Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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The Delegation

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Chapter 3 - The Delegation

Haven of Umbar, TA 2951

Urzahil returned to the Temple with barely enough time to change into clean clothes before the late afternoon services. He'd forgotten to tell anyone he'd left the compound, a small violation of the rules. Hopefully, his absence had gone unnoticed.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor behind him. He picked up his pace. So did the person behind him.

"The High Priest would like to see you in his office," said a clerk, a spotty faced youth with rounded shoulders.

Urzahil's heart sank. He followed the clerk to the reception room where the High Priest met with important visitors. The door stood ajar. Urzahil knocked and waited to be admitted.

A group of men stood on the patterned carpet in front of the High Priest's desk. Tar-Castamir and Tar-Adûmir were covered with dust. The High Priest was immaculate as usual, but wearing different clothes than he'd had on earlier. Súrion's silver robes were as grimy as Urzahil's.

"The messenger will return tomorrow. I could hand him a letter, but I'd rather give him our answer in person, so I'm going to send a delegation to Mordor. Tar-Adûmir will lead it."

Urzahil knew the ambassador slightly, having interviewed for a position as tutor in his household right after Urzahil left school. He learned that Tar-Adûmir was pleasant, but didn't have much of a spine.

"Tar-Adûmir will be assisted by two envoys, Marös and Mírdain, and a scribe, Gaerna, to take notes." Urzahil knew all of them from school. Marös, the second son of the wealthiest family in the Haven, was an average student, but Mírdain sat in the back of the room all term making comments under his breath. How did he even get into the Diplomatic Service? Oh right, he was Tar-Adûmir's son.

And how had Gaerna gotten in? He had the table manners of a day laborer and no family connections at all. But he'd been a brilliant student, with more natural ability than most of their instructors. More to the point, he had neat, well-formed handwriting.

"I also want to include a priest of Melkor, to show Sauron we still practice the religion he founded." Urzahil glanced at Súrion and silently wished him luck on the trip. It was not without risk.

Tar-Castamir turned to Urzahil. "I asked the High Priest if I could borrow you for a week or so, and he agreed."

Urzahil sank onto a stone window seat without asking permission. Spots swam before his eyes, and he considered putting his head between his knees. Why not send Súrion, a Loremaster who'd studied Sauron his whole life? Perhaps the High Priest thought the younger priests were more expendable.

"What would you have me do?" Urzahil asked.

"My son tells me you have an almost supernatural ability to read people," said Tar-Castamir.

It was true. Urzahil could read a man's thoughts from a twitch in his mouth or the way he lifted his shoulder.

"While the others are talking, stand unnoticed behind them, and watch Sauron's face. Sort out truth from lie. Learn his intentions, and find out if he's dangerous to us. And if he makes a promise, determine whether he intends to keep it."

-o-o-o-o-o-

They would leave in the morning. Urzahil started packing, but took a break when the bell called them to the refectory for the evening meal.

On the short walk between buildings, he impulsively left the Temple grounds and turned in the direction of the house where he grew up. He passed through the gate in the old wall to reach the newer part of the city, where the houses were larger and further apart.

The servant who answered the door was surprised to see him. He said the family had already sat down to supper, but Urzahil was welcome to join them. A place was set for him between his younger brothers, across from Lady Lintoron. He couldn't think of anything to say to her, and sat in silence, feeling awkward.

"Did you see the Pillar come down?" asked the older of his two brothers.

"The crystal smashed into bits. I saved a piece. Do you want to see?" His youngest brother ran off to fetch it.

Urzahil pushed food around the plate and hoped no one would notice his appetite was gone. What if he never saw them again? When he thought he was unobserved, Urzahil studied each of their faces and committed them to memory.

"What brings you here tonight, Urzahil? We just saw you three weeks ago when you were anointed," Lady Lintoron said.

"I'm going away for a while. I've been asked to travel with a diplomatic mission," said Urzahil.

"You've wanted to do that for as long as I can remember." She sighed. "Did I ever tell you, you look exactly like your father."

He stayed as late as he dared, trying to make the visit last as long as possible.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The delegation assembled in the foyer of Tar-Castamir's house the next morning. When he got arrived at the great marble hall, the others were already standing around in a group, their baggage at their feet.

