Luke harbored ambitious plans to craft an invisibility cloak using the silk of Shelob, the Great Spider. However, this endeavor presented a formidable challenge, Shelob was spawn of Ungoliant herself, a creature of immense power and deadly cunning, exceedingly difficult to confront.
Moreover, Shelob's lair lay perilously close to Mordor's borders, nestled within the treacherous Cirith Ungol pass. This location sat dangerously near Minas Morgul, once the proud Gondorian fortress of Minas Ithil, now transformed into a stronghold of darkness. Venturing there would inevitably draw Sauron's baleful gaze, inviting his direct attention and wrath.
Nevertheless, Luke determined the risk worth taking. If circumstances turned dire, he could always retreat instantly using his portkey. Besides, he need not defeat or slay the Great Spider, merely collect sufficient quantities of her precious silk would suffice for his purposes.
A sudden whirlwind of disorientation swept over him, and when his vision cleared, Luke found himself standing before the golden halls of Edoras, capital of Rohan. The portkey's limitations required previous visitation to any destination; he could not transport directly to Shelob's domain, necessitating this intermediate stop at the Rohirrim stronghold.
Without lingering in Edoras, Luke employed a series of rapid apparitions, disappearing and reappearing at the limits of his sight, steadily closing the distance to his ultimate destination. Eventually, he reached the easternmost peaks of the White Mountains, crossing into the territories of Gondor proper.
Here, where the mighty Anduin River carved its ancient path southward to the sea, the land grew increasingly ominous. Beyond the river's eastern banks rose the Shadow Mountains, a forbidding north-south barrier that formed Mordor's western boundary. Shelob's accursed lair lay embedded in the western face of these peaks, guarding Cirith Ungol, one of the few passages into the Dark Land from the west, watched over by the sinister Tower of Cirith Ungol.
This tower bore a tragic history. Originally constructed by Gondorians after the Last Alliance's victory to monitor Mordor's borders, it had fallen to Sauron's servants as Gondor's power waned, becoming an outpost of the dreadful Minas Morgul.
Luke apparated across the Anduin's waters, materializing on the Shadow Mountains' forbidding slopes. Though he could have followed the river southward to reach Minas Tirith, Gondor's white city, and complete his check-in there, Luke resisted this temptation to avoid complications. His singular mission demanded acquiring Shelob's silk, all other objectives could wait. Gondor would remain accessible for future visits; urgency served no purpose here.
As he approached Cirith Ungol, Luke spotted the watchtower's ominous silhouette and observed orc patrols moving through the surrounding terrain. After careful consideration, he waved his hand, transforming his garments into the tattered, filthy rags typical of orcish attire. Simultaneously, his facial features began shifting, skin taking on a sickly pallor, his entire appearance morphing grotesquely.
Conjuring a mirror to examine his transformation, Luke started at his reflection. The image showed a convincing orc, sparse, greasy hair, flattened nose, yellowed fangs protruding from thin lips, altogether revolting to behold. After reluctantly accepting his current appearance, Luke disguised his staff as a crude wooden club and strode boldly toward the Cirith Ungol pass.
Upon reaching the watchtower's base, a challenge rang out.
"Halt! Where do you come from? I've never seen you before!" snarled a one-eyed orc wearing battered armor, his voice dripping suspicion as he spoke in the Black Speech.
A pack of orcs, clearly under his command, gathered around with malevolent intent, studying Luke with predatory interest. Luke paused, carefully observing these creatures while employing his legilimency abilities to probe their thoughts and memories, seeking useful information.
"I'm talking to you! Gone deaf, have you, whelp?" The one-eyed orc's expression darkened when Luke failed to respond immediately. Feeling ignored and insulted, he charged forward, brandishing a wicked mace. "Answer me if you don't want a beating, you miserable cur!"
The proximity brought a wave of putrid stench, rotting flesh and decay, that nearly caused Luke to retch. Without hesitation, he raised his wooden club and struck the one-eyed orc with tremendous force, sending him flying through the air.
This sudden violence stunned the spectating orcs into silence, uncertain how to react to this unexpected turn of events.
"You dare strike me?!" roared the one-eyed orc, struggling to his feet with murderous fury blazing in his remaining eye. "Today you die! I'll tear you apart!" He charged again, mace raised for a killing blow.
Luke met the attack head-on, wielding his disguised staff with apparent crudeness. The one-eyed orc fought without technique, relying purely on brute strength and savage instinct. Luke, despite his superior training under Elladan and Elrohir, deliberately concealed his skill, matching his opponent's crude style while holding back his true capabilities to maintain his disguise.
The battle appeared evenly matched, much to the surrounding orcs' excitement. They formed a raucous circle, cheering and jeering with bloodthirsty enthusiasm.
