H E L L B O U N D

8. The Question of Command

Twentieth day of September, in the year 3018 Third Age.

Long had she ridden beneath no banner save her own, yet the lands of ash and stone named her otherwise. Some called her the Wanderer of Mordor. Others, in hushed and troubled voices, spoke of the Forsworn Captain. Few recalled her true name; fewer still dared utter it, for she had risen in dark places, gathering strength where others found only ruin, forging discipline in men who had known only cruelty. She built an army, not of love nor of loyalty, though she knew deep in the silent chambers of her soul that loyalty was what mattered, but rather of obedience, once that had been enough.

Until it was not, the first cracks came not upon the battlefield nor the council, but within the quiet of her mind. Pain, sharp as lightning at the break of a storm, flared behind her eyes. Strange visions followed, fleeting as smoke, yet piercing as memory. Faces nameless yet familiar. A half-laughter echoing from some distant shore. And a voice, calling from a time older than war, speaking words she could not yet hear.

On such days, she could neither ride nor command nor forge. Her presence, once a pillar, cast only a shadow. Her lieutenants began to fill the silence she left behind. Some turned toward Maarwookr, whose patience held when others yielded to the hunger of conquest. Others drifted toward Mirthig, whose sword thirsted not only for victory but for consequence.

Mirthig the Easterling. His eyes were like the surface of a still lake on the eve of a storm, placid but warning. His blade did not simply end life; it erased it. Villages perished behind him, not for reason, nor defiance, but for breathing air he believed should belong to him alone. He rode beneath her banner, bore her black insignia, and spoke her name before each slaughter as if breaking a seal.

"I will make them remember our strength," he said to her once.

Her answer had been quiet, but its weight had not been lost. "You will make them remember my regret."

But he had not heard her. Only Maarwookr, forged of discipline more than hunger, had watched her change. Once, beside the fires of the southern pass, he said only: "You are changing."

Not in accusation. Not in warning. Simply in truth. She had not answered, for she could not. Then the tidings came. Not from Gorgoroth, nor from the Brown Lands, where war is expected. But from the West. Too near Rivendell, where mercy still walked unarmored. The scouts spoke little. Even Maarwookr bowed his head before he spoke.

"It was done in your name," he said. "Another village."

She rose slowly from where she sat by the forge's rails, staring not at him, nor at the men below, but at the horizon. Too many times she had let it pass. Too many times, she had believed command could be restored simply by returning to it. But something stirred within her, a thing neither anger nor wounded pride. It was something she had not felt in two hundred years. Guilt.

She was silent for a great while. Maarwookr did not speak, nor did he leave. Her horse shifted restlessly, sensing a change in its rider that it could not name. It was then that she ordered the ride to the Ford of Bruinen, where rumor told that Mirthig prepared to descend upon yet another quiet village, rich in harvest but poor in shield. Too near the Elven borders. Too near the place where innocence still dared to grow.

No longer would she let it be. She wore her blackened armor, though it felt heavier than any iron she had forged. It was no doubt she carried. It was a responsibility. And responsibility, she knew, does not weaken the hand that bears it; it makes it tremble.

Maarwookr rode beside her, silent for many miles. At last, he said, low as the wind through winter reeds, "You cannot stop him with words."

She did not turn toward him. "This time," she said, "I will not use words."