Author Note:

1: This story is based on the Altered Fates Universe concept established by Jennifer Adams, however I’ve taken some artistic liberties so this story doesn’t strictly adhere to the rules Jennifer established.

2: This is also a fanfic of the J.R.R. Tolkien world of Middle Earth in an untold tale of the First Age. Please note; I didn’t stay completely true to the Middle Earth that Tolkien set up. This is my take on what Middle Earth in the First Age might have been like.

The hooded figure sat upon a throne of skulls and looked out at the blazing fire in the middle of the room. At first glance the circular chamber might have been mistaken for a building that is until the wind caused one of the canvas walls to quiver. The tent’s roof rose sharply and it was open in the center allowing the heat and smoke from the fire a place to escape.

Across the knees of the manlike figure on the throne was a mighty sword, around the fire knelt a half dozen Orc chiefs their foreheads touching the ground. Behind the Orcs sitting on their haunches three Troll Clan-Carls waited, and to his left and right stood a pair of beings, clothed in shadow, patient, and silent. At first glance one would assume the flames from the fire were reflected in the eyes of the hooded-one. This was a false impression as the flames within the being’s eyes were no reflection, instead the eyes were merely windows to the fire that burned within the creature.

“Tell me again, how you had the Elf Knight Fallaistra trapped and outnumbered while you held the high ground and she not only defeated you but managed to slaughter almost a quarter of my army?”

The words were soft spoken but in the true tongue of Angband they carried a weight and menace to every ear within the tent striking fear in all except the Lieutenants standing to either side of the throne. The Orc in the center, larger than the others lifted his head, “My Lord Gothmog, it is not our fault. We were set upon from behind by that accursed being known as Sornohen, it was he who slew, Vothgær, and sent us flying for our lives.”

A hush fell upon the creatures within the tent and even the Balrogs glanced nervously at Gothmog. None had dared to speak the name of the Maiar who’d taken Gothmog’s hand. For a moment the being on the throne glanced down at the stump of his left hand and then he looked up at those in the tent waiting on his command.

“Leave me.”

The Orcs and Trolls quickly departed leaving Gothmog and his two lieutenants. Once they were alone Gothmog turned to them and nodded, “My brother and sister, who is this Maiar Knight that goes by the Noldoren name, Sornohen?”

The venom in Gothmog’s voice as he spoke the name caused the fire to flare in response. The Balrog lieutenants moved to stand before the throne. Shadows clung to them but their fires were held within and they stood no taller than an Elf. Yet the powerful aura of darkness left no doubt of their nature.

“My Captain,” said the Balrog to his right, “I’ve questioned the prisoners of Lindornëa. None knew, before our attack, that two Maiar were within the village. Their nature was kept secret until we forced them to reveal themselves.”

After a few minutes of silence Gothmog stood up and moved down from his throne, in his current form he was only a few inches taller than his Lieutenants. The stump of his left hand drew the gaze of both Lieutenants. When Gothmog had shifted from his battle-form to his everyday-form he’d been unable to regrow his hand. The disfigurement was rare for creatures whose origin was beyond Arda. Gothmog strode to the fire, placed his sword tip first into the dirt leaning on it with his good hand and stared into the flames.

“Six Valaraukar I brought with me, to destroy the last seven villages of King Turukáno’s folk here in Nevrast, plus two leading the host from the east. Now only four of us remain.” He shook his head, “Our Lord will not be pleased.” Then in a louder voice, “This whole situation has the feeling of the hand of Irmo, Lord of Spirits and Dreams, the Master Summoner of the Valar. Only Irmo could bring two such beings from beyond the veil of the world and set them upon this course.”

“My lord, perhaps it’s time to set a trap?” The Balrog who spoke up was the only female of her race to accompany the army from Angband.

“What do you suggest Alarukë?”

At this the Balrog moved between Gothmog and the fire, shadows swirled around her and her form shrank further. When the shadows left a tall, blonde, elfish woman in white, green, and gold raiment stood. She was fair of skin and pleasing to the eye in only the way that the Maiar or the fairest of Elves can be.