"Finish him, Captain!" "Crush his skull!" "Tear him limb from limb!"
The watchtower's base erupted in chaotic noise as over a hundred orcs created a fighting ring, brandishing weapons and howling encouragement. At the circle's center, Luke and the one-eyed captain engaged in fierce combat.
Growing frustrated by his inability to defeat this unknown challenger, the one-eyed orc drew a serrated dagger from his belt, abandoning any pretense of honor in favor of a killing strike.
Luke, sensing the performance had run its course, deliberately exposed a seemingly fatal opening. As his opponent lunged forward, Luke caught the mace with his club while simultaneously disarming the orc of his dagger in one fluid motion. Before the one-eyed orc could comprehend what had occurred, Luke drew the blade across his throat in a decisive cut.
The captain collapsed, clutching his throat as black blood poured between his fingers. His body convulsed briefly before falling still, eyes wide with disbelief and unfulfilled rage.
The surrounding orcs fell silent, staring in shock at their fallen leader.
"I am the captain now!" Luke declared in the Black Speech, tossing the blood-stained dagger to the ground. His red eyes swept the crowd with cold authority, voice carrying lethal promise. "Anyone who objects may challenge me now, but be prepared to join him in death!"
Luke's contemptuous sneer and threatening posture cowed the assembled orcs. After exchanging uncertain glances, they began lowering their heads in submission, none daring to speak or move against him.
"Captain!" they began chanting in unison, accepting their new leader without question.
Luke's mouth curved in a slight smile. This represented orc tradition at its most fundamental, strength determined leadership, and killing one's predecessor legitimized the succession. The one-eyed orc had ruled this warband for years, defeating multiple challengers and adding their corpses to his reputation. His death at Luke's hands automatically transferred all authority and respect to the victor, regardless of Luke's unknown origins or mysterious identity.
The possibility of Luke being a spy never occurred to them, his orcish appearance provided perfect camouflage, beyond any suspicion.
Thus Luke became captain of over a hundred orcs stationed at the watchtower, nominally responsible for defending against Gondorian incursions. Given Gondor's current weakness, such attacks seemed highly unlikely, leaving his new command with little actual duty beyond maintaining their post.
"Captain," ventured one orc nervously, "what should we do with the former captain's body?"
Luke fixed him with a cold stare and snorted dismissively. "The same as always, deliver it to Torech Ungol."
Torech Ungol was Shelob's lair, located in a shadow-shrouded, foul-smelling cave at the base of nearby cliffs. Sauron had arranged for the orcs to regularly feed Shelob with wounded, weakened, or dead orcs, along with occasionally useless prisoners, maintaining her as the perfect guardian of Cirith Ungol pass. Shelob accepted this arrangement willingly, creating an understanding that served both parties, she would devour anyone attempting to pass through the gap while receiving steady nourishment from Sauron's forces.
The questioning orc's face immediately filled with terror. "Who... who will make the delivery?" he stammered.
The other orcs tensed with fear, shrinking back as if trying to become invisible. Delivering corpses to Shelob represented an almost certainly fatal assignment. The Great Spider's appetite was enormous, and delivery teams often became additional meals if they failed to escape quickly enough. This duty had become synonymous with death, a punishment worse than execution.
Luke observed the mounting panic with amusement dancing in his eyes.
"I won't simply choose who goes," he announced. "To be fair, we'll draw lots, the two who draw the marked arrows will handle the delivery." He paused significantly. "I'll participate as well, no exceptions."
The orcs expressed surprise that their new captain would risk sharing their fate. Luke then instructed them to gather over a hundred arrows, marking two with red paint before placing them all in a long tube with only the fletching visible. Those drawing red-marked arrows would undertake the dangerous mission.
One by one, the orcs approached the tube with visible dread, each selection representing potential doom. Those drawing unmarked arrows exhaled with relief and barely concealed joy at their fortune, while their unfortunate comrades faced their fate with growing desperation.
Eventually, one unlucky orc drew a red arrow and immediately displayed complete despair, while his companions showed no sympathy, only cruel satisfaction at avoiding selection themselves.
As the tube emptied, tension mounted among the remaining participants. Finally, only two arrows remained, with one orc and Luke yet to draw. The nervous orc hesitated between the remaining choices, paralyzed by indecision.
Luke displayed impatience, striding forward and roughly shoving the hesitant orc aside.
"Stop dawdling!" he snapped. "I'll go first!"
Without ceremony, Luke grasped one of the remaining arrows and drew it forth. A collective gasp arose from the watching orcs as they beheld the red marking, their faces mixing shock with uncertainty. The displaced orc, however, brightened with obvious relief and gratitude.