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Story Notes:
This story is entirely silly.
Turin knew, by the weight of the thing, by its black smoothness in his hand, and by the single red light that flashed from it at times, that it was a thing of power. When he brought it close to Gurthang, it buzzed.

“One mighty thing knows another, I see,” he muttered, tucking the small rectangle into his tunic.

“What do you say, Mormegil?” Hunthor whispered to him tensely.

“Nothing. Let us continue the climb,” Turin told him. At last they reached a perch on the cliff from which they could see the worm as he passed over and they set themselves to wait. When the red bloom of the dragon’s fire filled the chasm, they began to climb. A great stone rolled down from under the beast’s claws as it scrambled for purchase on the cliff on the other side, striking down Hunthor in its path.

Turin had no time for more than a moment’s remorse at his kinsman’s death, for the vast grey bulk of the worm’s belly loomed over him. He drew Beleg’s great black sword, feeling it fill his arm with a malice and love of killing that matched his own hatred of the enemy above. He steadied his legs and drew back the sword to make sure that the first blow would be a deep, killing stroke.

That’s when the rectangular thing in his tunic flashed with silver light and beeped loudly in the tones of some harsh foreign tune. With a roar, Glaurung arched up, his soft belly far out of reach and his steel claws prying. Turin managed to slice off a single claw before the dragon scraped him off his perch and sent him tumbling into the chasm below. The last things he heard were the unearthly beeping of the magical device and the low sniggering of the black sword as it slipped from his hands and twisted so that his fall would end on its point.

It was left to Mablung, chief huntsman of Thingol, to slay the worm with his small band. Their arrows brought the beast down at last, not long after the sullen grey dawn, but only two of them survived to bring the news of the Black Sword’s death to Lady Niniel. She spoke no more, except to name the daughter she bore that winter Alesteliel, a daughter of no hope. Then Niniel gave up her own spirit and was buried beside her lord.
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