“This Sornohen is male is he not? I’ve yet to meet the male that can resist my charms.”

Gothmog nodded and then looked at his last Lieutenant, “Handmaiden of Melkor, do your work as you see fit. Take whatever resources you need.” He then turned to the remaining Balrog, “Come Gôrlir, we need to plan the next phase of this campaign for only four of the seven villages have fallen and we now have a large Elfish Warband and an organized resistance to contend with.”

Logan looked into the mirror feeling torn. Molly’s face stared back and while there was a part of her that had expected the reflection. She was still caught by surprise at times expecting to see her male face instead. Logan reached up and ran a hand over her fiery locks admiring the long intricate braid that Narmartë had helped her work into her hair. She turned sideways admiring the dark green dress and sighed. The corset built into the dress accented her tiny waist and the flare of her hips while pushing up her breasts. Back when she’d been male she’d have taken the girl in the mirror into her arms and . . . Logan allowed the thought to trail off. Now she felt nothing, except pleased with how she looked in the dress.

Logan turned away from the mirror and moved over to the window. Night was just about to fall and the shadows were getting longer, yet from where she stood she could see the great wall and the seventh gate. When Logan and the refugees from Nevrast had left the hidden way they’d come upon the first Gate of Ondolindë. In her mind’s eye Logan could still see the mighty timbers rising from the steep rocky ground.

Sir Ronir had hailed the Gate and it had swung open allowing the Elves to enter. As Logan had walked through she’d noticed that this wasn’t a simple palisade. The gate turned out to be a tunnel almost ten feet long and when Logan had asked about it she’d been told that the wall had been constructed in three layers. Between each layer of wood the Elves had filled the space with sand and gravel. The logs were treated and set deeply into the rocky ground but the craftsmanship was such that none of the dirt spilled out. This wall would take a pounding and still stand particularly when the size and thickness of the wood logs was taken into account. They had obviously been harvested from the forest around Lindornëa. Normally a structure like this could be attacked with fire and that might weaken the outer layer but the two behind would still hold and the fire could only catch and burn from the outside.

It had been late in the day and the refugees were tired from all of the walking so they’d made camp. The guards of the first gate had been polite and their Captain had taken Sir Ronir and Narmartë to one side for a private conference. The next day they’d set out again and it had taken the entire day to work their way up into the pass. Now Logan estimated they must be at least twelve thousand feet up but they’d passed through the finale gate. Each gate had been different, higher and more formidable as the pass got narrower. The second gate had been made of stone set within a tall stone wall. This had also been cunningly constructed as the gate was raised by the use of a counter-weighting system. Logan had felt a little nervous as she’d passed beneath several tons of stone that could have been sent crashing down. From that point on the walls had been made of stone but each gate was different.

The third gate was of wood sheathed in bronze. The fourth was a great iron gate and by the time she got to the fifth gate Logan was stunned to see what appeared to be silver. When she’d asked about it she’d been told it was ‘true’ silver or mithril. The wealth and craftsmanship that went into constructing the gate was astonishing and Logan wondered if it was designed to awe an attacker as much as defend the pass. The sixth gate had been wrought of gold and Logan was told that a special process had been used to harden the gold before it had been hammered in a series of plates over the mithril and wooden gate. The last gate was made of steel and seemed simple after the wealth of the fifth and sixth gates.

The stone wall rose up from the narrow pass well over a hundred feet and to approach the gate Logan had to pass between a pair of towers. This would cause any attacking force to be caught in a lethal crossfire. The gate was protected by a wooden drawbridge and the trench before the bridge was lined with tightly fit stones and a forest of iron spikes. Logan saw that the bridge had been covered in mithril plates. Then an iron portcullis had been set just inside the barbican after that a tunnel let to the steel doors of the gate. The roof of the tunnel had been lined with kill-ports for either arrow fire or the dumping of oil turning the tunnel into a kill zone.

