Stories by Jane Mailander

One Ring Seventy-Six--

ARAGORN: Well, gentlemen, it's time to decide who carries the Ring to Mordor.

GLORFINDEL: Master Aragorn, I say you should bear It. You have spent long years resisting Sauron's wrath.

ARAGORN: Is that true?
Well, if I'm the one to do it, the Dark Lord rules me through It,
Making Nazgul number 10 to join their path.


A grinning Orc wearing a blood-streaked Gondorian helmet smashed Pippin with his wooden shield. Pippin staggered and swung. Another brutal blow struck the sword from his hand, and Pippin stared as the Orc's spear drew back.

A white streak of chill fog whirled at the Orc's neck, and the creature fell dead without a mark upon it.

A cold wave of ghastly green splashed upon the second level. They looked like soldiers. Dead soldiers. Wherever they passed, Orcs died and Men were left standing, staring in horror at this terrifying ally…

…The mold-green wave of Dead flowed past Pippin and was gone, harrowing the City's invaders.

Gone? A chill presence remained beside Pippin, fog-white rather than the green of the others.

Pippin turned to look, and cried out in pity and grief.