Loud footsteps echoed through the empty hall as Gerithor and Kalan proceeded toward the throne room. Gerithor grinned slightly as the spritely dwarf began to whistle.

"You're not even afraid of the dragon, are you?" He asked.

"Hoho! A right stupid claim it'd be if I said I wasn't!" The dwarf laughed. "Of course I'm afraid of the dragon lad. But I've gotta do something to keep my mind off the bugger!"

Gerithor nodded. "That makes sense... So tell me. What have you been doing for the past twenty years? And how did you get here?"

"Oh! That's a long story lad... Too long for this short walk. But I'll tell ye this: I'm still a merchant! Or... Was anyway. Before this dragon went and mucked things up."

"Is that how you got here then? Peddling goods?" Gerithor raised an eyebrow. "Rather bad luck."

"Aye, that it is! But such is life. There's always good luck mixed with bad. Ye gotta look forward to the good luck, and when the bad happens... Well, ye just make do!" Kalan let out a short laugh before holding up a hand and stopping.

"This is where we have to start being quiet," Kalan whispered. "The dragon'll burn ye to a crisp before ye even get a chance to say 'oodelalley'!"

"Did you make that word up?" Gerithor asked.

"Of course not! I never make words up," Kalan said, peering around the corner. "Jubaleelumpkins! There he is!"

Gerithor thought about pointing out the dwarf's use of another made up word, but decided against it. Instead, he followed Kalan's finger to where it was pointing.

"I don't see a dragon. Is it behind that wall?" Gerithor strained to look.

Suddenly, the wall moved. Slowly, it began to slide sideways. That's when Gerithor realized.

"That is the dragon lad," Kalan whispered, confirming the ranger's fears. A shiver went down his spine as dread filled him. The beast's form could be made out now as it slowly stood up, its great limbs like massive pillars.

"Who enters my throne room?" A deep, booming voice said commandingly. The dragon's massive head rose from the ground, its great flaming eyes scanning the room. The voice was rich, almost elegant in a way... If a dragon's voice could be called that.

"One who would treat with you," Gerithor replied with as much courage as he could muster. His voice still sounded small and weak, despite his efforts. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Kalan was inching away, and soon the dwarf had made his way back to the hallway they had come from.

"A brave one too, evidently," the dragon replied, his head roving back and forth as he smelled the room. "And a man, at that. Oh, don't be surprised. I know the difference between a man and a dwarf's voice."

"What is your name?" Gerithor asked.

The dragon made a sound that was almost akin to a purr. "Why would you care? Ah, no matter. I am called Drogoth by my people. What is your name, Man? Your accent is familiar to me... Yet faint."

"I am called Varonwe by the elves," Gerithor replied. For some reason, he felt reluctant to give the dragon his actual name.

"Ah, Varonwe. That means 'loyal' in their tongue, as I recall," The dragon sniffed the air once more. "Come out into the open, I mean you no harm. You have come to treat, so I am honor bound to let you live."

Gerithor slowly came from his hiding place, and the dragon's gaze immediately fell upon him.

"Ah... You are dressed as a brigand. I would assume that you are a servant of the Dark Lord, but your name is Elvish. My, but aren't you a conundrum! It's rather exciting actually," Drogoth licked his scaly lips. "You know, it gets rather boring just sitting here all day. I came down from the north precisely because I was tired of doing nothing... That, and the north is a dreadful place in recent days. But yet here I am, in the south, doing nothing."

"The south is rather foul of late itself," Gerithor replied, his voice quivering slightly. "What with all of the orcs, and the Dark Lord, and-" He stopped suddenly. He hadn't intended to reveal his allegiance... At least not this soon. The dragon's spell was strong... It would be difficult to resist.

"Ah, so you are no friend to Sauron," Drogoth said wryly. "Which rules out several possibilities. Ah yes... Now I think I know. I thought I knew that accent... Dunedan."

"You're right, I am of Numenorean descent," Gerithor replied, his voice still shaking. "But my origin makes no difference."

"Oh, but it does!" Drogoth's eyes took on an evil gleam. "You see, if you had been one of the Dalefolk things may have ended differently for you."

"W-why is that?" Gerithor asked. His heart was practically beating out of his chest by now.

"The Dalefolk brought about the death of one of my kinsmen," Drogoth replied. "I would have killed you where you stood had I discovered you were of that lineage."

Gerithor let out an audible sigh of relief. "Well I can assure you I am not. I can trace my line back to Elendil, King of Numenor."

"Then are you not a king?" Drogoth asked, his voice betraying his confusion.

"No, it doesn't work quite like that," Gerithor said as delicately as he could. He didn't want to anger the dragon.

"You and your kings, and queens, and princes," Drogoth said with a cross between a growl and a laugh. "Men, elves, and dwarves have a habit of making things confusing when it comes to rulers."

"Aye, I can agree with you there," Gerithor said. Gaining his courage, he decided that he would address the real reason he was there. "But I did not come to speak of royalty. I am here on business."

"I assumed as much... A shame. It seems that few would speak to a dragon just to pass the time," Drogoth began to examine one of his long, sharp claws. "Do you come on behalf of those filthy dwarves? I know they're living down in the tunnels."

Gerithor looked at the dragon in surprise. "If you knew, why haven't you killed them?"

"Oh, the lack of food will do that for me. Their larder is burnt to a crisp, and the cowards are too afraid to leave the mountain," Drogoth scoffed. He began to slowly stalk toward the ranger, his eyes glowing.

"Will you let them leave?" Gerithor asked.

At this, the dragon rose onto his hind legs, and his chest began to glow with a fire that was kindling within him. His fiery eyes narrowed, and he continued to approach, his massive feet shaking the throne room.

