Choosing an open platform, Sylas knelt and began to inscribe a magic circle into the stone. He waited until the stroke of midnight, when the air itself seemed to hold its breath, and then activated the formation.
The surrounding death-essence bled inward, rushing like water to the circle's lines. The veil between realms thinned, then split apart, the circle becoming a passage between the world of the living and the Netherworld.
Taking up the morgul blade, the key to the crossing, Sylas stepped forward.
The world shifted at once. Reality blurred, fading into a hazy gloom. The fortress and forest around him became translucent and ghostlike, as though all he had known were a painted veil, stripped of substance. In contrast, the spirits of the Netherworld grew solid, their twisted forms crowding close.
Though he expected to find the dead here, the sheer press of wraiths made him gasp. For among them stood the Orcs, Olog-hai, Wargs, and spiders he had burned to ash with protego only hours before, now all reborn as shades, encircling him.
That should not have been possible. Not every slain creature lingered as a ghost. Something was wrong.
Their eyes were vacant, glazed like puppets. Perhaps it was because they had only just died… or because darker powers bound them.
And they were not alone. Other, older spirits drifted here too, corrupted remnants of Men, Dwarves, Trolls, Orcs, even Elves. Their forms were twisted, their wills broken, their faces hollow masks of torment.
Sylas's stomach turned. He guessed the truth at once: these were victims of the Necromancer's experiments, souls caught and corrupted in Dol Guldur's pits, bent and trapped by his sorcery.
Why had they not gone to the Halls of Mandos, where all Elves and Men are meant to pass? Why were they left wandering here, half-slaves to a will that no longer reigned? The thought chilled him.
But speculation had to wait.
The shades surged, shrieking with hunger, hurling themselves against the circle. They clawed and snapped like beasts, jaws straining to bite, yet the protective runes held firm, keeping their master safe.
Sylas grimaced. His time was precious, he could not afford to waste it in battle. He drew forth the Star-glass and let loose the Light of Eärendil. Radiance poured from the crystal, pure and white, sweeping back the nearest phantoms in terror.
Then, gripping the glass, he stepped boldly from the circle and began his search.
To his surprise, Dol Guldur was rich with death-essence. The air here was thick with it, far denser than anything he had found in Fornost. He uncorked his obsidian bottles, carefully drawing in wisp after wisp of black vapor, each fragment swirling like smoke inside the dark crystal flasks.
The work was dangerous. All the while, the shades pressed in, howling and writhing at the edges of the light. Yet the Star-glass forced them back, its glow a shield against their touch.
Just as Sylas gathered his fourth vial, the world seemed to twist. The gloom deepened into something blacker than night, heavy and suffocating. A dread power seeped into the air, crushing his chest, threatening to smother even the Light of Eärendil.
A sharp hiss split the silence.
An arrow of pure shadow shot from the dark, whistling with lethal speed.
Sylas reacted instinctively. He whipped his sword from its scabbard, sparks bursting as steel met sorcery. The arrow spun away, clattering to the stones.
"Morgul arrow," he muttered, staring at the blackened shaft as it quivered on the ground. His voice was low, but grim.
Sylas knew well who it belonged to.
Among the Nine Ringwraiths, one was famed for his bow: Khamûl, the Shadow of the East, once lord of the Easterlings.
He appeared clearer here than Sylas had ever seen before. His frame was tall and gaunt, little more than bone wrapped in parchment skin. A tattered black cloak clung to him like shadow itself. His face, a ruined mask of withered flesh stretched across a skull, burned with hollow eyes in which red fire smoldered like embers of hell.
A suffocating dread rolled off him. Every breath he exhaled carried a poisonous mist, and foul whispers like curses bled into the air around him.
In his hand he held a bow of pale bone, strung with some string of unspeakable origin. His burning eyes glimmered with mockery as he raised it toward Sylas.
"Black Robe Wizard," Khamûl hissed, his voice like iron dragged across stone. "Your coming here is folly. The Netherworld is mine to command. Angmar failed to bind you, but I shall not. I will claim you for my Master, and he will rejoice at such a prize."
The Ringwraith's tone dripped with smug certainty. And he had reason.
Khamûl was second only to the Witch-king of Angmar himself. Known as the Shadow of the East, lieutenant of the Nine, his strength among the Nazgûl was rivaled by none save their captain. Here, in the realm of shadows, his dominion was absolute. He not only wielded his own power but bent the will of every ghost around him.
At his command, the spirits surged.
The dead who had shrunk from the Star-glass now pressed forward without hesitation, their shrieks rising as they hurled themselves into the white glow. Their forms burned away under the Light of Eärendil, melting like frost before the sun, yet they showed no fear. For every spirit that faded, another threw itself forward.
