Over a month before tragedy befell the old miller and the two sisters in the Druadan Forest, another incident had unfolded in the skies above Anórien. These events, which seemed inconsequential at the time, would in the future prove to have dire ramifications for all those involved.
En route from the Westfold to Barad-dûr, night of May 24 , 3019 Third Age
Had it not been for Gorthaur's cloud of gloom, the night would have been one filled with beauty, touched with the velvety caress of darkness. Far above the dismal miasma, there still existed loveliness and tranquility, untouched by the Dark Lord's malice. The silver globe of the waxing moon proclaimed that magic time meant for lovers, romance and tender emotions. However, neither the gentle cooings and sighings of lovers in the first flush of love, nor the furtive trystings and ardent love battles of adultery's elicit liaisons had been on Skri's mind when he had set out upon his journey to Barad-dûr. The Eighth Nazgûl, the messenger of the Witch-king, had been entrusted with the routine delivery of mail, both to Barad-dûr and to Minas Morgul, and his mind was solely upon that obligation. Loikhâl, his fell beast, a large male, was a reliable mount, and so Skri rode leisurely in the saddle, one leg draped over the pommel as he carried out his monotonous duty.
The silence of the moon-drenched night was broken only by the sounds of Loikhâl's steadily beating wings, snorts and the noisy rumblings of his extensive digestive tract. The solitude was not oppressive to Skri, for he preferred to be alone. His absence from the hustle and excitement of the military camp gave him the opportunity to contemplate. As the beast carried him on his way ever closer to Barad-dûr, Skri brought his silver flute out of its leather case and serenaded the memory of his dead love, a dark-haired, ivory-skinned Gondorian lady who had long ago slipped away into the hands of Eru.
So absorbed was he with his bittersweet melodies, that he gave little thought to the two messages contained in his mail dispatch satchel. Both written by the Morgul King, one letter was destined for the Master in Barad-dûr, while the other one was earmarked for Kalus, the seneschal of the City of the Wraiths. Though Skri did not know the contents of either missive, he had a strong suspicion that the one meant for the seneschal had something to do with his king's latest infatuation. His guess was correct, for in his missive the Morgul Lord had ordered that Elfhild daughter of Eadbald was to be abducted from the slavers who held her. She was to be delivered to certain chambers in the city which the king had set aside to receive girls who had caught his attention.
The unknown woman was none of Skri's concern, though. What was important was the safe delivery of the mail to its appointed recipients and his return with the dispatch satchel back to the field. He took in a deep breath and blew through the flute's chamber, drawing from the instrument a melody of deep, soulful longing. The flute sang joyfully as Skri recalled his lover's beautiful heart-shaped face, her long, lustrous hair which hung to her hips, her plump, desirable body, the loving glow of her eyes when she saw him coming towards her, and the graceful way she moved.
As Skri relived the nights when he had held his dead love close to his heart and tenderly pressed his cool lips against hers, his flute gave voice to his bittersweet reflections. The melody was filled with magic, and should there be any listener, he would have heard what he wanted to hear - the mournful wind wailing through the trees, the song of a lonely night bird, the gurgling of a pristine stream. Skri sighed deeply, tempted to sing a mournful dirge of his deep yearning for her. He dared not do that, though, lest someone hear his anguished keening from the ground and know of his presence above the cloud.
He remembered his despair as day by day he perceived that her soul was slipping away from him. Though he devised one sustaining spell after another, his great magic could not transfuse her dying body and give her eternal life... at least not without a terrible price which he would never have her pay. Then when at last he could no longer hold her to the earth, she had died in his arms, gasping out her undying love for him in her last breaths. After she had closed her eyes for the last time, Skri laid down his flute, refusing to look at it. He had even forsaken his great organ, which took up a whole chamber in his quarters.
As she lay in final repose upon the marble bier, Skri had picked her up, embracing her, holding her in his arms and kissing her lips. Stripping the diamond drenched shroud from her beautiful body, his long fingers had caressed her closed eyelids, her pallid lips, the pale ruby tips of her nipples, her white breasts, the contour of her blanched stomach, the dark sepulcher between her thighs, and the ivory columns of her legs. Choking out an anguished groan, he fell into silence and climbed onto the bier beside her. He willed himself to fall into a death-mimicking state of rigid torpor. Not until the Morgul Lord had finally commanded him with a harsh spell some years later did Skri awaken from his self-imposed death trance.
