Artíre's Revenge by WendWriter

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Chapter 3

The method of artificial respiration I have mentioned here was commonly used on drowned people until modern CPR was introduced.

On the floor of the mostly deserted Temple of Moko, the body of a dead Man lay twitching. There were other Men lying here and there, some of whom were dead. The living groaned in pain from being trampled in the riot.

The king of Rhûn stood surveying the scene. Anger curled his lips. Furious that the inauguration had gone so badly awry, he sought someone to hold accountable for the debacle. "I want a full investigation into this," he declared to the chief priest, the captain of the temple guard and the captain of his own personal guards. "You will find the culprit and bring him before me so that I may personally pass judgment upon him. His death will be slow and lingering for turning this sacred event into such a travesty!"

"Yes, my lord," the priests and guards replied.

Prompted by Sauron, who stood unseen beside him, the king asked, "Why is that body twitching? Is the Man not dead? He has gone grey all over."

One of the king's personal guards spoke up, "My lord, I have seen service on the battlefields, and I assure you this is common. A dead Man may twitch like that for several hours. It is most horrible to see at close range."

"Is that where you got that scar on your forehead?" the king asked, taking an interest in the guard for the first time. The scar was a large gash that ran across the Man's forehead at an angle over his left eye, just over the eyebrow. It gave him the appearance of being permanently sardonic.

"Indeed, my lord. I went to despoil a fallen enemy, who still held his sword. I had tried to take the sword, but his grip was tight upon it. A bright jewel caught my eye. It was on a pendant around his neck, and I bent down to take it. I was standing on his left side, and his sword was double-edged and held across his chest. As I reached for the jewel, he twitched and the sword slashed my face, just above my eye."

"Did you get the jewel?" asked the king, fascinated.

"No, my lord, but I did get a keepsake," the guard joked wryly, pointing to his scar.

The other men laughed, their tensions eased for the moment.

"Take the dead out and burn their bodies," ordered the king. "I like not the way they move. It seems unnatural to me, whether this is common or not."

Priests and guards hastened to obey the king, who left the temple in a foul mood.

As the temple emptied, Artíre remained hidden. Too afraid to stretch out his consciousness to find out if Sauron lingered close by, he remained where he was, in the stomach of the dead Man, who still twitched from time to time.

Some temple servants carried him out and put him in a dark room. The Watcher ventured out through the Man's mouth, glancing this way and that. He saw no sign of the other Maiar and left the room to search for another hiding place.

His original plan to use a Man as a vehicle had been flawed because he had attempted to assert his will over him. What if he tried to enter a sleeping Man? This was assuming that Men slept like the other creatures he had seen. Since Sauron was with the king, it made sense to attempt the possession of a Man who was close to the king. Perhaps he could contrive to cling to different Men until he could find a suitable host. It was simply a matter of finding a way to spy on Sauron without the other Maiar being aware of him.

A Temple servant came into the room to remove Kanu's body, where Artíre had briefly hidden. He paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, and another servant joined him. The Watcher slipped back into Kanu's body as they lifted it up, put it on a stretcher and covered it with a cloth. They took it outside through the back entrance and handed it over to Kanu's family. As they did so, Artíre stole a glance around him, and, seeing nothing alarming, he followed the temple servants back to the temple. He stayed with the Man he intended to make his next host until he finally finished cleaning up the temple and went to his quarters.

The Watcher had long understood that since Sauron was only interested in power and the rule of other wills, he never took an interest in the lesser servants of the beings he associated with. This, Artíre believed, was a mistake. He had gleaned the best information not from the rulers of the realms he had been in, but from the talk of the servants and functionaries whose duties it was to carry out the orders given by their overlords.

The Man Artíre was currently shadowing was called Jamboro, and he was the assistant to the cleaners' foreman. The Watcher waited until the Man had eaten and fallen asleep before trying to enter him. With the Kanu debacle fresh in his mind, Artíre let Jamboro slip deep into dreams before making his attempt.

