STORY 5 - THE DREAD OF DEEP BLUE

 

The morning sun over Bree-land possessed a crisp, golden clarity, yet it did nothing to dispel the thick, malodorous cloud of sour ale and pipeweed that clung to the courtyard of the Prancing Pony. Three horses stood saddled and waiting, their breath misting in the cool air, while their riders prepared for a trek that promised either ancient salvation or spectacular ruin.

At the center of the stir stood Echelvanbloth. To look at him was to look at a man sculpted by salt spray, violent boarding actions, and a lifetime of ruthless disregard for maritime law. He was a Mariner of the South, a man whose blade had tasted the blood of a hundred coastal watches. Yet today, he looked at his horse with a deep, existential misery usually reserved for men walking the gallows. For Echelvanbloth, the cruelest twist of fate had not been a blade through the ribs; it was a curse. After an ill-fated skirmish with the sorcerous remnants of Angmar, during which he plundered a strangely cold, obsidian-encrusted necklace, the dread magic of the North had seeped into his bones. The proud pirate had been struck with an absolute horror of water. Even the deep puddles of Bree made his knees knock. Only natural rage and fury in his veins were saving him and he was able to still overcome it somehow.

He had joined Echelandir’s Company solely to find a cure. And now, a glimmer of hope had emerged. Deciphered texts suggested that the ancient ruins in the center of Annúminas, the shattered jewel of Evendim, held a repository of lore that could break the Angmarim hex. Captain Echelandir himself had granted the expedition, sending along his finest eccentric scholar, Echelzannor, and a pint-sized enforcer for insurance.

"Hey! Sea-rat!" a booming voice roared from the tavern steps.

Echelwardir, the Warden, was leaning heavily against a wooden pillar, a half-empty flagon dripping onto his boots. He was thoroughly, magnificently drunk. Beside him, Echelarea, the heavily armored Elf burglar, was attempting to balance one of her dual swords on her chin, her Elven grace entirely compromised by cheap Bree-wine. Behind them, Echelruuke, the towering Beorning skin-changer, let out a massive, rumbling yawn that smelled faintly of wild honey and fermented berries, scratching her belly.

"Mind the puddles on the road, Vanbloth!" Echelwardir hollered, his laughter slurring into a cough. "If it rains, you can always crawl into Echelwallbrick’s saddlebags! I hear hobbits stay dry if you wax them properly!"

Echelarea giggled—a deeply unsettling sound coming from an Elf who had personally executed a dozen Orc chieftains—and added, "If you drown in a horse trough, we are splitting your share of the gold! And I am taking the boots!"

Echelzannor, the venerable Runekeeper, adjusted his heavy dark robes with runes, ran a hand through his long, silver beard, and let out a sigh so heavy it seemed to carry the weight of the Third Age. He turned his gaze toward the sky, muttering under his breath. "The fate of Middle-earth hangs by a thread, the Shadow lengthens in the East, and I am setting forth with a hydrophobic corsair and an adolescent pugilist. Verily, this will be a journey to remember."

"Oh, lighten up, Master Zannor!" a cheerful voice piped from below.

Echelwallbrick, a diminutive Hobbit girl with golden twintails and heavy steel brawler-gauntlets bound tightly around her small knuckles, leaped onto her pony with a nimble grace. Despite her small stature, her steel-reinforced gauntlets clanked heavily against her belt. She was young, fiercely adventurous, and entirely unbothered by the cynical weight of her companions. "It’s a beautiful day for a ride! No Orcs, no ancient dark lords, just a nice, peaceful trip!"

Echelvanbloth shuddered visibly at the thought of what lay ahead. "Peaceful," he growled, swinging his leg over his mount with a scowl. "If the water stays in the basin and out of my sight, it will be peaceful enough." With a final, derisive cheer from their drunken companions, the trio trotted out of the Bree-gate, heading north.

The journey through the wild lands was long, and to pass the time, Echelvanbloth did what any self-respecting pirate would do: he bragged about horrific acts of violence and sang shanties.

"So there I was, on the deck of the Gilded Cormorant," the Mariner bellowed, gesturing wildly with a calloused hand. "The waves were crashing—curse them—and the Umbar watch-captain thought he could double-cross me. I caught him by the hair, dragged him to the capstan, and carved his fingers off one by one, clean to the bone! Snap, snap, snap! You should have heard those screaming Umbar sailors squeal! I cut arms right off their shoulders while they begged!"

Echelzannor rode with his eyes closed, his knuckles white upon his reins. "Fascinating. Truly, the depths of human depravity never cease to amaze."

"And don't get me started on Harmelak!" Echelvanbloth spat, cursing into the wind. "That wretched, wrinkled old crone of Umbar Baharbêl! Sits on her cushions, counting her ill-gotten coin, thinking she owns the coast. The whole Kinship of the Coin is a plague! A bunch of soft, treacherous backstabbers who wouldn’t know an honest day’s piracy if it bit them on the stern!"