When she’d stepped through the last gate Logan saw that what amounted to a small town that had been cut into the side of the mountain. It was here that the Elves charged with guarding the gates lived. Narmartë explained that the watch was rotated from the town and duty on each of the gates was a one year posting. After seven years there would be a battalion swap out occurred as the next battalion came on duty. The town had been built to support the warriors as they stood the watch.

By the time they’d climbed to the top of the pass and reached the seventh gate the sun was almost setting. The town was small, if Logan had to guess she’d have said no more than a few thousand Elves lived in the pass. Narmartë had led her to a nice hotel cut into the side of the mountain with a view of the wall and town. It was this view that took Logan’s breath as she watched the sun set.

The knock on the door drew Logan’s attention away from the view and she hurried over to the open it. Narmartë stood in the hallway dressed in a light blue dress that showed her figure to full advantage. The change from warrior to lady was shocking and Logan blurted out, “Wow, you clean up nice.”

Narmartë gave Logan an amused smile, “A strange phrase, was that this Engleesh, you told me of?”

Logan felt her face flush as she realized she’d accidentally switched to English. “Um, English, yes. I just commented that you look lovely.”

“As do you. I was a little surprised that Lord Penlod had dresses of this quality here”

“More surprising is that they fit.”

At this Narmartë laughed, “Nay, they are constructed by the Art. They will adjust to the size of the woman and shape themselves to show our best traits.” With that Narmartë’s gay laughter floated out and she spun around in a circle causing her dress to flare. “Come, Sir Ronir and my Lord Penlod are waiting for us.”

Logan followed Narmartë feeling a little guilty. They left the inn and as they walked, all around them, crystals set on tall poles began to flare up filling the darkness with colored light. At the same time the last rays of the sun faded and one by one bright stars began to twinkle into existence. It was a scene of ethereal beauty that should have taken Logan’s breath away. As if sensing her companion’s somber mood Narmartë looked at her.

“Ilcaúrna, we have only known each other for a short time, yet I feel you are a kindred soul.” Logan didn’t know what to say so she just nodded. “Because of this I can tell that something is troubling you.”

“It’s just that we’re here, dressed for a formal dinner, in a well-defended town, far from danger, and my friend, Sornohen, is out there facing battle . . .”

At this the laughter left Narmartë’s eyes, “I know, I’m troubled for my kin in Nevrast and the loss of Sir Helcëtôr is like a knife through my heart.” Then on some instinct she asked, “But something else troubles you, does it not?”

Logan paused, thinking, and then she realized what had been bothering her for some time. “I’m also worried that we might not be able to get home.” She took a deep breath very aware of the way her breasts strained against her dress.

“You see we came into this world through a gate beyond the river where we met you. At this point I’m not sure we can find the gate. But assuming we can the key to opening it was in Sornohen’s pack. That pack was in his room back in Lindornëa. I fear the village is lost to the Orcs, or perhaps burned to the ground. In any case, if the key is lost then we might not be able to open the gate even if we can find it.”

Narmartë reached out and took Logan’s hand causing both of them to stop walking. “You are worried that you cannot return home?” Logan nodded. “I understand the loss of home and kin is very difficult.” She gestured with her chin at the buildings where most of the refugees were being hosted. “My people of just experienced both.”

Abruptly Logan felt ashamed, here she was lamenting the fact that she might be stuck in this world but her family and friends were safe. These people had just lost everything.

“You are a hero. You’re actions saved many lives and King Turukáno, is generous and will not forget. I believe that you will find a home here, for as long as you want it.”

Narmartë’s words made Logan feel better and the temptation to let go, to accept the offer was hard to ignore. But Logan had been hired to keep Molly safe. She’d already failed at that job, because wherever Molly was, Logan felt sure she wasn’t safe. There was also the issue of getting Molly back home to his father and getting them switched back. Taking Narmartë’s offer would mean accepting the fact the Logan was now and forever, a woman. The idea had a strange attraction and Logan had to fight it off. ‘I’m a man, damn it!’ he thought. There was a giggle in the back of his mind, *Really?*

“I have a duty, Narmartë. Sornohen and I must return to our land or we will fail in that duty.”