At moments like this, the flute became his anguished soul. As his mind filled with pain and bitterness, the song plummeted to the depths of sorrow, wailing in a dirge of mourning. One drop after another of his argent tears splashed upon the surface of the flute. His fingers resting immobile on the instrument, he softly sang,
Thy silent lips, pale rubies in an ivory setting,
No longer sigh and murmur thy love in my ear
As when the blood flowed living through thy veins
But you, oh my adored one, in death are just as dearI draw away the silver cloth bedewed with diamonds
And behold the beauty of thy form preserved from strife
I marvel at the bewitchment that denies the worm
And lie with thee upon thy bier in death as I did in life
As Skri composed one poem after another about the joys of necrophilia with his dead lover, he recited his verses to Loikhâl. The creature listened complacently, never commenting as together they journeyed through the moonlit night.
While Skri had been versing eloquent with his poems, unknown to him another dark winged beast was aloft in the skies and approaching him and his beast. Earlier that evening, Rut, the Sixth Nazgûl, had turned his fell beast loose so that it might have the opportunity to hunt and feed before morning. The creature, a female, was in a state of aroused anxiety, her whole body tingling with an urgency to be bred. She ached to be sated, appeased of her urgent desires to mate. Her heat cycle was at its peak, and she was exuding all the fetid amatory odors common to her kind. Allowing her to have the freedom of the night was a relief to the Sixth Nazgûl. While her smell was an intoxicating one to the male of the species, Rut's sensitive nostrils found the stench nauseating.
The female screamed her need into the skies, and quivered as she caught the scent of a male beast. Her nostrils flared wide and red as she dipped her wings lower, adjusting her course as she followed his rank odor. Beating her wings at a furious pace, she called out a bleating moan for relief. Skri's male heard the sound and bellowed out a reply, telling the ripe female that he was randy and ready. Closing in on Skri and his beast, she flew down below them, trying to entice Loikhâl to follow her. As he caught her lusty mating scent, reeking of decaying flesh and the stench of a fetid swamp, he trumpeted frantically.
"Damn it, Loikhâl!" Skri growled. "We do not have time for such nonsense!" His beast groaned mournfully and then suddenly surged forward in a totally unexpected burst of energy. Unprepared for the rapid acceleration, Skri almost let his flute slip from his fingers. He must not lose this flute, for it was too dear to him! Tearing open the flap on the mail satchel strapped to the pommel of his saddle, he thrust the flute inside. There was no time to secure it closed, however, for Loikhâl was almost completely out of control, and Skri needed to exert his will to bring him back under his power. Gurgling and desperately bleating out her mating call, the female flew under Skri's aroused beast. The sound must have had a great erotic appeal for Loikhâl, for with a strong jerk of his head, he yanked the reins out of Skri's hand.
Shocked by Loikhâl's swiftness and determination, Skri was unable to concentrate his will upon the mount. The Nazgûl was momentarily addled and disoriented, his mind disbelieving what was happening. Then as the female dropped in altitude, moving towards the earth, Loikhâl followed her, thundering out cries boasting of his potency. One hand clutching the pommel, Skri reached forward, grabbing for the reins, but they were hopelessly beyond his reach.
The creature was going far too fast, and Skri's position in the saddle was none too stable. When the beast gave a wicked twist to the right in pursuit of the female, Skri felt himself sliding sideways out of the saddle. "Damn! Damn! Damn!" Skri shouted. Clinging desperately with one hand, his legs dangling in the air, Skri watched as the ground drew ever closer. He must not let himself panic; he must direct his will towards getting back in the saddle, he told himself over and over. Calling upon the power of his Ring to direct his mind, finally he was able to claw his way up the saddle and toss his leg over the cantle.
Just in time, too, for at that moment, the female flopped over in midair, doing a slow circular twist, and Loikâl copied her movement in the aerial mating dance, flying as close to her as he could. As the two beasts cavorted in mid-air, the black bags containing the messages tumbled out of the open mail satchel and plummeted towards the ground.
"My flute! My flute!" Skri shrieked as he watched his beloved instrument fall towards the earth.
