Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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The Trip to Khand (rated M)

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Chapter 10 - The Trip to Khand (rated M - for mature readers)

Urzahil stood on a rampart, looking down into the Morgul Vale, watching the shadows get longer. The purple flowers that filled the valley at Midsummer were gone now, only the tall grasses remained.

Since he'd arrived in Minas Morgul, the days had passed uneventfully, each one blending into the next. The sun was setting earlier now, and in this high mountain valley, it was already starting to get dark by late afternoon. He banged his fist against the railing in frustration.

Urzahil still didn't know what he was supposed to be doing. He hadn't set eyes on his new master, not once, not even from a distance, since he'd joined Sauron's service. Sauron should have been back from Barad-dûr two days ago, but had sent word he'd be delayed.

The wind picked up, and Urzahil shivered. With a sigh, he turned and went back inside. He had no particular plan other than to explore the corridors of the fortress until it was time to go to dinner, an hour from now.

On the way down to the main level of the fortress, Urzahil had to dodge and weave around people on the stairs. When he first came here as part of the delegation from Umbar, there were maybe twenty people in Sauron's service other than the Orcs. It was rare to see another person in the halls.

Urzahil returned three weeks later when he entered Sauron's service. There were a significant number of new faces, a hundred or more. Urzahil managed to learn the names of maybe half of them. Since then, their numbers had doubled. Forget about learning their names, he didn't know half of them by sight.

A servant tugged his sleeve. "Tar-Urzahil? The Chief Ambassador wants to see you in his study."

Had Sauron returned? No, Sauron would have sent for him directly, as he had when he offered Urzahil a position as emissary. Urzahil reached the main level of the fortress and knocked on the tall paneled door, wrapped in polished copper.[1] He found the Chief Ambassador at his desk, sifting through a sheath of papers. After a moment, the Ambassador looked up.

"Urzahil, you're going on a diplomatic mission. You're to carry a letter to the Caliph of Khand, with Sauron's greetings and his offer of friendship." He held up a diplomatic letter sealed with wax and red tape bindings. The outer wrapper bore a design of the Eye in black and red.

"Sir, wouldn't it be better if I accompanied someone who'd done this before? The alliance with Khand is important."

"You're only delivering a letter. The hard part is getting there without being sold into slavery, or killed by highwaymen. Dwar will go with you." The Ambassador turned his attention back to the sheath of papers, indicating the interview was over.

Dwar was the same Nazgûl who'd escorted him from Umbar. He was one of the lower ones on the pecking order, as far as Urzahil could tell. On the other hand, he was approachable, and Urzahil was used to him.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Early the next morning, Urzahil stood in the courtyard checking the girth of his saddle and mentally rehearsing what to say to the Caliph of Khand. Beside him, Dwar swung into the saddle and adjusted the reins in his hands.

Horses' hooves clattered against the cobblestones. A second Nazgûl rode out of the stables and reined in beside them.

"Khamûl, I didn't know you were here," said Dwar.

"I arrived late last night. I hear Mordor is going to pay an official visit to Khand."

"Yes, our Master's sending them a letter to announce his return. I'm to escort the messenger." Dwar gestured towards Urzahil.

"I'll escort him. I come from Khand. You don't even know where it is."

"But our Master said I was to…"

"Let's go." The second Nazgûl kicked his stallion into motion. Urzahil followed him through the Main Gate of Minas Morgul onto the stone bridge beyond.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil and the black-robed creature rode in silence. The creature's reserve made him uncomfortable. Urzahil opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. There were plenty of things he wanted to ask, like 'What's it like to be undead?' or 'Are we going to invade Gondor next year?' but he couldn't think of a polite way to phrase it.

"So, you're not usually in Minas Morgul?" Urzahil finally asked.

"No," said the wraith.

They traveled for several miles more, and the creature said nothing further. Unlike Dwar, this Nazgûl wasn't much of a conversationalist.

After sunset, when it became too dark for the horses to see, the wraith went off the road into a thick stand of trees and beckoned Urzahil to follow. He tethered his horse and went into the underbrush, gathering firewood. He moved delicately, like a forest animal.

Urzahil recognized that walk. The day the Embassy of Umbar sat down with the Embassy from Mordor, the same wraith had crossed the flagstones on silent feet and taken a seat on Sauron's right.

Urzahil hadn't been impressed with him. The entire day, he'd sat at the table either saying nothing, or nodding agreement with his master. Either. He was obsequious, or

timid. Urzahil didn't think much of either type, they were both weak.

