FLASHBACK
A half-moon shone the night of that fateful Friday the 13th, in the year 2799, late in the Second Age. The candles had all gone out, the fireplace embers dwindled to blackness. Lord Maladil woke with a start, his arms pinched in an inescapable grasp of long-nailed Orcs. Dagger points grazed his sides.
An Orc Chieftain hissed at his ear. "Don't move, Maladil, or we'll kill them slowly instead of quickly. Orc Bane you have been, but no more."
One by one the screams of each member of the House of Maladil came echoing. It started farthest away, the men-at-arms caught uselessly unawares on the third floor. Then down to the second floor, all down the hall closer and closer to his own Master Bedroom. Lesser servants, then those servants he was fond of: Anna, the Butler, Celumëomaryu. The children: his daughter Calimiel, his son Kenelm. As each voice fell silent, Maladil trembled at the loss, or winced, or cried out. But an Orc kept count with a dagger, until twelve bleeding notches brought Maladil to the edge of his own doom.
One by one the new ghosts of each member of the House of Maladil filed into the Master Bedroom. They gazed at the Head of Household who kept them there, for the mad oath Maladil swore a week ago now culminated in the fulfillment of its terrible curse. Maladil had defied the Valar, screaming that his fëa would refuse to depart Middle Earth, but remain inside the castle through all eternity, though his body die. Maladil further swore that neither would the Valar take his children or servants the way his wife had been taken, and that Kenelm, Calimiel, and all his servants would share his fate.
Before the death-blow pierced Maladil through, the rays of the half-moon chanced to fall upon the life-sized white marble statue of a woman against a background of mahogany paneling. The Orc Chieftain laughed. "We missed one." The statue was duly picked up by four of the foul marauders and smashed against the fireplace mantel until it broke in half. Maladil, held in place, writhed screaming.
A fragment of statue fell onto the slate tile floor where a sword stood leaning against the fireplace. The Orc Chieftain howled in triumph. He cringed on picking up the rune-laden weapon, but wielded the blade, though the pain of its madly-flickering blue light caused his breathing to go ragged. "As I said, Orc Bane no more. Too long have you slain Orcs, too many, and too freely. Yer death here is the last, so's we'll outlast you." The Orc spat, blade poised.
"Not the last! No Orc shall escape my castle alive this night!" Looking on the twelve ghosts of his household, Maladil bellowed, "To arms! To arms! Secure the doors!"
The sword plunged down through Maladil's heart. Maladil's ghost then rose to stand beside his enemy. Maladil wrested the sword hilt away. The blade crackled with light and noise, until the Orc Chieftain was no more.
Ghostly men-at-arms barred entranceways, shrieking revenge and hewing down frenzied Orcs. The Butler brandished a halberd. Calimiel waved about a long knife. Anna wielded an axe. Celumëomaryu ran to defend the library. Kenelm, who would not fight, winced as an Orc stumbled atop his harp, breaking several strings.
When the battle had done, no Orcs remained. Their defeat was total. But the castle residents fared little better. Thirteen ghosts began their walk through sighing centuries.
[ December 13, 2002: Message edited by: Gandalf_theGrey ]
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