The Runekeeper opened one eye, peering at the Mariner. "Tell me, friend. You speak so fondly of the open sea and the butchery of the southern ports. Is this... affliction of yours truly so debilitating?"

The bravado vanished from Echelvanbloth’s face, replaced by a sudden, hollow bleakness. He looked down at his horse's mane. "It is a living damnation, scholar," he said quietly, his voice losing its rough edge. "Imagine the thing that defines you, the only home you have ever known, turning into a gaping maw of absolute horror. I look at a river, and my blood turns to ice. I hear the tide, and I feel the hand of the dead wrapping around my throat. For a pirate, a fear of water is a slow, choking execution."

Echelwallbrick, riding alongside them, looked up with wide, sympathetic eyes. She patted the heavy leather pouch on her saddle. "Don't you worry, granpa Zannor will fix you right up! He knows all the dusty old words."

Echelzannor’s eyebrows shot upward, twisting into a furious scowl. "Granpa?!" he echoed, his voice vibrating with academic outrage.

Echelwallbrick squeaked, quickly correcting herself with a theatrical bow from her saddle. "I mean! The great, wise, illustrious Master Echelzannor!"

Echelvanbloth smirked faintly, though his mind remained dark. He knew the old man was stubborn, pedantic, and frankly a bit crazy in the head—but then again, everyone in Echelandir’s Company was mad in their own distinct way. You had to be insane to willingly charge headfirst into the vanguard against the shadow of Mordor. The Mariner knew what was at stake. If Sauron claimed victory, it wouldn't just be the kingdoms of Men that fell. It would be the death of trade, the death of freedom, the death of the sea itself. He envisioned the future under the Dark Lord: no grand merchant vessels to plunder, only endless black slave-galleys manned by whipped wretches, carrying foul, filthy Orcs across blackened waters. He hated Orcs. He hated them with a burning, visceral passion. He would rather die than see the world become their breeding ground.

Their journey however, was not entirely devoid of practical exercise. Beyond Trestlebridge, a foolish band of highwaymen thought three travelers made for easy targets. They were profoundly mistaken. The ambush lasted less than two minutes. Echelwallbrick had shattered the jaw of the lead bandit before he could finish his demand for coin, her steel gauntlets delivering a cracking blow that sent him spinning into the bushes. Echelvanbloth drew his cutlass and carved through the remaining brigands with terrifying ferocity, leaving the dirt road stained crimson. Leaving the broken bodies behind, they pressed onward until the rugged hills gave way, and the breathtaking expanse of Evendim opened before them.

Even in its sorrowful ruin, Annúminas was a sight that commanded silence. The ancient city of the Kings of Arnor stretched along the shores of Lake Evendim, a sprawling vista of pale white stone, cracked marble pillars, and soaring arches that seemed to mourn their own decay. Nature had reclaimed much of it; green ivy climbed the fractured walls, and wild flowers grew between the stones of grand plazas where kings had once walked. Yet, the beauty was marred by a heavy, oppressive shadow.

Waiting for them at the edge of the ruins, hidden beneath a canopy of ancient oaks, was a tall figure clad in the weathered green and grey of the Rangers of the North. It was Orchalwë. Aragorn himself had granted the Company permission to search the ruins, under the condition that they aid the Rangers in thinning the foul hordes occupying the historic site.

As the trio approached, Orchalwë stepped forward, his keen eyes scanning them. He nodded to the scholar and the hobbit, but his gaze lingered on Echelvanbloth’s sea-weathered attire, the distinctive tricorn hat, and the salt-stained leather.

"Greetings, travelers," Orchalwë said, his voice carrying the stoic calm of the Dúnedain. He tilted his head, looking at the Mariner with a faint, quizzical smirk. "Though I must admit, I am perplexed. A pirate? This far inland, walking upon the dirt of Kings? Annúminas is half-sunken, true, but you will find no grand galleons here to captain, sailor. You seem remarkably out of your element."

Echelvanbloth’s temper, already frayed by days of horseback riding and the terrifying proximity of the massive lake, snapped instantly. "Out of my element, you arrogant land-lubber?!" he roared.

Before Echelzannor could intervene, Echelvanbloth stepped forward and threw a brutal, heavy-handed punch straight into Orchalwë’s jaw. The Ranger reeled back, caught by surprise, but recovered instantly. With a snarl, Orchalwë lunged forward, tackling the Mariner into the dirt. The two men rolled over the grass, trading fierce, angry blows, cursing and kicking in a chaotic tangle of limbs.

Echelzannor closed his eyes, exhaling a long, slow breath through his nose. He calmly dismounted his horse, reached into the deep folds of his pouch, and let out another weary sigh. Echelwallbrick immediately backed away, her eyes bright with a mixture of amusement and caution. She knew the signs. She pulled her pony back a few paces, whispering, "Ooh, watch out, Ranger. Granpa’s getting the stones out."

