Sylas wanted the silk of Shelob the Great Spider to weave into an Invisibility Cloak.
The problem, of course, was Shelob herself. She was no ordinary spider but a direct descendant of Ungoliant, monstrously powerful and nearly impossible to deal with.
Worse still, her lair was in Cirith Ungol, on the very borders of Mordor. The pass lay near Minas Morgul, once Gondor's proud fortress of Minas Ithil but long since a den of wraiths and Orcs. Any attempt to enter would risk falling beneath Sauron's watchful Eye.
Still, Sylas judged the risk worth taking. If things went wrong, he could always Apparate away or fall back on a Portkey. He didn't need to slay Shelob, after all, only to gather enough of her silk.
"Mentos," Sylas murmured, transfiguring a brooch into a one-use Portkey. He grasped it, and in the next instant the world spun wildly.
He reappeared in the royal city of Rohan, Edoras.
The Portkey could only take him to a place he had visited before, so he couldn't jump straight to Shelob's lair. From Edoras he moved quickly, wasting no time in sightseeing.
He Apparated again and again, always to line-of-sight landmarks, cutting the distance rapidly. At last he reached the easternmost end of the White Mountains, the gateway to Gondor's lands.
The mighty River Anduin wound its way south here, running towards the sea. To its east rose the jagged Ephel Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow, forming Mordor's western border. Somewhere in those grim ridges lay the Pass of Cirith Ungol, and in its depths, Shelob's dark lair.
Once, Gondor had built the Tower of Cirith Ungol to keep watch over that pass. But Gondor's strength had waned, and the tower had long ago fallen to Sauron's creatures, an outpost of Minas Morgul.
Sylas crossed the Anduin with a crack of Apparition, appearing at the feet of the shadowed mountains. He could have turned south and visited Minas Tirith, tempted for a moment by the thought of leaving his mark there. But he set the idea aside. That could wait. His task now was to secure Shelob's silk.
As he drew near the pass, he glimpsed the tower in the distance, Orcs crawling around it like ants.
Pausing, Sylas flicked his wand. His fine robes dissolved into filthy rags. His face lengthened, his skin turned sallow and pale, his lips greenish. His features twisted until he looked like one of the Enemy's own.
He conjured a mirror, took one look at himself, and groaned.
"Ugh. Hideous."
His reflection glared back: sparse hair, a flat nose, tusks jutting from crooked lips. An Orc's snarl on his own face.
With a resigned sigh, Sylas dismissed the mirror, tapped his staff, and disguised it into a rough wooden club. Then he strode forward boldly, swaggering toward the watchtower like he belonged there.
"Stop!" barked a one-eyed Orc clad in battered armor, stepping forward with a knot of followers. His voice was harsh, guttural Black Speech. "Who are you? I've never seen your face before."
The others leered, hands tightening on their weapons.
Sylas halted, letting his eyes flick across them. At the same time he slipped into their minds with Legilimency, brushing against their crude, violent thoughts.
The one-eyed Orc grew impatient when Sylas gave no immediate reply. He stomped closer, mace swinging threateningly.
"Oi! Deaf, are you? Answer me, whelp, or I'll beat it out of you!"
The stench hit Sylas first, rank and sour, enough to make his stomach churn. His patience snapped. With a grunt, he hefted his club and smashed it across the Orc's jaw, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
The circle of Orcs froze, stunned.
"You hit me?" the one-eyed captain roared, staggering upright with blood running down his chin. "You're dead, maggot! I'll rip you apart!"
He charged, mace swinging wildly.
Sylas met him head-on, club raised. Their weapons clashed with bone-jarring force, sparks flying from iron and wood.
The Orc fought with raw brutality, hacking and smashing without thought of defense. Sylas, trained under Elladan and Elrohir, could have ended the duel in an instant. But he held back. He couldn't afford to reveal wizardly precision here, so he matched the Orc's savagery with crude sweeps and crushing blows, feigning the brawl of a common brute.
The fight raged back and forth, neither seeming able to overpower the other.
The watching Orcs grew loud, raucous, and gleeful. They pounded weapons on shields, jeering and howling:
"Kill him, Captain!"
"Split his skull!"
The night air rang with their roars as the fight turned into a spectacle.
In the middle of the circle, Sylas and the one-eyed Orc clashed again and again, weapons thudding, muscles straining, each refusing to yield.
