennium, these cunning spells of warding had played with men's minds, divining their weaknesses and then exploiting them. The victims' doubts and trepidation would increase until pure abject terror seized their minds, twisting their perceptions and warping their senses. Now completely at the mercy of these deceiving enchantments, they could no longer fathom what was real and what was false. There were only a few, those who were made of stauncher stuff and filled with great strength of will and purpose, who could face these formidable obstacles and come out virtually unscathed. That the archives record so few of these singular individuals is a reflection of the sorry state to which the race of Men had fallen.

Enemy spies who had made their way into the valley by means of stealth and secrecy would often lose their noble resolve under the influence of these bewitchments. Sometimes men would experience hallucinations so vivid and intense that they became convinced that they were real. While camping in the forbidden vale, two intruders might be tricked by lying spell-wrought delusions. Where one man would see a beautiful woman reclining in all her nude glory on bed of wildflowers, his comrade would think that he saw a sluggish lizard sunning itself upon a rock. The pair would disagree over what they had observed, and then the argument would turn bitter and angry. Enraged, the two would fall upon each other with knives and swords until one lay dead, or they had been captured and dragged to the dungeons of Minas Morgul by the ever present uruk-hai. By the waning years of the Third Age, the men of Gondor were too frightened of the valley and surrounding mountains to venture east of the Southward Road.

Though the sentient spells could divine friend from foe to a great extent, even allies of Mordor and Minas Morgul were not wholly immune to visions and delusions. Still, though, the valley was far kinder to them, and seldom were any driven to madness or murder. The Nazgûl could hardly afford to make the valley appear too pleasant to outsiders, even their own allies, for there was always the possibility that loose tongues would wag, either by accident or under duress. The guardians of the western gate of Mordor did not wish to take that chance, and so they created spells that would intimidate even their own allies. These ancient enchantments had lain over the valley for so long that they had almost taken on a life of their own. Though acting independently in a sense, still they were powerless to change the intent of the unseen runes which summoned them forth, and ever were they under the complete control of their masters.

Perhaps the reason why Elfhild and Elffled perceived only beauty in the valley and the men saw a stark, grim landscape can never be fully explained. Maybe the sentient spells sensed that the Southrons were allies and gave them a small glimpse of the vale's inherent supernatural might as a warning against treachery. On the other hand, perhaps the spells were a source of torment to the men because of their staunch determination to deny that the valley was truly bewitched. As for the sisters, who can say? Perhaps the spells played upon their fanciful imaginations and gave them visions of loveliness instead of ones of dread. Whatever the case, while the sisters saw a magnificent city of palest alabaster surrounded by fields of lovely white poppies, the men saw a foreboding citadel surrounded by endless walls and grotesque plants which reeked of death and decay.

"What a filthy stench!" Ubri blurted out, quickly clamping his nostrils shut with his thumb and forefinger. "Nothing could smell any more like the rotting guts of a horse than these loathsome charnel weeds! Every time I have to pass through here, I feel as though I will cough out my lungs!" Clutching his throat, Ubri coughed up a thick wad of mucus and spat it towards the orc's back. When his aim fell short, he cursed and then was seized by a spasm of coughing.

"Be quiet, man!" Inbir hissed. "Do not insult their pretty flowers if you value your life and the lives of this party!" All of them had gone through enough as it was that day, and it would be just their bad luck if Ubri's grumbling remarks got them in trouble with the arrogant rulers of the valley. He did not want to be imprisoned in the infamous dungeons of Minas Morgul!

"Yes, yes, to be sure," Ubri rasped out. All he could taste was the pungent aroma of the malodorous charnel flowers, and his nose and throat stung as though they had been irritated by eating too much black pepper. "If I must, I will say that they are magnificent... but then again I do not know much about flowers. Does that suit you?"

Inbir mumbled out a resentful, "Yes," and fell silent.

Put out of sorts by that confrontation, Ubri took some of the edge out of his frustration by flicking the tresses of his whip over the orc's legs. "Maybe a little punishment to one of their wayward soldiers will give me their favor," he thought wryly. The whip made a satisfyingly loud slap as it struck the orc's legs and caused him to jump forward. As Ubri glanced briefly over his shoulder, Inbir saw the glint of cruelty in the other man's smile before he turned away.