The old Runekeeper retrieved a small stone from his bag. He held it aloft, and within seconds, blinding, ethereal runes of bright light flared to life across its surface, crackling with raw energy. With a practiced toss, Echelzannor flipped the stone through the air. It struck Echelvanbloth squarely in the center of his back.

CRACK-BOOM!

A violent explosion of blue lightning erupted from the point of impact. The force of the magical discharge blasted the two fighting men apart. Orchalwë was thrown sideways, tumbling into a patch of ferns, completely dazed. Echelvanbloth took the brunt of the shock; his eyes rolled back into his head, his limbs went stiff, and he collapsed face-first into the dirt, entirely unconscious and smoking faintly.

Silence fell over the clearing. Orchalwë sat up, shaking his head wildly, his hair standing on end from the static. He stared at the old man in absolute, wide-eyed horror.

Echelzannor stood tall, his robes billowing slightly, his voice suddenly shifting into a commanding, resonant baritone that brooked no argument. "Well? You provoked him first! What are you waiting for, Ranger? Pick him up, hoist him over your shoulders, and carry him to the camp. Am I supposed to carry a grown, salt-cured mariner upon my ancient spine? Or perhaps you expect this small, delightful Hobbit girl to carry him?"

Still utterly shell-shocked by the sudden display of runic violence, the proud Ranger of the North scrambled to his feet. He grumbled under his breath, scooped up the dead-weight body of the unconscious pirate, and hauled him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. They walked a few dozen yards into the secluded camp, Echelzannor leading both his own horse and Echelvanbloth’s mount with perfect composure. Walking just behind the Ranger, Echelwallbrick muffled her face in her small hands, giggling uncontrollably, her shoulders shaking with silent mirth.

Halfway to the camp, Echelvanbloth groaned. His eyelids fluttered open, his vision blurry as he looked at the dirt passing beneath him. He realized he was being carried. "What... what happened?" the pirate muttered, his tongue feeling thick. "Where am I? Did a kraken hit us?"

Orchalwë, adjusting the heavy weight on his shoulder, hissed through his teeth. "Shut your mouth, sailor. You got blasted in the spine by lightning because this oldie over there has a short fuse."

Echelvanbloth gasped weakly, his eyes widening as he spotted the back of the silver-bearded head walking now ahead of them. He leaned in close to Orchalwë’s ear, whispering frantically, "Keep your voice down, you fool! The old man has the hearing of a hawk and he is completely loony! If he hears you call him like granpa, he’ll turn us both into ash!"

Orchalwë chose to remain silent. He marched into the hidden camp, dropped the Mariner unceremoniously onto a bedroll near the campfire, and stepped back, wiping the dirt from his tunic. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows over the ruins of Annúminas, the small fellowship settled around the fire to rest. Orchalwë sat cross-legged, staring into the embers, his voice dropping into a solemn tone as he began to sketch out the grim reality of their situation, describing how the Dúnedain fought tirelessly against the Orcs and other monsters inhabiting the massive dungeons stretching beneath the ancient city.

When morning came, the pale stones of Annúminas were bathed in a stark, cold light. Across the fractured plazas, the grim reality of the city became immediately apparent; the echoes of brutal clashes rang out in the distance. Orcs were locked in fierce, continuous combat with the Dúnedain and hired mercenaries. It was a constant slaughterhouse, yet the ruins remained a tantalizing prize, still filled with ancient spoils, plundered goods, and forgotten gold.

Avoiding the main battle lines, Orchalwë led the trio toward the harbor gate. There, hidden beneath a collapsed archway, a steep stone staircase descended into the subterranean belly of the city. These deep vaults had once served as a grand connector, linking the bustling surface ports to the sprawling warehouses and dark catacombs beneath. The network of tunnels was vast and dizzying; even Orchalwë admitted he did not know every winding corridor.

They were heading toward a specific location Echelvanbloth had uncovered in his rumors: the old underground vaults near the docks, adjacent to the ancient mariners' catacombs. In the days of Arnor's glory, the impoverished sailors and dockworkers were buried there, stacked one upon another in tight stone niches alongside their meager worldly possessions. Among those bones, rumors whispered of Sea Amulets—relics carved by ancient hands that might hold the power to unbind the Angmarim curse.

As Echelvanbloth hauled open the heavy, rusted iron doors of the catacombs, a wave of stagnant air hit them. The stench of centuries-old rot and decayed flesh was thick enough to choke a horse or two.

Echelzannor stood entirely unmoved, waving a hand casually in front of his nose. "And so it begins again," the Runekeeper murmured, his voice dripping with profound boredom. "Rummaging through ancient tombs, tracking through the filth of the deceased. Truly, the glamorous life of a scholar."

Echelwallbrick, entirely unfazed by the smell, stepped past him to examine the cracked, moss-covered statues lining the corridor. Before her fingers could brush the stone, Echelzannor tapped his staff sharply on the floor. "Do not touch anything, little girl," he warned sternly like a true teacher in school. "These places are riddled with ancient mechanisms and spiteful traps. Keep your hands to yourself."

