Luke's expression darkened as he watched the slain goblin bodies become hosts for malevolent spirits.
"Think hiding in those shells will keep you safe from me?" he sneered, a cold edge to his voice. "Let's see how you hide without them." As he spoke, he raised his wand, summoning Fiendfyre to purge the spirits possessing the goblins.
Eerie blue flames erupted like fiery tendrils, consuming both the spirits and their hosts. Any goblin touched by the cursed fire was instantly incinerated.
Stripped of their hosts, the spirits were now fully exposed.
Spirits were, in essence, corrupted souls. While Fiendfyre couldn't destroy souls outright, it could burn away the evil energy that shrouded them. Under the scorching flames, the spirits writhed in agony, their dark aura dissipating like smoke, growing weaker with every moment.
But Fiendfyre wasn't invincible. Though it could burn almost anything, even the hardest metals, it couldn't consume earth or stone. The spirits, lacking physical form, slipped through the solid ground, escaping the flames by burrowing deep beneath the surface.
The spirits might have survived, but the goblins weren't so lucky.
Terrified by the relentless fire, the goblins fled in a panic. Some, thinking quickly, dived back into their tunnels and caves.
Yet, like a serpent drawn to its prey, the Fiendfyre slithered into the tunnels, pursuing the goblins deep into their lairs.
The goblins of the North Downs weren't a numerous race. After the Witch-king of Angmar's armies were scattered by the combined forces of Elves and Men, only scattered bands of Orcs and goblins remained. They used the ruins of the lost kingdom of Arnor as their dens, preying on travelers.
Now, however, they had encountered a calamity, one that spelled their doom.
With nowhere to run from the cursed flames, the goblins turned to ash one by one, even those who'd burrowed into the deepest caves. When the last goblin was consumed, Luke didn't extinguish the fire. Instead, he willed the flames to take the shape of a Balrog, directing it toward a ruined watchtower on the hillside.
The fiery demon radiated scorching heat, even forming a whip of flames in its hand, which it lashed against the tower.
The stone bricks shattered on impact. Though the flames couldn't burn the rocks, the intense heat made them crack and explode.
"Hmph! Did you think hiding would keep me from noticing you?" Luke scoffed, then hurled a bombarda at the tower.
With a deafening explosion, rubble flew in all directions, and dust filled the air.
The creature hiding inside was finally forced into the open.
A massive wolf, wreathed in dark mist, leaped high into the air, dodging the Fiendfyre's attack with the speed of a gale. In a few bounds, it landed near a deep pool a thousand meters away.
The wolf was as large as an ox, its eyes burning with a sinister crimson glow, and its body radiated a thick aura of dark magic.
"A Warg?" Luke muttered in surprise, but quickly dismissed the thought.
Wargs weren't this big, nor this powerful.
Wargs were essentially corrupted giant wolves, intelligent and large, but otherwise not much different from ordinary wolves. This beast, however, was saturated with dark magic. Its black mist writhed like living tendrils, as if eager to devour all life. Its drool sizzled like acid upon hitting the ground.
To Luke's magical senses, this wolf was no mere beast, it was a full-fledged monster, dozens of times more dangerous than any Warg.
What happened next shocked him even more.
The black wolf stared at Luke and suddenly spoke, "Luke the Black-robed Wizard, I've heard of your deeds and know your methods. I have no wish to be your enemy."
Luke narrowed his eyes. "You know me?"
"The famed Black Wizard, Master of Dragons, Slayer of Balrogs, Bane of Orcs, even in the dark realms, your name is legendary," the wolf replied.
"Then what are you? You're not like any Warg I've seen."
"Wargs? Pah! Mere beasts ridden by Orcs!" The wolf sneered with disdain, then raised its head proudly.
"I am Sköll, the Werewolf, descendant of the great progenitors Draugluin and Carcharoth, once mighty guardians of the Dark Lord Morgoth!"
A Werewolf? Luke recalled a passage he'd once read in Rivendell's archives.
These were dark creatures created by Morgoth. Unlike Wargs, Werewolves had evil spirits bound within them. Draugluin, the first of their kind, had even been fed Morgoth's blood, making him a far more fearsome beast.
And Draugluin was tied to the fate of Arwen's ancestors, the Elf-princess Lúthien and the human hero Beren.
Arwen had once told Luke their tale:
Beren, a mortal man, fell in love with Lúthien, daughter of King Thingol of Doriath. Thingol, unwilling to let his daughter marry a human, set an impossible bride-price, a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown.