Sylas's hand tightened around the Star-glass as its light wavered, shrinking under the relentless assault. His heart sank. The Light was no endless font, it was a gift, and its strength could be exhausted.
He drew his sword and struck in wide arcs. Each stroke scattered wraiths into vapor, their forms shattering into wisps of ash and shadow. But the swarm was endless. For every shade he cut down, three more rose behind it.
And all the while, Khamûl hung back, ever watchful, cunning. The Ringwraith would not approach the Star-glass directly. Instead, he let his horde grind it down, like waves battering a rock. And in the spaces between, he struck with arrows of death.
One hissed through the gloom. Sylas raised his sword, sparks flashing as it deflected from the blade. Another followed, then another, each tipped with shadow-forged poison. He knew their nature, like the Witch-king's cursed dagger, even a scratch would fester, dragging the victim's soul into shadow until they became another wraith.
Again and again, Sylas parried. Training with Elrohir and Elladan had honed his reflexes to razor sharpness. The Ent-draughts he had drunk lent strength to his limbs, and the crown of wisdom upon his brow quickened his thoughts. His blade moved with speed that surprised even himself, deflecting each black arrow by the narrowest margin.
But his hourglass was emptying. Time was not his ally. He began to cut a path backward, step by step, fighting while retreating toward the circle that alone could return him to the world of the living.
Khamûl's eyes narrowed. He spurred his ghost-steed into motion, cloak billowing like wings of shadow. In his hand he no longer held the bow but a heavy mace, its iron head slick with darkness. With a roar that rattled the bones of the dead, he swung it down, not at Sylas, but at the very circle itself.
If the circle shattered, Sylas's path back would be gone.
The mace struck the circle with a thunderous crash, but the runes only rippled like water and held fast.
Sylas gave a short, scornful laugh.
"Idiot. This circle was woven in the living world. How could you hope to break what belongs to the real while you're trapped in shadow?"
Khamûl froze for a moment, then his red eyes gleamed with realization. His voice slithered with mockery.
"Thank you for the reminder. I almost forgot."
Even as he spoke, his form grew thin and spectral. Then, with a shimmer of shadow, he slipped into the living world, his ghost-steed screaming into the night.
The Nazgûl, bound forever to their Rings, needed no such circle to cross between realms. With one sweep of his mace, he smashed the etched lines into shards. The circle shattered, and in the Netherworld its twin collapsed, the barrier that had kept the horde at bay dissolved into nothing.
From the real world, Khamûl's voice carried like venom:
"The circle is broken. You will rot in the Netherworld, stripped of flesh, my slave forever!"
Sylas only smirked, unshaken.
"Idiot," he said again, tone playful now. "Who told you I needed that circle to escape?"
He released the morgul blade. At once, the gray veil peeled away. Color bled back into the world. He stood once more in the living realm, face to face with the astonished Ringwraith.
Before Khamûl could recoil, Sylas raised his wand and shouted, "Expecto Patronum!"
The Ring of Power flared with searing brilliance. From the tip of his wand burst a Patronus owl vast as Thorondor himself. Its wings unfolded into a sea of pure light, transforming the night into a blazing domain of white fire.
The Ringwraith shrieked, but the radiant owl seized him in its talons before he could flee. With a beat of its wings, it swallowed him whole, trapping his form within its translucent body.
Sylas's eyes glittered with cruel satisfaction.
"Khamûl," he echoed coldly, "your entry into the living world today is the greatest mistake of your life."
He lifted the Star-glass high, pouring his will into it. The Light of Eärendil blazed forth, dazzling beyond the sun. The sacred radiance seared through the spectral cage, burning the Ringwraith within.
Khamûl's scream split the night. His cloak blackened and disintegrated like ash in a gale. His twisted frame peeled away layer by layer, crumbling under the relentless light.
Sylas did not pause. From his belt he drew one of the barrow-blades he had claimed from the Barrow-downs, daggers forged long ago with spells to wound the servants of the Dark Lord. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it whirling like a dart.
The blade struck true, burying itself in the Ringwraith's skull.
The scream rose to a shattering pitch, echoing across Dol Guldur. Khamûl's body convulsed, then collapsed in on itself, shriveling like a punctured husk before bursting apart in a blast of shadow.
A shockwave tore through the fortress, rattling stone and shattering the silence.
When it cleared, there was no Nazgûl, only silence, and a small, black ring spinning across the stone floor. It rolled in a slow circle before coming to rest at Sylas's feet.
...
Stones Plzz
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