They pressed deeper until they reached the heart of the mariners' vaults. Pushing open a final set of massive stone doors, they halted. The chamber before them was vast, but disaster awaited: the floor was completely flooded, with dark, murky water rising all the way up to their knees.

Echelvanbloth froze, his breath catching in his throat. The water. The curse immediately gripped his chest like an iron vice, his heart hammering against his ribs as he stared at the ripples.

Ignoring the pirate's silent panic, Echelzannor stepped forward. He raised a small stone, casting a bright, runic glow across the immense hall. The light revealed rows of crumbling sarcophagi and deep, open pits filled with the tangled remains of the dead. Echelwallbrick and Orchalwë followed closely behind the old man, their boots splashing through the cold water. Echelzannor’s eyes scanned the open niches until he spotted a cluster of tarnished silver pendants resting upon a stone ledge—the Sea Amulets.

He approached, lifting one to the light, inspecting the faded carvings with a critical eye. After a long moment, he tossed it back into the mud with a dismissive grunt. "Trinkets. Completely devoid of any magical resonance. They are nothing but common lead and cheap silver, Vanbloth. There is no cure here."

"Are you mocking me?!" Echelvanbloth roared, his fear instantly boiling over into pure, unadulterated fury. "We walked through hell for common lead?!"

Before his shout could echo away, Echelzannor stiffened. "Silence," the Runekeeper commanded, tilting his head.

From the far, darkened end of the flooded hall, a sound emerged. It was a heavy, wet, rattling breath—the sound of massive, fluid-filled lungs drawing air. Out of the shadows lumbered a horror known well to those who defiled graves: a Kergrim. The beast stood on two thick, misshapen legs, its hunched torso covered in a sickly, moss-green hide that reeked of stagnant water and putrid rot. Its maw was lined with rows of oversized, jagged teeth built for snapping ancient bones.

The Kergrim stopped, its pale eyes blinking in the sudden runic light. It let out a deafening, wet roar that shook dust from the ceiling, but instead of charging, it turned on its heel and scrambled back into the darkness.

"Ha! The beast is terrified of us!" Echelvanbloth shouted, drawing his cutlass. "The coward runs!"

"No, you fool!" Orchalwë yelled, his face turning pale. "That was a scout! It’s drawing the pack!"

Echelzannor turned instantly, his robes splashing through the knee-deep water. "This mission is an absolute failure. We leave. Now."

They turned and broke into a heavy jog, retracing their steps through the dark corridors. As they entered a massive, transitional hall—a room filled entirely with towering piles of dry bones and shattered skeletal remains—Echelwallbrick suddenly halted, her large ears twitching.

"Wait," the Hobbit girl whispered, her gauntlets tightening. "I hear a thumping. A big thumping."

The words had barely left her mouth when the far stone wall of the chamber exploded inward.

A shower of rock and ancient mortar blasted across the room as an enormous, black-and-green Kergrim tore through the breach. It was massive, easily 5 meters tall, its claws dripping with black filth. Behind it poured few smaller beasts, each one still a towering nightmare of muscle and teeth.

"Fall back! Run!" Orchalwë screamed, drawing his sword as the beasts cut off their path to the exit.

Echelzannor slammed his staff down. "Too late! They have divided us! Cut them down!"

The old man began to spin a rune of power, but as he turned, another massive lead Kergrim loomed directly over him. Two giant, clawed arms were raised high, poised to rip the old scholar in two. A single, dark thought flashed through Echelzannor’s brilliant mind: Damn it. Half a second too late. It was that horrific, precise fraction of a moment when an experienced fighter knows their muscles cannot move fast enough to block the strike.

FLASH.

A brilliant arc of steel cut through the gloom. With a savage, double-handed swing of a sword and a cutlass, Echelvanbloth flew forward. The blades caught the monster’s raised arms at the joints, shearing them completely off in a spray of dark, foul blood.

"I knew they’d target you, granpa!" the pirate screamed, his face splattered with gore.

Echelzannor’s brow furrowed, but a dangerous, rogue-like grin spread across his wrinkled face. "Then let us burn the ship to the waterline, Captain!"

Orchalwë lunged forward, his blade flashing in the dark as he shielded Echelwallbrick from the flanking beasts. Together, the Ranger and the little Hobbit enforcer drove their weapons into the torsos of two smaller Kergrims, dropping them into the bone piles. Echelvanbloth was a whirlwind of salt-tempered rage; using both his longsword and his cutlass, he ducked beneath snapping jaws, carving through the tough hide of the beasts, his laughter echoing maniacally against the roars of the dying monsters.

"Time for a bonfire," Echelzannor muttered.

He slammed his hands toward the earth, invoking a volcanic rune. Brilliant, molten cracks spread across the stone floor beneath the beasts. Holding twin stones blazing with fiery inscriptions, he unleashed a torrent of localized heat. The remaining Kergrims burst into roaring flames, their flesh crackling before the old man finished them off with sharp, deafening bursts of runic lightning. The entire chamber illuminated in a spectacular, violent strobe of blue and orange light.