Righting herself out of the somersault, the female soared skyward with Loikhâl right behind her. One bellowing roar after the other tore out of the randy male's mouth, and the female answered him with murmuring coos. Loikhâl stretched his neck forward, his huge maw opening as he tried to bite the female's rump. The she-beast twisted her body over suddenly, rolling into another somersault, before straightening her course and gliding towards the earth. Loikhâl gasped and panted, thundered and roared, as he swooped down after her. His mouth was gaping as he tried to near her and rub his snout over her vent. Inhaling his fetid stench, the female squealed in pleasure as his long, forked tongue tickled her pulsating opening.
"You think I am going to let you mate her right here in the air, do you not, my handsome, roguish Loikhâl? You foolish beast! Save your nuptial dance for another day!" Skri shrieked, sounding much like a beast himself. His lips curling back ghoulishly, the Nazgûl directed his will to the mind of his lusty beast and punished him with a bedeviling vision of torment. As Loikhâl screamed out his terror, dark illusions filled his mind - he was lying upon the ground wounded. Ringed about by other fell beasts who gathered around him like giant vultures, the creature whimpered piteously as his eyes were gouged out and great, ripping teeth tore his flesh to pieces.
Once again under Skri's power, Loikhâl became docile, bendable to his master's will. Skri tapped him on one shoulder, the signal for the beast to rise skyward. As the immense creature flapped his wings in great, powerful strokes, the female rose to fly side by side with him, grunting out an appeal to her lover to fly away with her, where they might copulate in peace away from the Nazgûl.
Turning his eyes towards the female, Skri began to chant, the volume of his voice neither rising nor lowing, the pitch the same, monotonously intoning over and over the same arcane words. The female's mouth burst open in a horrifying wail as her body shuddered in pain. The male cried out in sympathy, but Skri once again filled his mind with a twisting, agonizing scene of his still living body skewered with a metal stake and roasting slowly over a fire. Orcs danced and sang around the gruesome spit as Loikhâl felt the fat running out from the pores in his body and sizzling in the flames.
When Skri had finished chanting, Loikhâl, his simple mind racked with pain and suffering, glanced at the female and saw her in a far different light. No longer did she seem a desirable fecund female, open and ready for mating, emitting the intoxicating fragrance of decaying intestines. Instead, she had turned into a huge, old monster of an amorous male who first roared at him, belching out flames which singed the first layer of his horny scales, and then tried to mount him. Revolted and terrified, Loikhâl hissed out a rebuke to her and then ignored her completely until finally she gave up and flew away in the opposite direction.
Skri chuckled softly. Of course, he had not transformed the female into a male. She suffered only from the Spell of Undesirability and Loathing. No male would near her until the spell wore off, and she would have to endure her urgent need to be filled with procreative seed. Within the next few days, the bewitchment would pass, but by then, the female would no longer be in heat.
Smiling with gruesome perversity, Skri whispered ominously, "Do that again, Loikhâl, and I will send you to Mandos. You can entertain the elves of the Undying Lands with your antics and aerial acrobatics." Spurring Loikhâl in the sides, Skri felt him shudder as the beast groaned pathetically. "You have made me late, and, damn your recalcitrant hide, you caused me to lose both the mail and my flute! Now I must find them!"
Guiding his beast to the ground, Skri cursed as he dismounted. He had spent the past hour scouring the countryside for the lost letters and flute. After backtracking the path of his beast, Skri at last located the place where his mail bag had spilled out its contents. As he walked towards his destination, his fell beast lumbering behind him, Skri halted and looked up into a hawthorn tree.
"Challenges, Loikhâl, why must there always be challenges?" Skri mused out loud as he studied the dilemma he faced. About ten feet up in the hawthorn tree, Skri saw a scrap of black, its red and gold threads clearly visible. A little further down was another silk pouch, also ripped and fluttering in the breeze. Upon the ground, deep within the tangled grove, were the two tubes. At least they were intact. Skri was almost exultant, but where was the flute? Then he saw it, there about ten feet away from the tree, his precious flute shattered into two pieces, and both those pieces dented and bent. Skri's temples were pounding as he put his hand to his forehead and wept.
He felt a delicate touch upon the back of his neck, where Loikhâl was licking him with his forked tongue. The beast burbled out in sympathy and would have laid his head upon his master's shoulder, would his weight not have crushed him.
"Go away, foolish beast!" Skri closed his eyes tightly and growled. "Leave me to my misery!" The tongue left his neck and Loikhâl burbled consolingly.