Urzahil watched the wraith arrange branches in a pyramid. The creature sang a spell, different than the one Urzahil used for starting fires. Wisps of smoke rose from beneath the bark. When the flames caught and the wood began to crackle, Urzahil asked, "What's your place among the wraiths?"

"I'm Second Chief of the Nazgûl, and the Lieutenant of Dol Guldur."

Urzahil was taken aback. The Nazgûl held high rank for one who appeared to be timid and reserved. Maybe rank was determined by the order in which they entered Sauron's service.

"Were you the second to join?" Urzahil asked.

"Yes." Urzahil waited for the wraith to say more. Minutes went by, but the only the sounds of insects broke the silence.

They traveled south into Harad, then turned East towards Khand. The trees were replaced by stunted scrub, and even that gave way to stone and sand. Soon the heat became so intense, they decided to travel at night.

The moon was waxing, there was enough light for the horses to see. The road connected a series of oases. They reached them the Eastern horizon was getting pink, and slept in the shade of Palm trees during the day

-o-o-o-o-o-

Four days after entering the desert, they reached the mud brick walls protecting the capital city of Khand. The dun-colored fortifications were embellished with decorative moldings along the battlements, and the planks of the main gate were studded with brass.

It was just after sunset, and though it was not yet full darkness, the gates were already closed.

Behind the low walls, Urzahil could see a number of dwellings. Yellow lamplight shone from narrow windows in the thick walls. In the center of the city was a high domed structure, several stories taller than any other building.

"That's the Palace," said Khamûl.

They found a place to make camp, a shallow cave at the base of a cliff. It got cold in the desert when the light was gone. Urzahil was grateful to sit by the fire, wrapped in a cloak with his hands around a mug of tea. Khamûl, who'd been born here, lectured him on local customs.

"The food here is different from what you're used to. Their everyday fare is cracked wheat or lentils with yogurt, garnished with raisins or dates. They even make a drink from yogurt flavored with lemon or tropical fruit. Oh, and a local specialty is blood pudding. Another is fried grubs. You must accept whatever they put in front of you. I don't care if it's sheep's eyeballs in honey, it would be an insult to refuse."

After the swill he'd been eating in Mordor, Urzahil didn't think that would be a problem.

"But they might not serve you a meal at all. You're just a messenger, here to deliver a letter."

Urzahil fingered the diplomatic letter inside his jacket.

"Um…there's something else I wanted to ask you. When Sauron declared himself to Umbar, the letter was delivered by a Nazgûl. Why aren't you delivering the letter to Khand?"

"The Nazgûl cast fear upon the living. Dogs shy away from us, horses panic. Men feel it too. It's no way to begin a diplomatic negotiation. You may have noticed that Dwar never entered the city gates, and he kept well away from people."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil stirred. The sun lit the back of the cave, deep orange against the sandstone. This was the first time he'd slept the whole night through, without the usual wakings caused by rain, or tree roots in his back.

He was wrapped in his wool cloak with his pack for pillow, lying in sand hollow that had shaped itself to his body. In the center of the cave, Khamûl was crouching over the fire. A pan of water on the coals was just beginning to boil. Urzahil sat up. Sand had gotten into every seam of his clothing, and his hair as well.

He brushed himself off as best he could. After he finished shaving, he removed the fine silk garments from his pack, took them out of their protective muslin wrappers, and tried to shake out the wrinkles. He was a diplomat, and he had to dress the part.

When he finished dressing, Urzahil joined Khamûl at the mouth of the cave. Khamûl had already brought the horses around. They mounted and rode to a position just above the city, from which they could view the city gates.

The morning sun was orange against the mud brick walls of the fortified city. At this hour, the gates stood open. Through the arched passageway in the thick walls, Urzahil could see narrow streets crowded with displays of fruit, bales of silk, and animals in cages.

"This is where I leave you. I'll see you tomorrow, after you've received their answer," said Khamûl.

"It might not take that long. Suppose they give me their answer right away? Will you be waiting for me at the cave?" asked Urzahil.

"No, I'm visiting family for a few days."

So that's why Khamûl came racing down from Dol Guldur and took the mission away from Dwar. Urzahil had assumed it had something to do with his interest in Khand politics.

"Wait. You have living relatives here? For some reason, I thought you were at least a thousand years old."

"My stepmother is Elvish. I used to think I was, too. It was a shock to learn I didn't have her Elvish immortality."

Khamûl spurred his horse and rode toward the green farmland by the river, where several large estates dotted the landscape. Urzahil watched him until he disappeared, then turned back towards the city gates.

He wished he didn't have to do this alone. At one level, he understood that Khamûl couldn't be the messenger, the living wouldn't tolerate his presence. Even in Umbar, where they practiced the Cult of Melkor and embraced supernatural things, Dwar hadn't been able to enter the city walls.