Echelwallbrick ducked as a stray bolt shattered a nearby skull, laughing gleefully. "Hey, this is much better! At least now we can see what we're punching!"

But the chaos was far from over. Near the shattered wall, Orchalwë lay on his side, his breath ragged. A dying but furious Kergrim had managed to tear its claws deep into the Ranger's arm, shredding the leather and flesh. Before Orchalwë could even cry out for assistance over the din of battle, the massive alpha Kergrim—still thrashing despite its severed arms—spotted the downed Dúnadan. It stomped forward, intending to crush the Ranger beneath its immense, webbed feet.

"Hey! Smelly!" Echelvanbloth roared.

The pirate pulled a glass flask of highly volatile oil from his bandolier and hurled it with perfect accuracy. The bottle shattered against the alpha's chest, instantly igniting from the residual embers of Echelzannor's spells. The monster became a towering pillar of fire, screeching in agony, though the intense flames quickly burned out against its thick, wet hide. Distracted, the beast lunged at the pirate. Echelvanbloth danced backward through the bones, narrowly dodging the snapping jaws and heavy headbutts of the blinded alpha.

Echelzannor, having fried the last of the smaller scouts, turned his attention to the final threat. He hurled successive, exploding balls of fire straight into the alpha's flanks, blowing chunks of green flesh from its ribs.

The beast staggered, disoriented and leaking black gore. Sensing the moment, Echelwallbrick scrambled up a pile of ancient debris. With a ferocious battlefield yell, the little Hobbit girl launched herself into the air, leaping straight onto the monster's hunched back, scrambling up its slippery neck like an angry squirrel.

She reached the top of its skull, gathered all her strength, and drove both of her massive, steel-reinforced gauntlets downward in a devastating, double-handed hammer-fist blow.

CRACK.

The sound of the beast’s skull fracturing echoed like a breaking timber. Echelwallbrick instantly kicked off its neck, flipping backward into the air and landing nimbly on a pile of ribs.

"Look out, granpa!" she yelled, pointing at monster: "He's about to do the puppet dance!"

The companions didn't understand her warning at first, but the results were immediate. With its brain crushed, the colossal alpha Kergrim did not fall; instead, it entered a mindless, horrific death-throe. It began to spin in a wild, clumsy frenzy, thrashing its massive torso and kicking its legs, smashing through stone pillars and ancient tombs in a blind, destructive panic. Black blood sprayed from its ruptured eyes and ears, coating the walls.

"Run!" Echelzannor shouted, his voice cracking as a structural column shattered above them. "The roof is coming down!"

Echelvanbloth didn't hesitate. He lunged through the falling debris, scooped the wounded Orchalwë completely off the ground, and slung him over his shoulder. With the ceiling groaning and cracking behind them, the four companions sprinted down the collapsing corridor, fleeing the ruined depths of the city.

Echelvanbloth sprinted through the trembling corridor, the heavy weight of the wounded Ranger bouncing against his shoulder with every step.

"It is quite unseemly," Orchalwë grunted, his voice strained from the agonizing tears in his flesh. "To think that a Dúnadan of the North is being carried like a sack of grain by a corsair."

Echelvanbloth let out a rough, barking laugh, though his breath was growing short. "And it is quite unseemly that a proud Dúnadan should weigh as much as a fully loaded merchant galley, friend! Be glad I haven't tossed you overboard to lighten the load."

Even Orchalwë managed a weak, blood-flecked smile at that. Behind them, a cataclysmic roar of collapsing masonry echoed through the darkness as the ancient, flooded hall finally caved in, sealing the dead Kergrims beneath thousands of tons of Arnorian stone. Echelzannor breathed a visible sigh of relief, his silver beard shaking. They were still deep underground, but the air was shifting, growing crisper. Ahead of them lay a wide, grand staircase of cracked marble, winding steeply upward toward the ruined port gates of Annúminas.

As they neared the top, blinking against the blinding glare of the midday sun, a foul, guttural screech cut through the air.

Standing in the center of the sunlit plaza was a towering Uruk, clad in thick, jagged iron plates that rattled as he breathed. Around him stood a vicious war-band of lesser Orcs, their wicked scimitars drawn. The Uruk’s eyes locked onto the escaping companions, and a grotesque, yellowish grin split his scarred visage.

"Look what crawled out of the dark!" the Uruk bellowed, raising a massive, notched sword of rusted iron. "Fresh meat has arrived! Tear them apart! Leave nothing but bones!"

The entire pack shrieked in unison, rushing forward across the cracked stones.

Echelzannor, thoroughly exhausted from the damp catacombs and the long march, did not even draw his stones. Instead, he walked calmly to a shattered pedestal, brushed off a layer of dust, and sat down with a groaning sigh.

"You younglings take care of this rabble," Echelzannor said dryly. "My ancient bones have had quite enough of a workout for one morning."