It was a simple matter to retrieve the damaged scraps of brocade from the tree; Skri simply intoned a spell of retrieval and the two pieces came fluttering down to his grasp. To mend the material, he cast another spell which caused the broken fibers to rejoin again. Skri considered it a rather trivial bit of magic, but in this case, it had worked out wonderfully.
Many years ago, the Morgul Lord had been faced with a puzzling problem. Often, in the heat of passion, he had become so aroused that he would rip the clothing from his concubines' bodies. However, his women had became enraged with this wanton destruction of their costly garments, and had implored him to devise a spell of mending. The spellcraft was an easy enough task to accomplish, but far more importantly, its development had restored peace in his harem.
The flute, however, was another matter, for the skilled craftsman who had made the instrument was long dead. While Skri was an accomplished musician, he was no maker of flutes, but perhaps after studying the manufacturing of the instrument long enough, he might be able to come up with a spell that would mend the flute. Still, Skri was not certain that this feat would ever be accomplished, for the man who had made it had put part of his soul into the silver, and so the flute was almost a living entity.
Now Skri had found both tubes and repaired their pouches, but which tube went with which bag? Without their distinctive coverings designating them for either the Tower or Minas Morgul, he had no way of knowing for whom they had been meant. He considered opening the tubes, but they were warded with powerful spells. Woe unto the one who dared tamper with them, for his identity would be revealed when the tubes had been received.
Racking his memory, he tried to recall in which bag the Morgul Lord had placed each tube. Though the tubes were all very much alike, there were subtle differences in the color and texture of the wood. Musing a while, Skri intoned a spell which would clear his mind, improve his concentration, and hopefully aid his memory. Assured that he had selected the right tube, he wrapped both of them in their designated black silk pouches Confident in his sorcery, he placed the wrapped tubes back in the mail satchel and secured the flap. He remounted his beast and was quickly in the air, heading towards Barad-dûr.
When Kalus at last found the opportunity to read his mail, the messenger had been gone for hours. The Seneschal sat down at his immense writing desk, a gift given to him by the Dey of Umbar. The desk was made of walnut and inlaid with bone and strips of maple, and was so large that it resembled a small wardrobe. Almost every square inch of the desk was covered with ornate designs of geometric shapes, stars, daisies and poppies surrounded by ivy, and fruit intermingled with other vining plants. There were small drawers and doors to a myriad of cubbyholes at the top, and four large doors in the bottom. When he wanted to use his desk, Kalus would pull down a large polished writing board, and when he was finished, he would simply lift the board up and latch it closed, hiding the top drawers in the process. Though the Dey was little more than a cutthroat and pirate, the gift displayed impeccable taste with the style showing definite Haradric influences. The Seneschal had grown quite fond of the desk, for it was a break from the usual Númenórean renaissance furniture commonly seen in the Morgul Lord's household.
The Seneschal removed the wooden scroll tube from the black brocaded bag. Uncapping the tube, he drew out the scroll, unfolded it and began to read. Pausing, he blinked several times to make sure that he was correctly seeing the calligraphy upon the parchment. But, yes, he saw correctly - this message was addressed to the Great Master in the Tower. Skri must have delivered the wrong message!
"This report of the march must be delivered to the Master posthaste," Kalus told the Silent Servant who stood with hands clasped over his waist, the long dangling sleeves of his black robe overlapping like a shroud-like muff.
The seemingly fathomless black hood fell forward in a slight nod as the servant took the scroll tube from the Seneschal. The message would be given to a horseman who was to ride with all speed to the remount station at Utot-Dalbutot in Gorgoroth, and then with a fresh mount, proceed towards Barad-dûr.
Kalus only hoped that the missive that Skri was supposed to deliver to the city was not something of utmost secrecy which the Dark Lord should not know. "Probably the letter pertains to some mundane business of the city," the Seneschal tried to console himself.
Chortling softly to himself, the Dark Lord poured over the dispatch for the third time and then glanced up. "So the little kinglet, puffed up with his own importance and deluded with visions of grandeur, seeks to stock his seraglio once again with budding nymphlets of delight. Instead of dallying and diddling with every pretty female whom he encounters, the Witch-king should be directing his will solely towards winning the war! His blundering messenger has most opportunely betrayed his captain and delivered unto Me a most intriguing letter! This missive is proof of the Witch-king's indiscretions! He shall suffer the Torment of a Thousand Flagellations, howling in misery as he feels the flesh ripped from his body!" Reflections of His divine anger, Sauron's eyes blazed like the fiery core of the Mountain of Doom.