 

He was running along a beach, playing in the surf as the tide came in. Women were gathered in small groups near the fishermen's jetty, washing and mending nets. A large wave came in and soaked him with spray and he laughed, chasing the backwash and pelting the errant wave with pebbles. He had gone out too far, though, and when the next, bigger wave came in, he was caught in the undertow and dragged right under the water. A woman screamed. His mother. She screamed and screamed as the darkness took him into its cold embrace. The screams grew louder, punctuated by sobs as she pleaded for help. The world faded out of existence; sight was already gone, and hearing was becoming a memory.

Thump! Pebbles dug into his chest and a sharp pain screamed through his chest. Someone... or something... was pushing him forward and letting him slip back? It could not be the sea. He could feel someone's hands pulling him forward, then letting him slip back, then lifting his arms, then dropping them over and over again, forcing stale air out of his lungs. A sharp slap in the middle of his back made him cry out - or try to. He coughed and spat out more water, vomiting and gasping, gasping for breath. He lay there panting, his head splitting in agony as information flooded his brain. He was on a pebbly beach and someone was moving him back and forth and up and down to empty his lungs and make him breathe. But there was so much water in him, and he was doing his best, but...

 

Jamboro woke up with a start. Something was different. There was someone in there with him. Looking around, he saw the chests of the other men in the dormitory rise and fall in the moonlight that filtered in through the shuttered window. Someone snored. Tired from a hard day's work, the Man slowly slid back into sleep, hoping that the nightmare would not come back.

When the Man's eyelids had finally closed, Artíre moved from under the bed and stood beside Jamboro again. He believed his attempts at possession kept failing because he was choosing the wrong hosts. He had heard some of the priests speaking of having the spirit of Moko inside them, guiding them from within. If he could find such a person, one who had access to the High Priest but who would escape the notice of the rebel Maiar, he could travel inside him. Finding such a person without the rebels being aware of him would be difficult, but was possible. There was always a way.

Eshtun walked behind his master, the High Priest. He attended to all of his needs, from assisting with the ritual washing of hands to robing him to selecting the various costumes the High Priest had to wear for different occasions. He himself was not a priest, but he was a great believer in the Way of Moko. While many people would find that living with a person of high rank would demystify him sooner or later, for Eshtun, living and working with the High Priest was the greatest honour, and after twenty years of devotion, he had never found fault with his master. His position was its own reward, as far as he was concerned. However, there was one thing he craved more than anything else: to become like his master. He did not seek the office of High Priest, but the experience of having a connection with the god Moko that his master seemed to have.

For that he would do anything, no matter what. He had already cut the hearts from living children in search of his goal, and had experienced strange dreams in which he had been given an inkling of what it was to have his god nearby. This had served to further raise the High Priest in his estimation. If only he could have an experience of Moko in the way his master did.

Artíre was hiding just under the effluent grille beside the altar when Eshtun walked in behind his master. He had crept in after his attempt at possessing Jamboro had failed, and had stayed there, waiting for an opportunity to find another host. He could not sense the presence of Sauron and the other Maiar seemed to be absent, and when Artíre dared to look above the lip of the grille, he found that they were no longer in the building at all. Since none of the Men could see him, he walked among them listening to their conversations. He could understand their language now, because Kanu's memories lingered in his consciousness.

The High Priest approached the altar and bowed to the statue of Moko seated on a great throne. Eshtun stood to one side, gazing at his master as he made the ritual hand gestures and muttered incantations. How he wished he could do something to atone for the debacle of the previous day! As he stood beside Eshtun, Artíre heard him whisper, "I wish I could do something. Tell me, Moko, what can I do?"

"Are you willing to surrender to me?" Artíre asked him.

Eshtun slowly turned his head, looking for the source of the voice.

"Eshtun, are you willing to surrender to me?" Artíre asked again.

Conflicted, Eshtun looked at the High Priest at the altar and then to his left at the point he believed the voice had originated. Agreeing to surrender to the voice of Moko would allow him to have the experience he had craved for years, but it might mean that his devotion to the High Priest would have to come to an end. Looking back at the High Priest, he asked himself if it was better to be the servant of a god or of the servant of the god. The answer was obvious, though it pained him to admit it. "I am willing," he replied.

Delighted, Artíre poured himself into Eshtun's mouth and spread right through him. As he did so, Eshtun shuddered, and other Men noticed.

Suddenly, everyone went very quiet.

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