They were almost upon the bridge when Elfhild noticed a gap in the retaining wall which ran alongside the road. Passing through the gap, a path wound its way up the mountainside and disappeared around a bend. Curious, she wondered where this road went.

Ganbar, riding behind her, cleared his throat with a cough. "I see you are gawking up at that path. You do not even want to think about going up there," he told her ominously.

"Why, Master?" she asked, fear evident in her voice.

He spat and then wiped his mouth off with his fingers. "Rumor has it that there is some kind of monster up there that will gobble up little girls like you two." Both sisters' eyes went wide and they stared back at him.

"My lord Esarhaddon," Elffled asked tremulously, "is that true? Is there a monster up there?"

"Nonsense!" he snorted. "Ganbar is just teasing you."

"Yes, my lord." Ganbar scratched a spot on his face where some sort of insect had bitten him. Frowning, he stared up at the trail. "I was only joking." He knew that if the sisters ever found out the dark truth of the Spider Pass, they would beg the slaver to take them away from the place as fast as their horses could gallop. Pity mixed with affection stirred inside him as he watched them ride ahead. "Such tender, lovely things to endure a place like this!"

As they trotted closer to the bridge, the horses pricked their ears forward. The animals tossed their heads and pulled at their bits as though they were heading to the stable and grain and water after a long and arduous ride. Much against the principles of sound horsemanship, the men let their mounts have their way. Setting their own pace, the horses lifted their legs high and stepped out in a rapid, prancing trot.

The bridge rose before them now, spanning the steaming waters of the Morgulduin. Never before had the twins seen a structure so magnificent, and they wondered who had built it. The bridge across the Anduin had been a lowly pontoon, but this bridge was strong and mighty, its piers set deep into the riverbed. Guarding both the north and south entrances of the bridge were statues of kingly men atop rearing war chargers. The twins thrilled at the strength and nobility which the master sculptor had depicted in the men's faces. Other statues lined the balustrades of the bridge, but they were far less impressive than the noble lords.

Ever inquisitive, Elfhild glanced over at Esarhaddon and dared to ask, "My lord, if you do not think me presumptuous, may I ask the names of the great kings whose likenesses are depicted in these statues?" She hoped that such an innocent question would not displease the slaver, but she was unsure what his reaction would be.

"What are you talking about?" Esarhaddon asked incredulously, a tone of scorn in his voice. "Presumptuous? You often are that, slave girl, but in this case I think that you have been influenced by inhaling the fragrance of these deadly flowers for far too long! There are no statues of kings! I see them the same as you, and the representations are of hideous demons shaped like flying serpents!"

"Master," Elffled spoke up timidly, "I, too, see wondrous statues of proud and lofty kings at the entry of the bridge." Though she preferred to keep quiet around the Southrons, she felt obligated to come to her sister's defense. Quickly she lowered her eyes, fearfully awaiting Esarhaddon's response. She wished that Elfhild would learn to keep quiet. It was best to agree with whatever the Southrons said, do whatever they wanted, never contradict them, always smile sweetly, and speak in demure tones. No one would be hurt that way, and the men would treat them with much greater kindness.

"Wenches, what sort of childish games are you attempting to play with me?" Esarhaddon bellowed. "Whatever they are, I do not find them amusing!" Unsettled by his loud voice, his mare flicked an ear questioningly back towards him. "You must put away such imaginings, or I promise you that I will take your delusions out of you with the whip!" Under his tawny skin, the slaver's face flushed red with anger, and he tapped the riding crop rapidly up and down on his thigh.

Elfhild's heart began to pound, sending blood rushing to her skull. Her breath coming quickly, she clutched at the side of her head. Her throat felt dry and constricted, and she forced herself to swallow. This was just too bizarre! Were she and her sister the ones who were hallucinating? Or did they see the valley as it truly was? What was real? What was illusion? She felt her grasp on reality slipping, leaving her disoriented and bewildered. Panicking, she burst out into tears. "My lord, are you trying to drive us both mad?" Her voice rose high and shrill. "How can both my sister and I have the same delusions? If what we see before us is not real, then what is?"