Urzahil sat on silk cushions on the floor, making polite conversation with the Caliph and several members of his court. Steam rose from tiny cups of mint tea on a low table in front of him. Pastries of honey and nuts sat on a platter nearby. Tall windows looked out on a tiled fountain in the middle of the courtyard. Above the music of the water, he could hear cicadas, an occasional songbird, and the scolding of a jay. Even within these thick walls, out of the sun, it was oppressively hot.

"You say you bring us a letter from the Lord of Mordor himself."

The Caliph was a heavyset man, with copper colored skin and roll upon roll of flesh cascading down his sides. Urzahil produced the leather wallet containing Sauron's message, and placed it in his hand. The Caliph broke the seal and unfolded the square of parchment. The letters were formed with graceful curves and ornamental diacritics, Sauron's handwriting.

"Your master's greetings are not unexpected. Our Ambassador was in Harad when they received their letter." The Caliph indicated a thin, white-bearded man seated at his left.

Urzahil cringed. Ideally, all their allies would have been contacted at the same time.

The Caliph's Ambassador leaned forward. "Is it true that Sauron appeared in Mordor at Midsummer, with no retainers and no army, and that he's been building his army with astonishing speed ever since?"

Urzahil stammered. Of course the Ambassador was fishing for information. Any diplomat in Arda would do the same. Urzahil hadn't been told how much he was allowed to say. Inside his silk brocade garments, sweat trickled down the small of his back.

"They say Sauron offers a position to anyone who shows up on his doorstep."

Urzahil's face burned. That may be how he got his position, but he didn't like to be reminded of it.

"I heard a shepherd let his flock wander too close to Mordor, and when he was captured, Sauron promoted the terrified boy to Minister of Finance," said the Ambassador.

"And the sheep were offered positions in the counting house," said a young emissary, slapping his thigh.

The Caliph hoisted himself to his feet. "If you'll excuse us, we need time to confer. It's approaching the hottest part of the day, and time for afternoon sleep. Someone will show you to your quarters. After you've rested, we'll meet again for the evening meal, and then we will give you our answer.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The Caliph clapped his hands, and a servant appeared to take Urzahil to his room. Urzahil followed the boy through passageways deep within the palace, where he was shown to a low ceilinged room with white plaster walls and a terra-cotta floor. A low bed, as wide as it was long, was covered with a thick cotton coverlet. Other than the bed, a table and chair were the only furnishings. The windows looking onto the courtyard were covered with carved latticework, made from an aromatic wood. Beyond the garden, the heat of the day made the outlines of the buildings shimmer.

Urzahil pulled off his boots and lay down on the bed. The heat, and the drone of the cicadas, made him sleepy. He'd started to nod off when there was a light rap on the door. Urzahil's eyes snapped open and he remembered where he was.

A servant entered the room with a tray. She was plain, and dressed in a tunic crossed left over right, secured by a sash at the waist. She set the tray on a small table and poured tea into a tiny cup. He smelled mint. Urzahil sat up and accepted the cup from her.

He finished and set the cup on the tray, and made a gesture of dismissal. But instead of leaving, she put a towel under his heels, poured oil onto her palms, and rubbed her hands together.

"Just relax, let me do everything."

She looked older than he'd thought at first. She wasn't a girl, she was at least thirty. There were fans of fine lines around her eyes, and she had a self-assurance a girl wouldn't have had.

She removed his stockings and set them aside, then she took off his jacket. She pressed her thumbs into the soles of his feet just below the toes, and worked downward with firm strokes. The oil smelled of sandalwood, subtle, but not overpowering.

He adjusted the pillow behind his head and closed his eyes. Her thumbs moved in a circular pattern, and has the pressure increased, he realized he was getting aroused. He pulled the edge of his jacket over himself. Hopefully she wouldn't notice.

"Is everything all right? Your shoulders are tense. I can fix that." She straddled him, then undid the collar of his shirt and put her hands inside. Expert fingers kneaded the place between his shoulder and the sinews of his neck. The smell of sandalwood was stronger now.

She leaned forward as she worked. In that position, her wrap fell away from her body, and through the neckline, lower than it had been, he could see everything she had. She didn't seem to know she was exposing herself. He looked away, but from the corner of his eye, he could see her breasts hanging free, swinging back and forth as she worked. He wondered how they would feel in a man's cupped hands.

She sat back, resting her weight on his hips. Her sash had come loose, and when she straightened, the two halves of her tunic fell open. She made no move to cover herself, but watched him watching her, a faint smile on her lips. She raised herself a few inches and undid the laces of his leggings, then pulled them down over his thighs.