Echelvanbloth’s eyes flashed with fierce, pirate zeal. "With pleasure, scholar!" he roared, drawing both his longsword and his notched cutlass. He charged headfirst into the fray, a whirlwind of salt-tempered steel. Just half a step behind him sprinted Echelwallbrick, her face split in a wide, joyous grin.

"Smelly Orcs!" the Hobbit girl cheered, her steel-reinforced gauntlets catching the bright sunlight. "They reek like garbage, but at least they smell better than those soggy vault-monsters!"

Orchalwë lay in the grass beside Echelzannor's rock, clutching his bleeding arm. But Orcs are not noble warriors; they possess no honor. Seeing the old man and the wounded Ranger isolated, two clever Orcs broke away from the main melee, creeping around the flank with cruel daggers drawn. Orchalwë shouted a warning, trying to drag himself upright.

Echelzannor did not even look up. He calmly reached into his robes, retrieved his wooden pipe, and placed it between his teeth. With a casual flick of his fingers, he sent a spark through the air.

A volcanic rune flared to life instantly beneath the boots of the sneaking Orcs. A violent geyser of liquid fire erupted from the dirt, enveloping both creatures in screaming, roaring flames. The smell of burning Orc-flesh was immediate and foul.

Echelzannor tapped the bowl of his pipe, gazing at the thrashing, burning monsters with deep irritation. "Enough of that infernal racket," he murmured.

He reached into his small leather pouch, pulling out a polished stone that immediately pulsed with a brilliant, blinding silver rune. Two sharp, deafening cracks of runic lightning tore through the plaza. The bolts struck the burning Orcs squarely in the chest, leaving nothing but two charred, silent corpses that fell forward into the dust.

Meanwhile, Echelvanbloth and Echelwallbrick were turning the plaza into a spectacular festival of severed limbs and shattered spines. The little Hobbit girl ducked beneath a sweeping halberd, drove her iron-clad fist upward into an Orc’s chin with a sickening crunch, and used the momentum to dive-roll behind another, crushing its spine with a heavy heel-drop.

The massive Uruk chieftain, seeing his pack butchered, roared in fury and launched himself at Echelvanbloth. This was a true brute, standing well over two meters, his face covered in jagged scars and old dried gore. He swung his heavy iron blade with immense, bone-crushing force. The swords clashed in a spectacular shower of sparks. The Uruk’s sheer physical mass was overwhelming; with a savage heave, he threw his weight forward, breaking the parry and sending Echelvanbloth tumbling backward into the dirt.

The Mariner rolled onto his back, the wind knocked from his lungs. The Uruk loomed over him, raising the massive rusted sword for a final, cleaving blow.

But Echelvanbloth merely grinned, showing his yellowed teeth, and snatched a heavy iron flask from his belt, taking a massive, desperate swig. Just as the Uruk brought the sword down, the pirate leaned forward and blew a colossal, roaring stream of liquid fire straight from his mouth.

The chemical draft ignited perfectly, transforming into a five-foot dragon-breath of absolute devastation. The Uruk’s face, hair, and heavy iron pauldrons were instantly engulfed in roaring flames. The beast shrieked in absolute agony, dropping his sword as his eyes were burned away in their sockets. Blinded and mad with pain, the Uruk began to swing his fists wildly, thrashing at the empty air.

Echelvanbloth picked himself up, brushing the dirt from his tricorn hat, his yellow teeth flashing in the sunlight. "Does that burn a bit, master Orc?" he mocked with pirate grace.

Echelzannor, still puffing on his unlit pipe from his rock, let out a dry, crooked chuckle. He glanced down at the bewildered Orchalwë. "You see, Ranger? That is precisely why the fair maidens of the South ports seldom enjoy kissing a mariner. The aftertaste is rather volatile."

Orchalwë could only stare in utter shock. The Vanguard Elite—Echelandir’s Company—were not just heroes; they were a collection of lethal, terrifying eccentrics.

Echelwallbrick delivered a final, cracking blow to the temple of the last remaining archer, dusting off her gauntlets with a heavy sigh. "I truly despise the ones with bows," she grumbled, pouting. "I have to keep my gauntlets up to protect my nose and run all over the place just to give them a proper thrashing."

Echelzannor chuckled loudly. "You are young and full of life, girl! Running is excellent for your posture."

With a final, bubbling groan, the blinded Uruk chieftain collapsed into the dirt, the stubborn oil from Echelvanbloth’s flask refusing to die out, cooking the brute where he lay.

Echelzannor’s eyes narrowed as he watched the lingering chemical fire. "A clever concoction, Captain. Those southern pirates may be cutthroats, but their alchemy is surprisingly sophisticated."

Echelwallbrick wiped a streak of dark Orc-blood from her cheek, flashing a mischievous grin at the old man. "Keep an eye on uncle Orchalwë, granpa! There might still be more Orcs lurking in the—"

She didn't finish her sentence. A deep, rhythmic thumping began to vibrate through the stone plaza beneath their boots.