"Enough! I will hear no more of this!" Esarhaddon ordered in a tone that told her that the conversation was concluded. He was coming to the conclusion that the girl had been mad all along, even before the day that she was captured, and the stress and strain of slavery, combined with the long, arduous journey, had unstrung her mind. He had endured enough of her ranting, and refused to listen to any more. He had to tend to matters far greater than the delusional ramblings of slave girls.

Ignoring the twins, Esarhaddon stared across the river, his eyes narrowing to dark slits as he watched the progression of the somberly clad horsemen as they rode down the winding road from the city. The twins grew even more apprehensive as they watched his scowling features betray the unease that every member of the party shared. Inhaling deeply, he sat straight and tall in the saddle, his body as motionless as one of the statues. The orc could smell the raw fear in the men's sweat, and had he not been bound and in pain, he would have delighted in their terror.

"Be silent, both of you," Esarhaddon hissed, turning to each girl. "The rulers of this city are mighty warlords, great and powerful men who are stern and unyielding. Their ways are different from those of both your people and mine. They have no law save their own; they honor no one higher than themselves; and they possess the power of life and death over all who pass through their valley. Fear them!"

With those words, he kicked his mare into a canter and thundered across the bridge. Once the slaver's party was on the other side, he ordered them to halt. Setting his face straight ahead, he looked beyond his mare's head towards Minas Morgul. Even though Esarhaddon seemed calm and unperturbed, he had certain qualms about the impending meeting. He had paid all the required tolls and tariffs that guaranteed safe passage through the land, but one never knew when the rulers of the valley might turn treacherous on a whim. The other riders waited nervously as the black procession wound its way through the meadows of chimerical flowers.

Esarhaddon and all his men had encountered the Seneschal of Dushgoi before, but each time, they had been left feeling uneasy, and they were never quite certain why. They could do nothing now except wait in anxious expectation and hope they did nothing to offend the rulers of the valley. They prayed they would be allowed to leave the valley alive and unharmed, both in body and mind. Their thoughts tormented by fear and doubt, they watched in silence, no one daring even to whisper.

As the black procession wound its way through the meadows, the celadon stems, crowned with stark white blossoms, burst from the ground once again in some morbid parody of the cycle of life and death. This time, everyone in the small party beheld the pallid flowers in their demented glory, but no one dared say one word of the surreal phantasmagoria all around them. "It cannot be real... I know now that nothing here is real," Ganbar told himself and made the sign against evil behind his back.

Elfhild took a deep breath and immediately felt a dreamlike euphoria as she stared mindlessly at the animated flowers. "Lovely... so lovely," she whispered as an achingly beautiful poppy suddenly sprouted from the ground in full bloom, the petals a dark ebony shade. The cloying fragrance of the poppies filled her nostrils, clouding her mind with a murky, somnolent haze. It was as though her skull were filled with the deep purple dust which crowned the flowers' graceful, delicate stamens. Her eyelids fluttering, she held onto the pommel of the saddle and felt the most curious sensation that she was floating towards the city. Never in all of her life had she felt more carefree and happy than she did at that moment! She imagined singing and dancing through the meads as she picked bouquet after bouquet of poppies. Never again would there be sadness, despair, pain, suffering, tragedy. Never again would a good man like Tarlanc die for nothing. There would be nothing terrible and evil and savage in her life, only a sense of peaceful calm and rest. Nothing existed now except the city, the flowers, and her!

"Please forgive me," she sleepily intoned, as though one in a trance, "but give me leave to alight from my horse and walk among the flowers.... there is a black one for which I have taken a fancy and wish to keep..."

She leaned out far over the saddle and her fingertips grazed a black petal. She giggled with joy as she felt its softness beneath her fingers. A wave of darkness passed over her and she fell into blissful oblivion, sliding from the saddle to land among the pale white flowers of the Morgul Vale.

NOTES

Art Credit:

The Ghostly City by Anton Pieck

Gathering Flowers by Elisabeth Sonrel