The captain's single eye blazed with fury. The thought that he might be bested before his own troop was a humiliation beyond bearing. His attacks grew wilder, heavier, more desperate.
The one-eyed Orc let out a guttural snarl, ripped a dagger from his belt, and lunged at Sylas.
Sylas decided the act had gone on long enough. He feigned an opening, letting his guard drop for just a breath. As the Orc swung down, Sylas twisted, caught the mace with his club, and with a swift backhand snatched the dagger right from the brute's grip.
Before the Orc could even register what had happened, Sylas's blade flashed across his throat.
The Orc staggered back, clutching at the black blood pouring down his chest. He gave a few choking gurgles, eyes wide with disbelief, and then collapsed lifeless into the dirt.
The circle of Orcs froze. Silence fell heavy over the watchtower courtyard.
Sylas let the dagger clatter to the ground, his blood-red eyes sweeping across the ring of stunned faces. His voice was low and cold as the northern winds:
"Now, I am your captain. (Black Speech)"
He sneered, his lip curling with disdain. "If any of you disagree, step forward. But be ready to die like him."
For a long moment no one moved. Then, one by one, heads bowed. The hush broke into a growl of submission.
"Captain!"
"Captain!"
The shout spread, and in an instant the whole band of Orcs was hailing Sylas as their new leader.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Orc law was simple, kill the leader, and the command was yours. The one-eyed Orc had ruled this company for years, his strength unquestioned. None had ever bested him, until now. That alone was proof enough.
With his disguise flawless and their suspicions buried, Sylas now stood as captain of a hundred Orcs, the garrison of the watchtower of Cirith Ungol. Their charge was to hold the pass against Gondor, though with Gondor's waning power, their duties had become little more than idling in shadows.
"Captain," one Orc asked nervously, pointing at the corpse sprawled in the dirt, "what should we do with the body?"
Sylas gave him a withering look and replied coldly, "What else? As always, send it to Torech Ungol. Shelob hungers."
At that name, several Orcs flinched. Torech Ungol, the lair of Shelob the Great Spider, where shadows clung thick to the rock and the stench of death lingered. For long years, Sauron had commanded Orcs to feed her with the wounded, the weak, and the dead. In return, Shelob barred the pass to all intruders. It was a pact of terror and convenience.
But for the Orcs, to deliver a corpse to Shelob's cave was nearly a death sentence. She seldom let her couriers escape. Those chosen often ended up devoured alongside the offering.
The Orc who had spoken shifted uneasily, as did the rest. No one volunteered.
Sylas let his eyes gleam with amusement at their fear. Then, with a deceptively fair tone, he said, "I won't choose. We'll draw lots. Two who pull the red arrows will carry the body."
The Orcs groaned softly, dread thick in the air.
Then Sylas added, almost casually, "And I'll draw as well. No exceptions."
That silenced them completely. Orc eyes flicked to him in surprise.
Sylas ordered the Orcs to gather a hundred arrows. With deliberate care, he stained two arrowheads red, then dropped them into a long wooden tube with the rest, leaving only the tips visible.
"Whoever draws the red arrow," he announced coldly, "will carry the body to Shelob's lair. Two will go, no more, no less."
A murmur rippled through the Orcs. None dared protest. One by one, they shuffled forward, each grim-faced as though marching to the gallows.
Every Orc who drew a plain arrow let out a ragged sigh of relief, some even laughing harshly at their luck. But when the first red arrow finally appeared, its unlucky holder froze, eyes wide with despair. The others jeered and spat, mocking his misfortune instead of pitying him.
As the number of arrows dwindled, the tension mounted. The last few Orcs trembled visibly, praying to escape the second red arrow.
At last, only two arrows remained in the tube. And only two figures had yet to draw: Sylas, and one trembling Orc.
The Orc glanced from Sylas to the tube, his face pale beneath its grime. He hesitated, torn by dread.
Sylas's eyes narrowed. With a snarl, he stepped forward and kicked the wretch aside. "Stop sniveling. I'll go first."
He reached into the tube without hesitation and drew an arrow.
A sharp intake of breath swept through the circle. The arrowhead gleamed crimson in the torchlight.
The Orcs stared at it in stunned silence.
The Orc who had been kicked away blinked, then broke into a crooked grin, barely able to contain his relief.