Urzahil joined them. Like the others, he was dressed for travel in a heavy cloak, wool leggings, and tall boots. The silver robes which marked him as a priest were folded in tissue and packed in his bag. He'd brought along his father's court clothes, as well.

Tar-Adûmir wore traveling clothes, and his manner was calm. Mírdain and Marös were joking loudly, as if they were nervous. Gaerna kept his face and hands still. Urzahil couldn't read him, even though he knew him well.

"The messenger will return for our answer at noon. Let's be there to greet him." Tar-Castamir headed for the door.

Urzahil hoisted the strap of his bag over his shoulder. In front of the house, Tar-Castamir's grooms brought in six horses, already saddled and ready to go. A groom led over a chestnut mare. He gave Urzahil the reins and fastened Urzahil's bag behind the saddle, then gave him a leg up and helped him to shorten the stirrup leathers.

Tar-Castamir wheeled his big stallion around and spurred it toward the road. "Let's go."

Urzahil kicked his mare to a trot. They rode through the Main Gate an hour before the appointed time, and stood watching the road. They waited. The shadows got shorter as the noon hour approached.

"There he is!" Marös pointed East, toward Haradwaith.

A plume of dust rose from the road far away in the desert. After a while, they saw a speck that could have been a rider on horseback. They watched while he drew closer. The rider was dressed all in black and he rode a black horse. He drew rein ten paces before he reached them. The hood of his mantle was pulled low, concealing his face.

Tar-Castamir hailed him. "Who are you, and what brings you here?"

"My name is Dwar[1]. I am from Mordor, and I come for your answer," he said. His voice was a hiss.

"Esteemed emissary from Mordor, this is our answer. We accept Sauron's friendship, and offer our own in return."

The messenger nodded. "Do you have a letter for my Master?"

"I ask that we be allowed to give him our answer in person. May our embassy accompany you on your journey home?" Tar-Castamir made a sweeping gesture toward the five men behind him.

The messenger moved forward. Urzahil's mare tossed her head and danced from foot to foot. He fought to control her. Another horse whinnied and reared up.

"You may travel with me, but do not follow too closely." He backed off a few paces, and their horses settled down.

-o-o-o-o-o-

They traveled due east through an empty stretch of desert, taking care to stay ten paces or more behind their guide. Any closer, and their horses became too hard to manage. Urzahil still hadn't seen the creature's face. He guessed the creature wasn't human, or at least, not a living human.

The road took them through a small town built around clusters of palm trees. In its center, where they grew so thick they completely shaded the road, their guide reined in. He pointed to the side of the road. A low wall of stones enclosed a public well. Urzahil kicked his feet loose from the stirrups and slid to the ground, his legs trembling.

Small children clamored around them, asking questions and trying to sell them homemade trinkets. Tar-Adûmir shooed them away. They moved toward the black-robed creature, who was standing perfectly still. The children slowed and then stopped. All at once, they wheeled like a flock of birds and scattered as quickly as they'd arrived.

Tar-Adûmir watched them go. "What do you bet we're the most exciting thing that's happened here in days?"

While the horses were drinking, the men filled their water skins and stretched their legs. Gaerna strolled over to the far side of the clearing where the creature was unsaddling his horse.

"There's not a cloud in the sky. Will there be frost on the ground tonight? I hear it gets cold in the desert when it's clear." Gaerna hugged himself and shivered.

"It shouldn't be too bad this time of year," the creature replied.

"That's a fine animal you have, by the way. He's not afraid of you?"

"Not a bit. I raised him from a foal." He patted the animal's flank. "Your horses will get used to me too, if allowed to do so at their own pace."

At a stop late on the second day, Gaerna approached him again. "How much further until we make camp for the night?" A streak of brown flashed by. "Was that a jackrabbit? My dog would enjoy chasing something like that."

"What kind of dog?" the creature asked.

"Bull mastiff."

"That's a nice animal, but for wild boar or deer, you can't beat a wolfhound."

"You have one?"

"Oh, aye, half a dozen. I keep a pack for hunting," said the creature.

On the third day, they turned north on the Harad Road which passed between Gondor and Mordor. The Ephel Dúath, the mountains encircling Mordor, dominated the view to the east.

When they made camp that night, the creature joined them at the edge of the firelight. Gaerna went over to talk with him. Urzahil heard the murmur of their voices and assumed they were having another tedious discussion about the merits of wolfhounds vs. mastiffs. Then the wind changed, carrying their words with it.