"My divine Lord, as much as I would enjoy wielding my fiery flail upon his delectable buttocks, I think that Thou art judging him too harshly in this circumstance. After all, the Lord of the Nine can never aspire to being anything more than the wretched creature which he is - a weak mortal man doomed to die." The beauteous spirit by Sauron's side laughed haughtily and tossed her coppery mane, which coruscated and sparkled like tiny pinpoints of fire. "Take pity upon his corporality, Dearest of the Gods!"
"His mind should be upon the war and upon Me," Gorthaur repeated, scowling petulantly. Drumming His black fingers on the arm of His throne, He looked up at the spirit of flame, whose emerald eyes were bringing a scorching heat to His loins as they impudently mocked Him.
"Oh, my Fair Lord, Most Just of All the Gods, the poor little king is humorous, really he is." Bending her head down, the fiery enchantress licked the pointed tip of Sauron's left ear and ran her long fingers seductively through His sable mane.
"Nároméra, do not try to cajole Me. Thou wilt simply have no success in turning Me from the course I must pursue! The Wraith Lord is absolutely sickening this time, utterly revolting in his pathetic attempts to gain love! He - whom I have raised so high - seeks love from everyone, from the highest of royalty to the lowliest beggar - but continually rejects it from Me! Not that I care, of course," Sauron muttered sullenly, His voice betraying the deep hurt he felt by his chief servant's continuing rejection. "I am above petty jealousy and do not care how many females he takes to his bed! However, there is a place and time for everything, and now is neither the time nor place for carnal escapades! Has he forgotten that a war is in progress?" the Dark Lord thundered, slamming his fist down on the arm of his chair.
"Oh, sweet Lord, Thou must not allow the foolish antics of Thy servant to cause Thee to be overcome by such fury." Her voice drenched with cloying honey, Nároméra stroked the whipcord-tight muscles of Sauron's bare chest, her fingers splaying wide as they drifted over the steel studs of His black nipples. "Dost Thou not see the mirth in all this? Have a bit of sport by withholding the letter from the Seneschal of Minas Morgul! Thou canst mimic the hand of the Morgul Lord and send a different letter to the Seneschal. He shall never have any inkling of the missive that was intercepted due to the carelessness of the messenger."
"And what, pray tell, My lovely goddess, shall I say in this letter?" Sauron demanded sulkily, irritated that Nároméra showed far too much concern for the Nazgûl Lord's plight for it to be merely a casual interest. He had always suspected that she was more attracted to the Nazgûl than she would ever admit. When the Witch-king was at Barad-dûr, her eyes always betrayed her as she watched his every move, licking her lips like a tigress eying her prey. She lusted for him, damn her!
"Oh, whatever Thy heart desires, Most Beloved Lord of the Flames of the Earth. Surely it would be most amusing if Thou, mimicking the hand of thy servant, the King of Morgul, compose an official missive in which the Seneschal is commanded to purchase some utterly useless, nonsensical thing. It would be a merry jest!" Nároméra leaned forward enticingly, her bosom pressed tightly against His shoulder blades, as her hand crept down to rub against the rock hard muscles of His stomach.
"What, Nároméra, what?" Sauron's eyelids lowered until they were mere slits, his fiery eyes glowing like raging coals.
"Oh, let us be utterly whimsical, Majesty," she whispered, her breath hot against His ear. "Though he does not know it, the Morgul King shall purchase ninety-nine boxes of the finest marzipan pears and ninety-nine boxes of lokum from the best candy-maker in all of Harad. Nine pieces of each confection shall be wrapped in a handkerchief of the finest silk which is embroidered with tiny pear trees planted in decorative pots. These bundles shall be distributed to the nobles of the Morgul court and the highest ranking members of the city guard. A grand holiday shall be proclaimed in Minas Morgul and all must enjoy themselves, by order of the king. Hmmm," she mused, tapping a lovely long fingernail against her chin, "perhaps there could even be a dance after a grand banquet to which everyone is invited."
"Nároméra, the Seneschal will think that the Morgul Lord has gone mad!"