The words were spoken softly and Logan could see that Narmartë sensed the inner turmoil that shook Logan. Instead of arguing Narmartë wove her arm through Logan’s and started walking.

“The stars are bright tonight. We are young and alive, having survived battle and privation. Put aside your fears and concerns for one night, at least, and celebrate our safe arrival.”

Logan couldn’t help smiling at Narmartë’s good mood and then she heard the sounds of singing and gay laughter floating up from the dormitories that had been given over to the survivors.

“What are they doing?”

“Celebrating life. We, all of us, survived. Now is a time to give thanks for there will be dark times ahead.”

Narmartë shifted her grip to take Logan by the hand and she started skipping gaily forward forcing Logan to keep up. Soon Narmartë’s good mood infected Logan and she found herself skipping along with Narmartë. Her worry dispelled and when Narmartë added an occasional twirl to her skipping stride Logan joined in. Their casual walk became a competition to see whose dress would flare the best and their laughter filled the night.

Before Logan knew it they came to a building larger than the others with a set of marble columns before intricately carved oaken doors and a bright fountain that sent clear water into the air. Logan stopped out of breath and leaned on Narmartë for support and at the sight of the stern guards looking down at them the two women burst into giggles.

“Come!” Narmartë grabbed Logan’s hand and lead her up the steps and between the pillars. As she climbed the steps Logan looked back at the fountain and wondered at the engineering that must have gone into building a fountain in a place like this, then Narmartë stopped and Logan almost ran into her. To either side of the great doors a pair of tall Elven warriors stood with red tabards over their golden armor. Centered upon the red tabards was the symbol of a golden pillar. One of the guards opened the doors while the other saluted, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Hail, my Lady Narmartë Thlim Ith Mindon, you are welcome in the House of Lord Penlod.” Then he turned to Logan and bowed deeply, “Be welcome, Lady Ilcaúrna et Maiar.”

Narmartë swept past and Logan followed noting how the eyes of the guards followed her before they closed the door. The hall was lit by more of the multi-colored crystals and they were met by a short thin Elf who had the air of someone who’s seen everything and nothing surprises him. And while his face was unlined his hair was as white as snow.

“Good evening, my ladies. If you will follow me I will bring you to my Lord’s dining chamber.”

Narmartë smiled and then leaned in to hug the Elf. “Good evening to you Melandrach! It’s been a long time.”

At this the older Elf allowed his facade of indifference to slip and he reached up to awkwardly pat Narmartë on the back.

“Aye, Lady Narmartë, I think the last time I saw you was after your parent’s death when Sir Helcëtôr named you his heir and presented you to the Court.”

At the mention of her parents death Narmartë stiffened but then relaxed again right away. If Logan hadn’t known her so well she’d have never spotted the brief reaction. Melandrach had felt it and when Narmartë moved to step back he held her for a second. “I’m sorry for bringing up a painful memory.”

“Nonsense, the night of my second court presentation is one of my fondest memories.”

“Indeed, please follow me.”

Logan moved up to walk next to Narmartë and gave her a quick sideways glance to see how she was doing but it was as if nothing had happened. ‘Perhaps I just imagined it.’ Logan thought. Then they entered a large room with couches set around the perimeter. In the middle of the room stood a table filled with all manner of fruit, nuts, bread, and cheese. There were also several pitchers with water condensing on the outside set on trays with glass goblets.

“Ah, my ladies, you look much refreshed.”

Logan looked to the side and saw Sir Ronir standing up from where he’d been sitting. He moved forward with a cat like grace, his black boots making almost no noise on the stone floor. Ronir was dressed formally in black trousers with a red tunic and golden scroll work along the sleeves and neck. Over his heart was the symbol of the golden pillar, similar to those worn by the guards.

“And, if I might be so bold, beautiful. Please, may I pour you a glass of wine?

For a moment Logan couldn’t answer, her heart was beating a mile a minute as the tall Elfish knight gave her a bright smile. Sensing her friend’s hesitation Narmartë looked curiously at Logan and then the corners of her mouth twitched in mirth and her eyes started to sparkle.

