“Hah! Stale news will buy you nothing. I know already where the hidden city lies; deep in the Echoriath.” Melkor ventured.
His spies had told him as much— strange tidings of men and dark elves riding to the Encircling Mountains, and never returning. He could say as much with certainty, but no more. He did not wish the elf to know that this intelligence was beyond pricing.
“But these other tidings you bring me… That Turgon is prepared for war, that men I knew not of escaped over the mountains, that hidden hosts prepare to rally and march again on Angband! This thing I did not know.” The dark lord hunched, resting chin on claw in pensive thought.
Had the Noldor not glutted themselves on defeat? The Union of Maedhros had been crushed beyond recovery; yet Gondolin stood, and the Vala’s foresight had warned him that doom would come from behind Turgon’s secret walls. Perhaps he should not have presumed that ALL the Noldor would run, licking their wounds and scattering southward.
Melkor looked to his lieutenant in silence, searching the maia’s expression; finding there wariness, but not outright distrust.
“If what you say is true, then the city cannot be gained by force, and we must gird ourselves yet again for a defensive war… We may yet have the element of surprise if we move quickly, but a direct attack is out of the question. Could we starve them out, do you think? Surround the city at a distance, burn fields, dam rivers— let the Noldor waste in hunger amidst unused war machines?”
“My lord, do not be so hasty to leap to battle on the untested words of a traitor.” Sauron cautioned. “If the boy is lying, we give the city time to rally in defense, and we stay our hand needlessly against a sleeping foe.”
“IF the boy is lying, he will regret he was not drowned at birth, won’t he, beloved?” Melkor turned his eyes to the captive Maeglin, harsh spotlights under which each shiver, each bead of sweat was illuminated.
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