"Ohh, but there is more!" she
fairly gushed. "It must be impressed upon the seneschal that
he is not to divulge a single word of the letter to anyone, nor
is he to reply to the letter or refer to the celebration in any
other missive, until the king himself returns to the city. Emphasize
the utter secrecy that must be utilized. By the time the war is
over, the thrill of victory shall be foremost on everyone's mind,
and the whole incident will be forgotten."
His black eyebrows arched, Sauron looked askance at Nároméra.
"That is the most preposterous thing I have heard for at
least a millennium! Wherever dost thou get such ideas, Nároméra?
Thou generally offer Me sound advice!"
"And I have presented to Thee the opportunity for a fine jest, my Lord. Perhaps not a dance or a banquet, but Thou canst have a great joke at the Witch-king's expense." Nároméra's laughter rang out in the Great Hall, tinkling like playful little bells.
"Absolutely capricious, Nároméra; only one who had chosen to take the form of a female could ever have thought of it. Still, there is some merit in it." Thoughtfully stroking His chin, the Dark Lord fell into deep contemplation. "Aye, I am beginning to understand thy sly cunning and the wiliness of thy mind. The Witch-king will think that his coveted slave girl is being delivered to his chambers, there to wait for him in yearning languor until the end of the war. Instead, I will have the girl seized and brought to the Tower, where I will have her taken to My bed so that I can enjoy her thoroughly." Sauron's black tongue uncoiled itself from his mouth and slid over his lips. "There she will know the passion and grandeur of a God before she dies!"
"But, my Lord," Nároméra purred smoothly, "would it not be far more painful for the Witch-king to discover that when the war is over that his beloved little treasure has been condemned to a life of slavery? Thou knowst how lusty are the men of the South, and the maid wilt surely go from one master to another to be used for their pleasure. What could be a more fitting retribution for this girl who has aroused the Witch-king's loins and taken his attention from the war?"
The diabolical spirit of fire smiled sweetly, her jealousy masked beneath layers of syrupy pretense. While Sauron was not the best lover that she had ever had - sometimes she thought that the Lord of Flame was scarcely worth her time - she could not bear the thought of another female usurping her rightful place with the King of the Earth. She had enough troubles with that damned fluttery strumpet Thuringwethil.
"Thy idea has merit, My lovely maia." A slow, menacing smile crept over Sauron's face as He ran a great hand caressingly down Nároméra's thigh. "As punishment for the Morgul Lord's impertinence, let the maid be sold into slavery and let him yearn for her when his desire is hot upon him! As Master of Fate in the absence of the Great and Mighty Melkor, I pronounce that the doom of Elfhild, daughter of Eadbald, has been sealed!"
"Oh, My lord, Thou art so clever," Nároméra simpered as she draped her arms around His neck and kissed over the side of His ebony face. "That is one of the many reasons why I love Thee so much. As we watch from afar, unbeknownst to the players in our little game, we shall have years of entertainment and much joy, laughing at the chaos which we have created! Oh, the Nazgûl Lord shall search and search for his precious little bauble, never finding her, and she will suffer and languish in the harem of some greasy, fat despotic sultan who has been driven mad by his many lecheries! I love it so, my darling God of the Forge! Ohhh, I simply tingle with anticipation when I think about the sport we shall have!" Her body a torrid, seething mass of perverse desire, Nároméra wriggled in obscene rapture, the tiny crystalline drops of perspiration which beaded up upon her ivory skin simmering and boiling into steam. Her devilish hand strayed to the Dark Deity's crotch, stirring the ever glowing embers there into a flaming fury.
"Then, My bewitching mistress," Sauron's feline eyes closed briefly as a thrill of pleasure coursed through His body, "I shall first compose this absurd letter and have it delivered to Minas Morgul. I will include a note written in My own hand telling of its misdelivery. Then we shall go to My chambers, My fiery delight, and together we shall make the Mountain erupt with our blazing passion."
And thus, unbeknownst to her, Elfhild, a lowly, ignorant peasant girl of Rohan, became a pawn of the Great Powers who, upon whims, sift the fates of man like sand through their fingers, only to let them fall into nothingness.
The wonderful picture was done by Allor, author of The Rings are One Way Tickets; The Unbiography of the Ninth Nazgûl, The Motley Book of Arda, and The Confession of the Númenórean Who Wore a Ring. Visit Allor's Homepage. The authors of The Circles extend their great appreciation to Allor for permission to use this image.