From the crumbling wall of a massive Arnorian estate across the square, a nightmare broke into the sunlight. It was the alpha Kergrim from the catacombs. The beast had literally smashed through the thick stone wall like a siege projectile. It was horribly mutilated, its green flesh scorched by fire, its skull visibly fractured from Echelwallbrick’s earlier assault, and its eyes weeping thick, black gore. It was entirely blind, yet its massive nostrils flared, catching the scent of the living.

Echelzannor stood up from his rock, his ancient face hardening. "Well. That is an entirely unwelcome surprise."

Orchalwë gasped, trying to recoil. "A deep-dweller in the noon sun? They despise the light! It must be completely blind and maddened by the pain!"

"Worse," Echelzannor growled, his hand tightening around his staff. "The brute has lost its sight, which means its sense of smell is entirely hyper-focused. And it is clearly seeking vengeance. This one is very motivated to kill us."

Echelvanbloth and Echelwallbrick stood dropped in their tracks, their muscles aching and trembling from the non-stop slaughter in the vaults and the exhausting battle with the Uruk pack. Their breath came in ragged gasps.

Echelzannor took a single step forward, his voice losing all its sarcastic humor, replaced by a cold, absolute authority that rattled the stones. "You two. Take Orchalwë and run. Now!"

Echelvanbloth didn't hesitate. He had sailed through enough typhoons as child to know when a captain was speaking with absolute certainty. He grabbed the Ranger by his good shoulder. But Echelwallbrick lingered, her wide Hobbit eyes filled with sudden fear for the old man. "But, granpa... we can't leave you!"

"The old man knows his business!" Echelvanbloth bellowed, lunging forward and seizing her arm with an iron grip. "We are leaving! Move your little legs, hobbit!"

Together, the pirate and the girl hoisted the groaning Ranger between them and sprinted toward the safety of the upper valley gates on white marbles stone road.

The blinded, bleeding Kergrim raised its massive, clawless arms, its nostrils twitching as it caught the scent of the old scholar remaining behind. It let out a low, terrifying rumble and began to charge, its heavy steps fracturing the ancient pavement.

Echelzannor stood alone in the center of the vast plaza, his long silver hair whipping in the sudden wind. "No puppet dancing this time, eh?" he muttered to the beast. "Your mind has cleared through the fury. That is unfortunate for both of us."

The Runekeeper knew the truth. Kergrims were not merely mindless beasts; they possessed a cruel, deep-dwelling intelligence, and a wounded alpha was more dangerous than a dragon in a confined space. He watched the trio clear the boundary of the plaza, reaching the safety of the outer ridges.

To his deep surprise the monster “spoke”, if you can call it a speech. With broken language of Free People, he let out of his wet lungs beastly spoken words: “yyoau shaaoll pay!”.

Taking a deep, agonizing breath, Echelzannor centered his mind. He had fought many abominations in the freezing depths of the Misty Mountains, but today, he would have to dig deeper. This one was personal. He hit his fist into the earth, summoning a huge defensive volcanic ward and a soothing rune of restoration around his feet, their glowing boundaries swirling to distract the beast's keen sense of smell.

He needed time. He needed to prepare his final, forbidden art.

Lifting his hands, Echelzannor began to chant an ancient, rolling incantation in the deep, resonant tongue of the Dwarves—Khuzdul. The words felt heavy, scraping against his throat like granite. His mind raced back to the dim, dust-covered halls of the Katûb-zahar, the legendary Word-hoard of Moria, where the wise old librarian Sót had once warned him: “Remember, Echelzannor... this knowledge is ancient, taken from scrolls that should have remained ash. This spell does not merely use your focus; it drains the very marrow of your life energy. Use It too many times, and you may not wake to see the next sunrise.”

"Ah, to hell with it," Echelzannor whispered to the wind. "I've lived long enough to see the world turn upside down anyway."

The ancient chant grew louder, echoing off the pale white ruins of Annúminas. The ground beneath his velvet boots began to pulse with a terrifying, ethereal radiance. Giant, concentric circles of shifting light materialized in the air around him, covered in complex, glowing runes that spun clockwise in a massive, blinding star symbol. The air grew static, making his silver beard stand on end. His eyes began to burn with a pure, white-hot fire as his voice dropped into a terrifying, deep baritone that shook the very foundations of the city:

“Aznân ma nâra ‘uduzul kashra mi idki-’am,
mithril kashra ‘uzn-’am ta gabil-mênu nurnul Khazâd,
bin ghâsh-ûru, bin Valar, gabhani dush-ra kashra thur,
fâ aznân mi gakh-tuhni-u ‘uzbad Khazâdul!”

Meaning:

"Flame of the deeps run in my veins,

mithril is my tear as dwarven kingdoms reigns,

no dragon no valar will touch the riches,

as in dwarven king speeches"

High up on the surrounding hills, Echelvanbloth, Echelwallbrick, and Orchalwë halted at a high vantage point, looking back down into the ruined heart of the city.

