Bats fled from dark places in scattered flight.
When the Balrog met its destruction, Dale's people rejoiced greatly. The Lonely Mountain's dwarves celebrated with equal fervor.
Levi, who'd obtained new materials and achieved legendary status, was happiest of all.
But certain individuals far away in Mordor couldn't share in any joy.
Smiles vanished from their faces entirely.
Whether in Minas Morgul or the Dark Tower itself, everywhere fell silent. The Nazgûl remained speechless in their counsel. Even the black shadow resembling a vertical pupil within the flames fell into deep, troubled thought.
The situation had escalated beyond expectations.
Originally, according to previous observations, the Balrog should have been able to fight that warrior to a draw or even hold a slight advantage, but reality proved otherwise.
Who could have anticipated he'd upgrade his equipment so dramatically?
If Sauron's assessment was correct, the new armor incorporated elements derived from dragons. The man had seemingly researched and extracted something profound from the great wyrms themselves, to the point where the ancient Balrog proved completely outmatched.
Sauron found these research results genuinely tempting.
As one of the most powerful craftsmen mastering Middle-earth's most advanced forging techniques, Sauron felt considerable curiosity about these developments.
It seemed his former master, Morgoth's creations, possessed even greater potential urgently awaiting proper development and exploitation.
However, this matter's priority could be deferred for now.
Sauron recalled that peculiar sensation from days past.
When Levi had read the Black Speech inscribed on the summoning box, Sauron's power had descended following the dark language's resonance through the world, calling out to the fire demon slumbering in the underground depths.
Yes, a Balrog had awakened and answered his summons.
But more than one had responded to that call.
In the extreme depths beneath the vast snowfields of the far, far north, multiple intermittent and chaotic echoes had rippled through the darkness. Those ancient existences had sensed the dark summons, but because the distance was truly immense and they were blocked by some impenetrable barrier, they couldn't break through to answer.
This made Sauron recall distant, violent memories.
When Morgoth had been overthrown by the armies organized by the Valar themselves, he'd fled together with his surviving Balrogs from various fortresses throughout the Iron Mountains of the extreme north. Those strongholds had been crushed by the most powerful fire dragon in all history, Ancalagon the Black, before sinking beneath the waves.
Could remnants still exist in those frozen depths?
"Master."
At this moment, the Witch-king stepped forward and lowered his crowned head respectfully.
"The Balrog has been slain."
He made this brief, formal report.
Evil whispers emanated from the flame shadow. Sauron answered with obvious distraction, "I'm already aware of this outcome."
So the Nazgûl spoke no more, awaiting further instruction.
Moments later, seemingly reaching a decision, that flame shadow issued new orders, using the evil tongue he'd created to transmit specific information.
The assembled Nazgûl exchanged wordless glances. Their forms dissipating like smoke, they all withdrew from the Dark Tower's presence.
The Witch-king remained stationed at Minas Morgul. His role served dual purposes: constantly monitoring and opposing Gondor while providing cover for certain covert operations.
Year 2963: Three Nazgûl secretly departed from Mordor. They exited through the Ash Mountains to Mordor's north, carefully bypassing all Free Peoples' territories, passing through the lands of Rhûn, continuing relentlessly northward until reaching the uninhabited, year-round frozen wastelands north of the Lonely Mountain and the Grey Mountains. This was the Forodwaith region.
This vast white snowfield was genuinely an extreme cold land. Its frozen state wasn't due solely to natural geographic factors. The bitter cold permeating everything contained malevolent intent, residual traces of Morgoth's corrupting power.
However, this extreme wasteland wasn't completely devoid of life. In the relatively temperate Western Cape regions, some hardy humans still survived. They wore thick, insulated fur clothing year-round, a lifestyle quite primitive compared to that of southern kingdoms.
For various historical reasons, in the few records that mentioned them, they were called "Lossoth" or "Snowmen."
In Middle-earth, without specifically consulting obscure books, few even knew such an ethnic group existed in the frozen north.
Over the past thousand years, only the Rangers had maintained slight contact with them.
The most recent significant interaction involved Rangers recovering the Ring of Barahir, currently worn on Aragorn's hand, from their keeping.
Called a recovery, the actual process had been remarkably friendly. After all, this Isildur family heirloom had originally been gifted to the Lossoth by a former Arthedain king as thanks for their crucial assistance during darker times.
Of course, the Nazgûl's target had nothing to do with these Snowmen. In truth, the wraiths might not even know such people existed in these wastes.
Though the Lossoth's territory lay relatively near ancient Angmar, during those wars of old, they'd collectively relocated to places even the Witch-king couldn't reach, escaping his terrible vision and successfully avoiding involvement in those catastrophic conflicts.
"Head north. Enter the Northern Waste proper. Continue north to the deeper places where none have trodden in over ten thousand years."