“Yes, Sir Ronir, we’d both love a glass.”

The tall knight poured two goblets and handed the first to Narmartë before turning to Logan and extending a glass. Logan reached out and when their fingers touched Logan thought she could almost feel a spark from the contact. Her face flushed and she drew her hand back almost losing her grip on the glass.

“Are you alright my lady?”

Sir Ronir took a step closer and Logan had to tilt her head back to see his face. When she did she found herself staring up into his clear blue eyes and realized they reminded her of the sky.

“Ilcaúrna?”

Logan looked over at Narmartë who hid her smile behind her glass as she raised it. “To our good fortune, may the light of Valinor shine upon us.”

Logan took a sip of the wine and let out a small gasp of surprise, light and dry, with a crispness she’d never tasted. She was just about to comment when a new voice interrupted.

“A lovely toast, but it pales when compared to the beauty of the one who made it.”

Logan turned and saw standing in the doorway a large powerfully built Elf. He must have been six and a half feet tall and as he stepped into the room the light from the crystal chandelier gleamed upon his dark red hair. Logan tried to speak but she sensed Melchiresa urging her to be silent. Slowly Narmartë moved forward and it was as if no one else existed and Logan could have sworn the light from the chandelier softened.

“My Lord Penlod, Thlim Climbol.”

Narmartë swept into a deep graceful curtsy and when she looked up her eyes practically glowed. Penlod moved closer until he was only a few inches from Narmartë.

“My Lady Narmartë Thlim Ith Mindon, need we be so formal? Have we not known each other since we were children?”

Now for the first time Logan sensed a flush to Narmartë’s checks, “True my lord but this is the first time I’ve seen you, in private, since our betrothal.”

Penlod reached forward with a large hand to tilt Narmartë’s head up, “All the more reason for informality.”

Then he slowly leaned down and brushed his lips against Narmartë’s. In that moment Logan realized that she’d forgotten to breathe, so caught up in the spectacle was she. The simplicity of the reunion did nothing to suppress the undercurrent of passion. For several heart beats they stood in each other’s arms and then Narmartë seemed to come to herself. She stepped back and turned to face Logan and Ronir, although Logan noted that she was still holding Penlod’s hand.

“My lord Penlod, it is my pleasure to introduce you to the Lady Ilcaúrna et Maiar. It was with her timely aid that I was able to return to you. I and all the people of Nevrast owe her and her companion Sornohen et Maiar, a debt of gratitude.”

Reluctantly Penlod looked up from Narmartë to Logan and nodded. “Indeed, then I’m doubly blessed, for you have returned to me my beloved and our people who remained in the outer realm.” Then he looked a little closer and continued, “Yet you do not appear in the shape of the Maiar as the bards have taught us. Instead you resemble one of the Atan.”

Logan was suddenly aware of three sets of eyes looking at her and she felt Melchiresa stir.

“I understand your words, and I’ve got no answer for them. I have never named myself Maiar. It is true that I come from beyond Arda.”

“I have seen her transform my lord, just as the Maiar are said to be able to do. She can change her shape and the Song is Strong within her. She has dominion over the Air, Fire, and Metal and has used her power to save our people.” Narmartë’s voice carried a touch of awe and the look she gave Logan made her feel uncomfortable.

“What a wondrous thing. My Lady Ilcaúrna, would you honor us this night with a display of your power?”

At this Logan felt Melchiresa shift again, *Hmmmm, I think they want to play.* Logan could feel Melchiresa’s eagerness to show what they could do, and for some reason she was reluctant to show off too much.

“If I were to transform I’d ruin this dress, and that would be a real shame.”

Then Logan, before her hosts could say anything held her left hand out and summoned her power. Fire danced down and around her arm in a spiral and then a ring formed around her wrist. A line of fire broke away from the circle and shot across and then back, again and again until a pentagram of fire wreathed Logan’s wrist.

There was a collective intake of breath and then Sir Ronir spoke, “Beautiful, and powerful, truly we are all blessed tonight.”