"Why should I? Dwarves have done nothing but caused suffering to my race... Why should I not do the same to them?!" Drogoth spoke with anger, and now his throat was glowing as well. Gerithor braced himself, knowing that he had said something dreadfully wrong. And now there was no escape, no way to flee.

"These dwarves haven't!" Gerithor stammered. He slowly began to back away, his eyes fixed on the dragon.

"It matters not... They will burn!" As Drogoth uttered these last words, his mouth opened wide and Gerithor could see the hot fire within, the flames burning bright like the fire of a furnace. He took one more step backward, knowing that his end was near...

But his foot didn't touch the ground. Instead, the ranger only felt air beneath it. His heart skipped a beat, and he quickly attempted to balance himself. But it was too late, for the weight of his step sent him falling back... into emptiness.

=========================

When he woke, he found himself in pure darkness. As he became more aware, he felt that his hands were submerged in what felt like sticky mud. A dank, musty smell permeated the air. It was a familiar odor, but the ranger couldn't quite place it. It smelled... Deathly. Like something was rotting. He slowly tried to sit up, but searing pain forced him back to the ground. Broken bones, he thought to himself. At least two ribs. He tried a second time and was able to rise to a kneeling position. As his eyes became adjusted to the darkness, he saw what he had fallen into.

"Gross!" He exclaimed under his breath as he quickly stood up, momentarily ignoring the pain. Apparently this crevasse had become Drogoth's place to relieve himself, and Gerithor was now standing in piles of the beast's excrement.

He suddenly had the desire to vomit, but forced it down. This is by far the most disgusting scenario I've been in, he thought with a mirthless smile. He looked around, trying to find a way out. It was still too dark to see well, so he carefully navigated to one of the cavern walls and began making his way forward slowly.

He soon came to solid ground, and he saw that the crevasse opened up into a large cavern ahead. Strange sapphire-like mushrooms glowed in the dark, casting an eerie light upon the chamber. Strangely enough, as Gerithor continued on into the cavern, he saw that there were torch sconces upon the walls. The dwarves made it down here once, he thought. However, it must have been long ago, for the sconces were covered with decades' worth of dust and debris.

Despite this, one of them still held a torch. It was old, that much was clear, but since it was made of some sort of metal it had remained undamaged. Gerithor pulled it from its sconce and tore a piece of his cloak off, wrapping it around the torch and tying it tightly.

It was at this moment that the pain returned to him. It was so intense that he doubled over in agony, dropping the torch in the process. He fell to his knees, clutching his side and breathing heavily. He couldn't go any further... For now, at least. He would have to rest here and regain his strength.

After checking to make sure that the area was safe, he collapsed to the ground. At least I'm out of the dragon excrement, he thought... And indeed this was his last thought before he fell into a deep sleep.

==========================

Atop the Tower of black steel,

far above the fiery wheel

The wails, laments beseech,

over the cry of fell beast's screech

The cold wind chills man's heart to stone,

it freezes weakness to the bone

But do not fear the red eye's glare,

for the winged one shall fall to one man's prayer

Gerithor woke with a start. The words spoken were dark and evilly said, but he knew not who uttered them. As he came to his senses he recoiled, for he was no longer in the cavern he had fallen asleep in. Shadowy clouds roiled about in a red sky, and winged beasts of horrible form circled among them like great black vultures. Gerithor saw that he was on the top of a tower of immense size, and the ground below was cracked and barren. No tree or river adorned it, save the rivers of fire that flowed from a dark mountain in the distance.

A voice behind him cause him to spin around and reach for his sword, but his scabbard was empty.

"Ranger..." A familiar voice said. A shadow took form in front of him... Arnakhor.

"Cast into the shadows, among dragon's filth," the Black Numenorean sneered. "Is it not fitting? Is it not where you belong?"

He stalked slowly toward Gerithor, and as he did, he drew a long, cruel sword. Fell runes were etched into the blade, runes that Gerithor had never seen before.

"Perhaps you had the chance to achieve greatness once. Perhaps your people did. But that chance is gone now. A Great Eye will soon rule all, and I will have succeeded in my goal... Whether I am alive to see it or not."

He was now standing directly in front of Gerithor. He ran a finger along the blade of his sword, causing blood to pour from it. He seemed unaware of it.

"You will die, Ranger. The one who hunts you will see to that. She will take you and your friends. And she will inflict unimaginable suffering upon you all. If you thought you knew pain, you will learn your mistake. You will be forever in the darkness, forever in agony. You will pay for what you have done." Arnakhor raised his sword, prepared to bring it down on the ranger. Gerithor tried to move but he couldn't. He was completely paralyzed, helpless.

Suddenly a light shattered the darkness, as if breaking a sheet of thin glass. The phantom of Arnakhor disappeared with a strange, inhuman screech, and from the light the figure of a woman appeared. Gerithor did not recognize her, but she was fair yet fell to look upon. She reminded the ranger of a great queen from a time long past, and he was ashamed to be in her presence.

"Varonwe," she said. Her voice was somewhat deeper than he had expected, yet no less regal. She reached out a hand to him, and he took it.

"Your fight has just begun, Dunedan of the North. Forces far worse than the dragon are at work here. Your very being will soon be tested, and the fate of this world rests on whether you succeed. My time is short, for soon the one who was here before me shall return. Though your visions have aided you in the past, you can no longer trust them, for your mind is no longer entirely yours. Be wary Ranger. Be wary of the one who wears the crown of black thorns."

At this, the woman disappeared and suddenly Gerithor was back in the cavern. What had just happened?