-o-o-o-o-o-

When Urzahil woke, he was lying with his body curled around hers. Late afternoon sun filtered through the gridded windows and cast patterns on the terra-cotta floor.

He studied her sleeping form. Her skin was the same copper color from her face to her ankles. It was so different from his own tanned hands and arms, with white everywhere else. Even through thick walls and shuttered windows, their skin glistened with moisture in the afternoon heat.

He hadn't intended it to happen. On the other hand, Khamûl had told him to accept whatever gifts were offered. If Urzahil had been a high-ranking ambassador, or if the outcome of the mission had mattered more, they'd have given him an untouched girl, which in practice meant they'd have sent a weeping child to his room. His stomach lurched. He didn't care what Khamûl said, he'd have found a way to refuse. But happily, Urzahil was only a messenger, not anyone important. They had no need to bribe or impress him, so in place of a maiden, they'd sent someone who was obviously a professional.

The kitchen maids at the Temple had no use for a junior priest. The only experience he had was that which had been purchased. He knew the tricks the professionals used. Wear loose clothing that fell open easily, and pretend you don't know you're exposing yourself. Brush your hand between a man's legs and make it seem like an accident. She'd done all of that and more, and he'd just now realized it. He fell back to sleep.

When he woke, she was gone. He sat up and stretched, filled with a sense of well-being. His clothes were scattered across the foot of the bed and on the floor around it. He retrieved his leggings and turned them right side out. He found his undergarments beyond the foot of the bed, and his shirt lost among the bedclothes.

In the evening, there would be an informal dinner, and he had half an hour to prepare for it. His Chief Ambassador had provided him with notes about local customs, geography, tribes, and the genealogies of the ruling families. He'd read through the notes already, but he wanted to make sure he had them committed to memory.

He sat down at the small table and pulled open his pack. He reached for the thick bundle of notes, but hesitated. He took another look. He wasn't fussy about the way he packed, he tended to jam things in any old way. His papers were too neat, and he couldn't blame it on travel. Travel would have made them messier.

Urzahil sat up with a start. What about the notes from tea this morning? He'd sealed them with his personal seal, then put them in a hidden pocket in his bag. He lifted the false panel and pulled out the folded square, then took it to the window where the light was better.

The seal was firm. It wasn't right, though. It was set too high on the parchment. He lifted it with the tip of his dagger. Bits of parchment clung to the underside. A small dot of red wax, similar in color to the wax he used but not identical, attached his seal to the parchment. He wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been looking for it. It was expertly done.

He knew she was a professional, but he'd been wrong about which profession.

He opened his folded notes and scanned what he'd written. There were a few observations about the Caliph, some of them not very flattering. Most likely they'd already been reported back to him. Oh well, probably the man already knew he was pompous.

-o-o-o-o-o-

On the ride home, he said to Khamûl, "My room was searched while I was sleeping. The seal on my personal notes had been lifted quite expertly, even though the papers were hidden in a secret pocket of my bag."

The wraith clasped a hand to his mouth.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, they always do that. Not just in Khand, on any diplomatic mission. Next time, leave a decoy. When they find it, they won't search any further. Do you remember anything more?"

Urzahil thought of the spy, her legs wrapped around his waist with her ankles crossed at the small of his back. With his weight on his hands, he studied her face, then his gaze traveled down her chest to her belly, to the part of himself that was mostly within her. Then he fell forward, and she raised her feet in the air like the oars of a boat while his hands cupped her bottom.

"No, nothing more," Urzahil said.

They rode in silence.

"What will Sauron do when he learns of it?" asked Urzahil.

"This isn't a high-stakes mission with terms to negotiate or veiled threats, you were just delivering a letter of greetings. I don't think we need to trouble him about it," said Khamûl.

"But won't he learn anyway? Can't he read your thoughts?"

"Technically yes, but he's not what you'd call a good listener."

The road led them into a narrow gorge. The stream bed at the bottom was dry, as it was most days of the year. The path narrowed to the point where they had to go single file. Khamûl drew rein, and sat very still in the saddle, his head turning left and right is if he were listening. Urzahil looked around him to see what had drawn his attention.

A huge man stepped out from behind an outcropping of rock and blocked the path. A homemade cudgel hung loosely in his hand, its head studded with nails. Urzahil's mouth went dry and his hands shook. Men like these wouldn't stop at horses and gold. From what he'd heard, they were unlikely to leave a witness alive.

Urzahil looked over his shoulder. If he could get the horse turned around in this narrow space, he could outrun them. Something glinted in the sun, the blade of a curved knife. A man crouched in the underbrush above the path. Before he could call out, there was a rumble and a great cloud of dust. When it cleared, boulders blocked the path behind them.