Molly looked down at the map and felt frustrated. For some reason he’d always thought that Elfish cartography would be superb. Still it was good enough to get a general sense of the land. Nevrast was surrounded on all sides by a mountain range called Echoriath, or the encircling mountains. The territory was about half again as big as Molly’s native Michigan and in the center of the land was a great bog or swamp. From the mountains several streams or rivers flowed down into the swamp. The seven Elven villages had been built in a crescent starting to the north of the swamp and continuing around the east side with the last village south of the bog. Lindornëa and Ilcanalta had been the two north most villages and the force of Orcs had hit them from the west. While this had happened a second force had come in from the east attacking the eastern most village of Talatphen cutting off the northern villages from those south of the bog.

Then the force in the east had turned west and north attacked toward the army that had destroyed Lindornëa. As far as Molly could tell four villages had been destroyed with the eastern most two a complete loss. There were three villages south of the bog. Molly glanced up from the map as the flap to the tent opened and Sir Fallaistra entered. After a moment he waved the blonde Knight over and looked at the other faces watching him. These were the leaders of his Warband. Even the thought of leading a Warband felt odd to Molly but he suppressed the feeling. Time for that later.

“From what I can see, we’ve got one of two choices.” Sir Nenthal said, pointing at the map. “We can try to prevent the two Warbands of Angband from linking up. Or we can try to go around one of them and get down to the southern villages.”

“Do we know that the southern villages have survived the attack?” Tanna asked.

Nenthal glared at Tanna clearly upset that she’d questioned his assertion. “Can we afford not to assume that they survived?”

“What news, Sir Fallaistra?” Molly asked.

The Knight moved up to the table. “Aye, my lord, they have. But the reports are not conclusive. The horde to the east of us has spread out and we’re having trouble getting scouts past them. The Warband to the west is dogging our trail and appears intent on bringing us to battle.”

Molly glanced down at the map and frowned. With forces to the east and west, and a bog to the south and mountains to the north there didn’t appear to be much choice. Logic dictated to hit the force to the east hard. Since they’d spread out if he concentrated his forces in one spot Molly should be able to push through the line and escape the trap. The he felt Kratos stir, *We’re missing something.*

‘I know.’ Molly thought looking down at the map. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a couple of satellites and a predator or two.’ Even if the dispersal of the army to the east was an opportunity, where should he strike the line? Molly felt another surge of frustration and wanted to lash out but knew it wouldn’t do any good. Besides seeing ones commander lose his temper wasn’t good for morale. Silence feel on the tent as the Elves watched Molly.

“I need more information.” Molly muttered and then turned to the tent door.

“My lord, where are you going?” Alion, the First-Spear, asked.

Molly paused and looked over his shoulder at the NCO. “I’m going to go out and look the situation over and then figure out our next move.”

Without waiting for a reply he moved out of the tent. The afternoon sun was trying to fight its way through the overcast and Molly wondered if the steady grey light was a product of the power of Morgoth or if it was just part of the natural weather pattern. Molly paused to look over the camp impressed with the organization of the Elves. The rows of tents were neat and orderly and the defensive perimeter with the palisade was in place. With a grunt of satisfaction Molly looked over at his Lieutenants, “I’ll be back in a few hours. While I’m gone Sir Fallaistra is in charge.”

Even though there wasn’t a visible reaction Molly could tell that Sir Nenthal wasn’t happy about it.

*Tough, Fallaistra has held command before and she’s obviously more experienced.* Kratos’ thought confirmed Molly’s judgment and he turned away. Even in an Army fighting for survival politics played a role.

“What do you plan to do my lord?” Alion asked.

Now Molly moved away from the rest of his Lieutenants and ignored Alion’s question. Instead Molly focused on the tattoo on his back. The Griffin, Boreas, was a full back tattoo and as soon as he reached for it Molly felt him twitch and move. Then he felt a fierce sense of satisfaction at being summoned. Molly let out a breath and tried to draw upon Boreas’ power and it was like a damn burst and energy flowed into him.

