[littlemanpoet]

The moment the Master entered the chamber, the roof gave way. Rain poured in, and something else: a human body, which hit the stone floor and did not move. It was a young woman! An elvish woman. Guards poured out from hidden recesses. Another interloper came swinging down nimbly from the broken roof, using a lantern chain for purchase. This one landed on two feet and quicker than Eodwine's eye could follow, drew and loosed five arrows into the guards, killing all five with each arrow. Only an Elf could use bow and arrow to such a pin point. The rain fell upon the altar, and Eodwine was drenched in moments. Lightning flashed.

Where had the Master gone? Eodwine looked up. He stood at Eodwine's head, goblet in one hand, that dagger, sharpened to a fine point in the other; it was the one Eodwine had been told about, bearing the ugly device of snake crawling through a skull's eye sockets that he had seen on the shields and hauberks of the guards. This dagger was singular, though. It's hilt was hollow, and an elixir was contained therein that, with a flick of the Master's thumb on a small switch, shot the elixir down the surface of the blade, and the wound opened by the dagger could not close, the blood could not thicken but would seep like water until the victim was drained.

The rain poured. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed and growled. The door broke open and more of the Elf woman's allies rushed in. The battle flowed before them.

"Man of Rohan," said the Master in tones sibilant as a serpent, disdainful of the melee raging around them, "it is your time to feed my life. What is your name, that I may honor your memory and sacrifice?" The Master's face was drawn tight against the bone so that it was no great task to imagine the skull beneath the skin. His eyes burned with a fierce will; but he was not disfigured. His expression mocked his seemingly honorable words; this one knew no honor.

"Tell me yours and I will tell you mine, fiend."

The Master smiled. "You would barter with me over a name? Fool." An arrow sped through the air at his head, but halted in its path just beyond the altar, and dropped to the floor. Another came swiftly after, and joined its brother on the floor. The arrows stopped coming. "See how the arrows cannot hurt us? We are safe here, you and I."

A rope descended from the hold in the roof.

The clouds burst and the rain came down like a waterfall. Eodwine turned his face away from the roof to breathe.

Suddenly, a high clear voice called from the midst of the temple, "Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima! O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!" The words fed Eodwine, bringing hope in the midst of darkness, even though hope seemed far away. He looked up and saw the Master cringe.

"I know who you are," Eodwine said. He was desperate to live, and his life on the dagger's edge, not in figure of speech but in truth, made him as wreckless as a man could be with all four limbs tied down and without defense. "You were the lieutenant of Barad-dur. I saw you there, on the Morannon before that final battle, running back to hiding with your tail between your legs like a wipped cur, Mouth of Sauron!"

The downpour ebbed and thunder rumbled in the distance.

"Silence! Do not incur my wrath, fool, or I could make your sacrifice most painful, and your existence beyond death most agonizing. Yes, I was the Mouth of Sauron, but no more. I am the Dark Lord now, and my power grows. Your blood shall aid me. I shall tell you my name, for it is precious to me. I am Herugor. Do you hear! Herugor!"

The name echoed through the chamber, and the melee stopped for a moment as both sides in the battle looked to the altar, transfixed. Lightning flashed overhead and thunder shouldered the lightning aside with a crash. Light and dark flashed on the forms of warrior and guard alike, making them appear as if they were moving though they did not. It was the Elf woman with her quick arrows who broke the tableau with five more arrows into the necks of five more guards.

"Now tell me your name, man of Rohan."

"I will not."

"I have it already from the guards, and can speak it for you, but it is best if it comes from your own lips."

"Liar."

"You dare much, messenger of the King of Rohan."