Urzahil looked forward. The man in the road was smacking the shaft of his makeshift weapon against his palm. Three others appeared, and stood behind him.

"Climb down from those fine animals, nice and slow, and drop your purses to the ground."

Urzahil was shaking, and something wet ran down his leg.

"Allow me." Khamûl swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. His sword came out of the scabbard with a hiss.

The Nazgûl gripped the hilt with both hand and stepped into the blow. The blade flashed, and a spray of crimson splattered the clothes and faces of the three others. A head rolled across the dirt, coming to rest against a thorn bush, its eyes staring back at him, not so much in fear as surprise.

"Too easy." The Nazgûl took a step towards the others.

They took off at a dead run without looking back at the headless corpse or the dark stain soaking the ground beneath it.

The Nazgûl wiped his blade on the hem of his cloak and re-sheathed it, then climbed back into the saddle. He shook the reins and nudged his horse around the body. Already, flies were beginning to gather on the stump of what had been its neck.

Urzahil stared with astonishment. "You killed him."

"It's what I do."

-o-o-o-o-o-

rzahil and Khamûl returned to Minas Morgul as the afternoon shadows were lengthening. They dismounted and dropped to the cobblestones inside the gate.

Khamûl sighed. "I should report in. You might as well come with me." He swept down the marble halls, his boots scarcely making a sound on the polished floor, the muddy hem of his robe swirling about his feet.

The fortress was unusually quiet. The officials and administrators who followed Sauron from Dol Guldur, and the even greater numbers who'd joined his service since then, seemed to be missing. There was nobody in the hallways but Orcs.

Urzahil followed the wraith through the main hall to an alabaster staircase, along a broad hallway, and up a spiral stair built into the thickness of the wall. He stopped in front of a heavy door with decorative ironwork like the tendrils of vines, the door to Sauron's private study. Urzahil recognized it from the day of his private meeting with the Dark Lord, when Sauron had asked Urzahil to join his service.

Khamûl raised his hand and knocked. He waited a moment, and knocked again.

"I don't sense Lord Zigur's presence, in this room or anywhere in the fortress."

Khamûl pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was empty. The table and chairs were gone, so was the tapestry on the wall. An eyebolt in a ceiling beam was the only thing left of the wrought iron chandelier, with dragons' heads holding candles that he remembered from the last time he was here.

A door stood open on the far side of the room. Urzahil followed Khamûl into a small room that, like the outer room, had been stripped of furniture and ornamentation. A bank of windows looked out on the jagged cliffs of the Ephel Dúath. A wedge like a knife cut sliced between the peaks, the Nameless Pass, the only way into Mordor from here.

-o-o-o-o-o-

In the Great Hall, the din of conversation had reached a dull roar, and the long tables below the salt were packed. Orcs sat had squeezed themselves elbow to elbow on the benches, while others were carrying plates of food and walking up and down between the tables, looking for a place to sit.

At the far end of the room, High Table was empty, and so were the lesser tables that flanked it. The wall behind High Table looked unusually pale. It took a moment to realize why, Sauron's banner was gone.

The Witch King entered from a side door and swept across the platform. He took his place in the throne like chair at the center of High Table as if it belonged to him. Urzahil's stomach clenched. What had happened while they were in Khand? It had the look of a Palace coup.

Khamûl mounted the platform, pulling Urzahil along with him. He rounded the end of High Table and sat at the Witch King's right hand. Urzahil hesitated, then took the free place to Khamûl's right.

His back rigid, Urzahil sat watching and listening to everything around him. What was going on? He grew up on tales of court intrigue, but was too new here to navigate these waters. Servants set plates in front of them in order of rank, and Khamûl began to eat, apparently unconcerned.

"So, where is our Master?" he asked.

"He's still at Lugbúrz.[2] He decided to stay on permanently, and ordered everyone other than the Garrison to join him there."

"But Lugbúrz is a construction site, the Tower is nowhere close to finished. Why not stay here? Minas Morgul is more comfortable than the tent city."

"He wouldn't even consider it. That shattered pile of rocks which used to be the Dark Tower is home to him in a way this alabaster palace will never be."

A servant clear dishes from the table. The Witch King fell silent until she moved out of earshot.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mairon wants you to leave for Lugbúrz as soon as you can pack. You too, emissary."

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Chapter End Notes

[1] Lugbúrz is Black Speech for Barad-dûr.

[2] very like the copper-covered doors of professors' offices in Porter Hall, believed to be the work of art students in the middle of the night.