Molly threw back his head and screamed, the cry shifted and grew louder, higher pitched and clearer until it was more like the call of a giant eagle than that of a human. Liquid fire raced down his veins and for a minute Molly thought he’d be consumed by the power. Then Molly was falling forward onto all fours as a huge set of wings burst from his back. Cramps twisted his muscles and his skin writhed and stretched and changed. Molly felt his face push out and clutched at the ground with his front talons. Then the pain receded and Molly lifted his head to look around.

The Elves that had walked out of the tent with him looked much smaller than they should have and it took Molly a moment to realize he was now much bigger than before. He turned his head and discovered that he could almost turn it all the way around. This allowed him to take a look at his great black wings and tawny cat body. As Molly examined his new body he felt a sense of pride and happiness radiate from the Boreas. There were no words spoken into Molly’s mind like Kratos did, instead Molly could feel the Griffin’s emotions, its fierce pride, and a desire to hunt and to fly.

Molly keyed in on the desire to fly and his body crouched and then sprang into the air. In the lighter gravity the leap carried Molly further than he’d expected and then Molly sensed the Boreas pushing doing something with the magic in the world around. Molly snapped his wings up and down in a rhythmic beat and he rapidly climbed higher and higher. Then it occurred to Molly the Boreas could feel and manipulate the magic in the world and use it to fly. Higher and higher Molly climbed and he had no way of knowing how high he was but from this height and with his improved eye sight Molly could see the mountains to the north, the bog to the south, and the fires of the army of Gothmog in the west. Molly circled the camp as he continued to climb until some instinct told him that he was high enough.

Then Molly soared to the east. The second army of Morgoth was a problem. They didn’t know where they were and Molly suspected that the dark host wouldn’t have thought to take precautions against aerial observation. The flight east took about thirty minutes and then Molly spotted something moving in the forest below. His eyes instantly zoomed in on the movement and Molly spotted a troop of Orcs marching toward his Warband. Molly continued searching and discovered troop after troop. The Orc commander had obviously taken his army and dispersed it into a skirmish line. That line was several miles long and he planned to use it to find Molly’s forces.

Then behind the skirmish line Molly spotted the main body. This army easily outnumbered Molly’s force by five to one. Behind the main arm, a reserve force of Orc’s riding Wargs. The tactic was as obvious as it was simple, but effective. The skirmish line would find Molly’s forces and if possible fix their location. The main body would then orient on the Elves and move forward to attack and hopefully destroy them. The cavalry would support the main attack or if the skirmish line failed to fix the Elves the greater mobility of the cavalry would run them down and engage. Once the main army’s attack started the Elves would be done. If all of that failed all they had to do was hold Molly long enough for the army in the west to catch up and Molly would be caught between the two.

For a minute Molly thought about heading back to his Warband but then decided to look in on the other Elfish villages. It would be nice to know if they still existed or if they were already destroyed. It took almost an hour but when Molly descended into his camp he knew that so far the southern villages had escaped the fate of their northern counter parts. As Molly got closer he heard shouting and for a second thought he might catch an arrow or two, not that he was worried about it. Even the enchanted shafts didn’t concern him too much, Molly somehow knew that he didn’t have much to worry about.

He landed by his command tent and noticed that the guards were good enough to not draw weapons as they watched him. The tent flap opened and Fallaisra and Alion stepped out. Molly released his grip on the Griffin’s power and he could feel the mighty spirit sort of shrink and disappear into the back of his mind. As this happened Molly felt his body shifting, muscles and skin changing, and shrinking. The feeling of loss was intense there was an emptiness where there had been power only moments before. For a moment Molly thought about bringing the Griffin spirit forward and embracing the power. But he let it go. For now it was necessary to be a small two-leg. Then it was over and Molly shivered, naked, in the chilly night air.

Alion stepped forward and draped a cloak over Molly’s shoulders. “My lord, I’m pleased that you’re back. We were starting to get worried.”

“Ah, well, it’s good that you’re here. Summon my Lieutenants, we have to work quickly if we’re going to escape the trap before us.”