Suddenly, a colossal pillar of pure, blinding white light erupted from the plaza, stretching straight into the heavens. The sky seemed to crack open. A split second later, a deafening thunderclap rolled across the lake, accompanied by a rapid-fire series of cataclysmic, fiery explosions that shook the very mountain roots.

Echelvanbloth stared down, his jaw dropping, his tricorn hat nearly falling from his head. "By the Valar... I have seen thunderstorms at sea that could rip the world apart, but I have never seen anything like that. That old bastard is completely, magnificently insane."

Echelwallbrick sat down in the grass, her small face pale, tears welling in her eyes as she clutched her knees. "I hope grandpa is okay... that looked so scary. It looked like the end of the world."

Orchalwë was trembling, his eyes wide with a deep, historical terror. He was a Loremaster of his people; he had read the ancient scripts of the First and Second Ages, tales of elemental battles that shattered continents and broke the sky. But to see such primordial magic unleashed with his own eyes was something entirely unnatural.

"Leave me here," the Ranger whispered, trying to push himself up. "Go back... go check on him. Please."

Echelvanbloth snapped his head around, his voice stern. "Be quiet, Ranger. The old man gave us an order, and in the Company, we follow the captain's word. He may be a crazy old bastard, but he is no fool. He is the leader in this expedition. If we go back down there and ruin his victory, it would pierce his academic honor more than any blade. We do as he commanded."

With heavy hearts, they hauled the bleeding Ranger the rest of the way to the hidden Dúnedain camp.

When they arrived, the camp was in utter chaos. Rangers and hired mercenaries were running to the barricades, weapons drawn, staring down at the city. They had all seen the pillar of light and felt the terrifying shockwaves. Down in the ruins, the constant sounds of skirmishing had completely ceased; both the Orc war-bands and the defenders had stopped fighting, paralyzed by the sheer display of power. It was as if a god had smashed his fist upon the table to silence the world.

For two agonizing hours, the companions waited. The Dúnedain captains finally shook their heads, assembling a search party to retrieve the body of the ancient scholar.

Just as the scouts reached the edge of the camp, a weary, raspy voice echoed from the forest path.

"Cancel the search party... just bring me something strong to drink and a massive plate of roasted pork. I am dead to the world."

The entire camp turned. Stumbling out of the brush was Echelzannor. He was an absolute disaster; his long silver beard was black with soot, his fine dark robes were torn and scorched in a dozen places, and he looked like a man who had personally survived a volcano. But his eyes still held that sharp, arrogant spark.

With a loud cry, Echelwallbrick launched herself across the clearing, throwing her small arms around his waist and burying her face in his scorched robes, weeping tears of pure relief. "Granpa! We thought you were dead! We thought you had fried yourself like a stuffed piglet from the Southfarthing!"

Echelvanbloth stepped forward, his yellowed teeth flashing in a proud, crooked grin. "The only thing that got roasted like a pig today was that miserable tomb-dweller, scholar. You are one tough old bastard, I'll give you that."

Echelzannor offered a weary, rogue-like smirk through his soot-stained beard. He sit down heavily, eating and drinking, casually recounting how he had triggered one of his deepest, most volatile runic secrets to vaporize the beast in a single stroke. But before he could even finish the tale, his knees buckled, and he fell face-first onto a pile of blankets, completely unconscious from sheer magical exhaustion. He slept through the remainder of the afternoon, the entire night, and half of the following day.

When the fellowship finally prepared to depart, the expedition was deemed a complete failure regarding the pirate's hydrophobic curse—the Sea Amulets had been nothing but common lead. Yet, the mission had yielded an unexpected triumph. Orchalwë, his arm neatly bandaged by his kin, approached the trio with a heavy leather sack that clinked with a beautiful, metallic ring.

"The scouts returned under the cover of night," Orchalwë explained, his voice filled with deep respect. "For the first time in years, not a single Kergrim crawled out of the deep vaults. You have broken the spine of their pack, and the Orcs are fleeing the plazas in terror. The Dúnedain do not forget their debts."

He pressed the sack into Echelvanbloth's hands. "One hundred gold pieces. A bonus from the Captains of the North, for clearing the filth from our ancient home."

Echelvanbloth weighed the heavy sack in his hand, his pirate heart warming at the familiar sound of coin. "Well," he muttered, glancing at the sleeping scholar and the smiling Hobbit girl. "Echelandir’s Company certainly won't be begging for bread in Bree anytime soon. The Captain will be pleased."

Later with the gold secured, the trio mounted their horses and began the long, slow journey back to Bree-land. And as the white stones of Annúminas faded into the distance behind them, the quiet country roads were once again filled with the loud, booming voice of Echelvanbloth, spinning endless, horrific tales of the high seas, blood-soaked decks, and the wretched old crones of Umbar. For first time Echelzannor enjoyed those tales.