"What's your Master like?"

"You can't describe what he looks like because of the shape shifting. He takes different forms depending on his mood."

"So you don't always recognize him?"

"Well, that's the funny thing about shape shifting. Whatever form he takes, wolf or demon or monster, he still looks like himself. He has the same eyes, the same walk. I'd know him anywhere."

"And what sort of man is he?"

"It's hard to say. Whatever you see, it's a mask. It's like he's figured out what you want him to be, and he becomes that. And what's behind the mask? I have no idea."

"But some things must be consistent."

"Aye. He wants to be admired. He always has to be in charge. He needs to have people around him. He talks a great deal but reveals little about himself. I've known him almost five thousand years, and I still don't know his father's name, or how old he is, or whether he's ever been married."

"Do you know his real name?" asked Gaerna.

"Aye. It's Mairon. He's only told me about a thousand times."

-o-o-o-o-o-

The light was fading, and Urzahil just wanted this day to be over. After four days in the saddle, there was no part of him that wasn't chafed raw. Today had been the worst. They'd been riding through increasingly difficult terrain, and he was almost too tired to speak. The others were no better. The jingle of harness and the sound of hooves stumbling over rocks were the only sounds.

The road climbed and climbed. The Ephel Dúath, the mountains encircling Mordor, loomed before them, orange in the setting sun. There was a great notch between the peaks. The wraith who was their guide lifted what appeared to be an empty sleeve and pointed, his voice a hiss.

"That's the Nameless Pass. This road goes through it, and once you're on the other side, you're in Mordor."

Urzahil had never wanted to go to Mordor. From what he'd heard, it was a desolate country. The land was black, stained dark by ash and cinders from the burning mountain, which, they said, had erupted fiercely long ago. Almost no rain fell, and the few streams were said to be bitter and poisonous. Nothing grew there but thorn bushes, and the land was filled with stinging insects.

It was cold in the mountains, particularly down here in the shadows. He shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly around him, the heat from the horse's body warm against his legs.

"When will we reach Minas Morgul? Is it far beyond the pass?" he asked the wraith.

"We're almost there. It's at the top of a high valley, just a little above where we are now."

"Wait. It's on this side of the Ephel Dúath? I thought the Encircling Mountains defined the border."

"They do. Technically, Minas Morgul isn't inside Mordor itself. It was built to control the road into Mordor. It's only ours because we took it from Gondor by force."

They rounded the final bend, and there it was, the fortress of Isildur. Made of white marble, it seemed to glow as if lit from within. Urzahil assumed at first it was an illusion of the reflected moonlight, but it was a pale phosphorescent light like the wake behind a sailing vessel on a moonless night where the seas were warm.

The moon was high in the sky when they reached the main gate. They passed beneath the arched entryway, and the gates closed behind them. The moon cast gray shadows of towers and ramparts, and themselves and their horses, on the colorless ground. Urzahil slid from the saddle and stood on shaky legs. He gave the reins to an orcish soldier and followed Tar-Adûmir and the others inside.

The inside of Minas Morgul was made from the same white marble as the outside. In the passageways where the light was dim, the walls glowed faintly green.

An orcish servant, long-haired and smaller statured than most, showed them to their rooms. She had elaborate patterns tattooed on her cheeks, but no scars. Urzahil had never seen a female orc before. He hadn't known there were any.

The delegation was shown to an impressive suite of rooms. The main chamber was furnished with a large fireplace and a long table surrounded by enough chairs for all of them. A wrought iron chandelier with candle holders like dragons' heads hung over the table.

Off the main chamber was a room with an enormous four-poster bed with silken hangings. The fireplace was framed by an alabaster mantle carved in a pattern of crescent moons. Embers crackled on the hearth. Tar-Adûmir dropped his bag on the foot of the bed and led them to the next room.

A second chamber, slightly smaller than the first, held a pair of beds made up with bolsters and embroidered coverlets. A narrow carpet, dark red with geometric patterns, covered the floorboards between the beds. The fire had been lit there as well. Tar-Adûmir told Marös and Mírdain to choose beds for themselves. Urzahil opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. He'd just assumed he and Marös, one of his closest friends from school, would share a room, and Mírdain would share the state bedroom with his father.