This was the instruction the Nazgûl had received from their master.
When crossing the Grey Mountains and climbing over those forbidding snowy peaks to truly enter the isolated Northern Waste, the Nazgûl were forced to change their method of travel.
Due to underestimating the supernatural cold pervading this region, their mounts all froze to death within days.
Looking at the stiff black horses collapsed on the frozen ground, the Nazgûl stood in grim silence.
These weren't ordinary horses by any measure. Strictly speaking, they were also among the engineered beasts Sauron had cultivated over centuries. Their resistance to hostile environments was formidable. Not only were they unaffected by evil power, but they could actually use such corruption to grow larger and stronger than natural horses, with fiercer features and the ability to breathe flame from eye sockets and nostrils.
Normally, these black-fell steeds could run for months across the Misty Mountains' snow-covered peaks without issue, but here they'd frozen solid within mere days of exposure.
It seemed the closer one approached the Northern Waste's central regions, the more severe and supernaturally penetrating the cold's invasion became.
Heavy snow swallowed the black horses' corpses within hours.
The Nazgûl silently continued forward on foot, walking step by methodical step toward even deeper, more forsaken places.
A few horses meant nothing. Compared to their master's direct commands, such losses were utterly insignificant.
Monotonous, tedious travel with almost no communication continued for an extended period. The Nazgûl simply advanced along their designated route, constantly approaching a relatively vague target area their master had sensed.
They walked like this for several unending months.
After climbing yet another windswept, snowy mountain, one Nazgûl's movements suddenly halted. He raised his gauntleted hand, attempting to flex his fingers, but felt unusual stiffness and stuttering response.
As a disembodied spirit possessing enchanted armor for physical interaction, he shouldn't experience physical sensations at all.
Yet now this shell was becoming somewhat disobedient to his will.
This feeling of clearly commanding the body yet experiencing a slight delay in execution was profoundly uncomfortable and unnatural.
"Keep moving forward."
The Nazgûl who'd first noticed the bodily abnormalities warned his companions, also striking his own armor and deliberately moving his joints, shaking off the accumulated frost and ice coating the metal.
The other two Nazgûl reacted similarly, their bodies producing sequences of sharp, brittle sounds as ice cracked and fell away.
Truly bizarre and troubling.
Nazgûl weren't human. Neither spirit nor armor possessed temperature in any conventional sense. According to the armor's dark enchantments and design, this shouldn't be possible.
They'd always been the ones bringing bone-chilling cold and dread to others, never the reverse.
We must be close now.
The Nazgûl walking at the front gazed toward a specific direction, the premonition in what remained of his consciousness growing increasingly strong with each step.
Another several months of grueling travel passed in the timeless white expanse.
The foremost Nazgûl suddenly stopped, raising one hand to halt his companions.
"What Master wanted us to investigate should be within this general region."
He recalled the entire map of Middle-earth as he'd known it in life and in undeath.
They were probably already quite near the continent's extreme northern edge. Walking just a bit farther would eventually reach the frozen coastline of the encircling sea.
"Split up. Search systematically for that place."
So the three Nazgûl separated, each taking a different direction across the featureless snowfields.
Since this investigation mission had frustratingly vague parameters (neither knowing precisely what to search for nor having specific directional guidance beyond general coordinates), the Nazgûl encountered considerable obstacles during execution. Their progress proceeded with agonizing difficulty.
Three of Sauron's most powerful servants simply wandered the desolate snowfields for several long years, searching systematically through the endless white.
Until finally, one Nazgûl called out to his scattered companions through their dark connection.
Before a damaged mountain gap partially hidden by ancient ice, he'd sensed an extreme malevolence emanating from deep below. This was malice from ages past, from the Elder Days themselves. This concentrated hatred could even make the corrupted Nazgûl feel profoundly unsettled.
Long after, all three Nazgûl regathered at the discovered site, advancing carefully through the mountain gap and downward into darkness.
No one in the wider world knew what exactly they discovered in that bitterly cold wasteland located at the continent's extreme northern edge, nor what they ultimately experienced in those lightless depths afterward.
What was later confirmed was that they'd lost their physical shells entirely. Their spirits had been forced to trek as wraiths for an agonizingly long time through the shadow-world before finally returning to Mordor's dark embrace.
When the three Nazgûl reappeared in Mordor months later, perhaps still influenced by the Northern Waste's unnatural cold, Sauron actually sensed a lingering chill emanating from these three returning spirits. Something that should have been impossible.
"Master."
The leading Nazgûl reported with what passed for urgency in his hollow voice, "We discovered a passage leading to the world's most extreme depths, hidden before a damaged mountain rift."
"Below that passage lies a shattered underground fortress of immense scale."
"Inside dwell many things we recognize all too well from the ancient wars." He paused meaningfully. "But they are even more thoroughly evil and corrupted than we ourselves have become."