Beren ventured alone to Morgoth's fortress, Angband, but was captured and placed under the guard of Draugluin.
Learning of this, Lúthien disguised herself as a phantom and, with the hound Huan, infiltrated Angband to rescue Beren.
On their escape, Draugluin intercepted them and fought Huan. Though the Werewolf was slain, the battle was fierce.
Lúthien revived Beren with magic, and the two fled with a Silmaril Beren had hidden earlier. But on their way out, they encountered Carcharoth, a far more terrible Werewolf, bred by Morgoth to devour Elves and Men, guarding Angband's gates.
Beren was slain by Carcharoth, and Lúthien, in her grief, traded her immortality to Mandos for Beren's brief return to life.
Carcharoth, however, had swallowed the Silmaril. The holy jewel burned him from within, driving him into a maddened frenzy. He rampaged across the land until Beren, Lúthien, and Huan finally brought him down, though Huan perished from his wounds in the battle.
Huan was no ordinary hound, he was the hunting companion of Oromë, one of the Valar, a true divine beast. He had even faced Sauron in wolf-form and forced him to retreat.
That Carcharoth could kill Beren, then fight Huan to mutual destruction, spoke volumes of the Werewolves' might.
And this Werewolf before him was a descendant of Draugluin and Carcharoth, no wonder it was so arrogant.
Though, as Luke knew, Wargs were actually the offspring of Werewolves and ordinary wolves. They were distant kin.
Yet this Werewolf spoke of Wargs with utter disdain, and of Orcs with open disgust.
Seeing Luke silent, the Werewolf continued:
"Wizard Luke, our kind grows scarce. I have no desire to meddle in the world's conflicts. I dwell here in the North Downs, accepting tribute from the goblins.
What happened earlier was a misunderstanding. If you're willing to cease hostilities, I swear never to encroach upon your lands. I could even ally with you, act as your hidden blade, clearing obstacles from your path. Especially those Dúnedain in the North. With my help, you could rule all the northern lands. What say you?"
Luke smirked, studying the silver-tongued beast.
"Oh? You think you have the power to make me king of the North?"
The Werewolf, sensing what seemed like interest, pressed eagerly:
"Not just me. I can gather others of my kin. We Werewolves follow only the strong. You, who tamed dragons and slew Balrogs, are the mightiest of all. We would gladly serve you.
Our hides can turn Elven blades, our claws pierce Dwarven mail, our fangs poison Orcs. We can even summon the dead to fight for us. We would be your finest army, sweeping across all lands in your name!"
"So the spirits in Fornost, they were under your control?" Luke asked.
The Werewolf nodded and let out a howl.
The spirits hiding underground emerged against their will, gathering around the Werewolf in submission.
"Wizard Luke, what do you say? Will you join us? These wraiths are but a fraction. Together, we could raise an endless host of the dead. None in Eriador could stand against us!"
The Werewolf's voice dripped with temptation.
Luke glanced at the mournful spirits, then at the Werewolf, and suddenly chuckled, shaking his head.
"I don't think so."
"…What do you mean?" The Werewolf, certain it had swayed Luke, was stunned.
"Because I don't believe a single word you've said."
Luke's smile turned icy.
"Wolves are cunning, today, I've seen it firsthand. Did you learn these pretty lies from your master, Sauron? Pity he didn't tell you I've dealt with him before. That stench of his all over you? Impossible to hide."
"Avada Kedavra!"
Before the Werewolf could react, a blinding green curse shot toward it.
The beast dodged with preternatural speed.
But before it could recover, the Fiendfyre—unnoticed until now—had already spread around it. The flames surged, forming a perfect ring of fire, cutting off all escape.
Luke had never intended to let the Werewolf live. Hearing it out was just to ensure it couldn't flee.
Now, with the trap sprung, it was time to finish the hunt.
Cornered by the encroaching flames, the Werewolf darted about with wind-like speed, searching desperately for an exit.
But the towering walls of fire left no opening.
Just as all seemed lost, the Werewolf suddenly halted, and inhaled deeply.
The spirits around it were sucked violently into its maw.
With each spirit devoured, the Werewolf's power swelled. The dark mist around it thickened into a solid barrier, holding the Fiendfyre at bay.
Though the flames eroded the shield, it bought the beast precious time.
Seizing the moment, the Werewolf transformed into a shadowy streak and burst through the fiery prison.