The third room was a small space for servants, a windowless cubby that barely held a washstand and two hard, narrow beds. There was no fireplace. On the foot of each bed there was an extra blanket, the thick gray sort used by soldiers. They would need them. The air in the mountains was chilly at night.

"Urzahil, Gaerna, this is your home for the next three days," said Tar-Adûmir.

Urzahil recoiled in surprise. Tar-Adûmir was implying Urzahil didn't have the status Marös and Mírdain enjoyed as noblemen. Urzahil resented having to sleep in the servants' quarters with the son of a day laborer, but at least Gaerna was good-natured and easy to get along with. Still, Urzahil would have preferred to bunk with either of the two envoys. Gaerna was outside of the aristocracy, and Urzahil feared that by implication, so was he.

The she-orc who'd shown them up here brought their supper, pieces of meat in a thick sauce of spices and raisins. She ladled from the tureen onto their plates, filled their wine goblets, tended to the fire, and then left them alone. They dined at the long table under the dragon chandelier.

Mírdain leaned over and sniffed the aromatic steam rising from his plate. "I wonder what kind of meat this is? Or perhaps I should ask, who?"

Urzahil froze, the tip of his dagger halfway to his lips. He lowered it to his plate, untouched.

Tar-Adûmir glared at his son. "I believe you're referring to something that happened during the Siege of Barad-dûr, just before they surrendered. That was a long time ago. I doubt the practice still exists."

Urzahil ate the bread and cheese, but didn't touch the meat. It didn't hurt to be careful. He noticed that no one else touched the meat, either.

Mírdain reached for an apple. "What will happen tomorrow?" he asked his father.

"Well, our audience with Sauron will be purely ceremonial. We'll give him our answer, that we accept his offer to ally against Gondor. Of course, he already knows. We wouldn't be here otherwise." Tar-Adûmir gestured with his eating dagger.

"Unofficially, we're here to size up our new ally. What sort of man is he? Will he keep his word? He's a habitual liar; the Elves call him Sauron the Deceiver. That's where you come in, Urzahil. You're to watch him and read his thoughts, and if you can, learn his motivation."

-o-o-o-o-o-

They rose early the next morning. Urzahil dressed in the silver grey robes of the priesthood, Gaerna in a dark green tunic lined in apricot silk. It was odd seeing Gaerna in aristocratic silks. He looked nothing like the brawny youth who'd put himself through school prizefighting in taverns.

"Gaerna, I've never seen you in court clothes before."

The embroidered silks was ordinary as far as court clothes went, but Urzahil couldn't imagine Gaerna, a scholarship student and the son of dockworker, in anything but the course linens and wools of a laborer.

"The diplomatic service loaned them to me," Gaerna said.

An hour later, the Embassy from Umbar stood in the antechamber outside the Great Hall, where Sauron of Mordor, thought to have died three thousand years ago, would receive them.

The doors were flanked by a pair of sentries, orcs with scarred faces and ragged looking armor. They held weapons taller than themselves, spears with ragged scythe-like blades. Neither paid any attention to the diplomatic Embassy.

"Are we supposed to kneel before Sauron?" asked Marös.

"No, you're not his subjects, you don't have to kneel. Just bow respectfully," said Tar-Adûmir.

Urzahil studied the massive bronze doors to what had once been the audience chamber of Isildur. They bore designs of trees and stars, relics of a time when this place was called Minas Ithil, Tower of the Moon.

"Aren't these the work of Gondor? Why hasn't Sauron melted them down for scimitars?"

"Sauron has great respect for craftsmanship, and the smiths of Gondor were among the best in the world, after the Elves," said the official who brought them there. "And you should never call him Sauron, he doesn't like it. Address him as Lord Zigûr, which means wizard."

"But everyone in Minas Morgul calls him Sauron, including you."

"Yes, but he doesn't need to know that," said the official.

With a screech of metal, a line of light appeared between the doors. There was a low thrumming noise from within, more felt than heard. It came through the paving stones and reached into his bones. Urzahil tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Tar-Adûmir brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his robes.

The doors swung wide.

Tar-Adûmir raised his hand. "Follow me. I'll do all the talking. Don't make eye contact, and whatever you do, don't draw attention to yourselves."

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Chapter End Notes

[1] Dwar, the Dog Lord of Waw, was Nazgûl #3 (Iron Crown Enterprises)