Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Númenórean Empire II

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The tributary system of the Númenórean empire was as effective in its purpose as it was cruel in its implications. It did not only provide an endless supply of souls to feed the magic ensuring the invulnerability of the armies of the Island and the power of its Sceptre, and of bodies that toiled ceaselessly for its bounty and prosperity. It also provided safety and stability to the areas which had traditionally been subject to Númenórean dominion, the ones where most of their actual wealth was extracted in the shape of precious metals and products to feed their own population. By demanding that every leader Ar Pharazôn had ever conquered fulfilled a quota of “sacrifices” every year, the Númenórean Sceptre was, in fact, forcing every land and people who could have been a threat to them to spend every ounce of their strength, every drop of the blood they were allowed to keep fighting and raiding each other, in a neverending contest where survival was the ultimate goal. The powerful regularly fed on their weakest neighbours, who, in turn, sought retaliation through banditry and terrorism. Through all this process, the brunt of their hatred fell on the enemy in their close proximity, leaving them no time to focus on a distant oppressor whom they imagined to be unassailable. Because of this, the Númenórean empire had been allowed to thrive without fearing an invasion on its own territory.

To think that the largest part of the world could be condemned to unending war for the sake of their own power brought a new brand of horror to Gimilzagar’s mind, which was not as visceral as the one evoked by the death of the children, perhaps, but which proved more enduring in his mind on the long run, and grew stronger the more he drew implications from it. Despite the events he had witnessed in Harad, and his disagreement with his father’s ways, the Prince had still been able to feel in some level that Ar Pharazôn wanted the best for that country, that he loved it, even with a love that was as merciless as its deserts. But the people of Rhûn were nothing but pieces on a board, or numbers in his head. They had never mattered, and they never would.

Still, even all the anger he felt towards his father could not cloud Gimilzagar’s instinct, which told him that Ar Pharazôn was not, could not be the person behind this state of things. Back in Harad, his father had stood proudly by his own decisions, dared Gimilzagar to do better, and grew enraged at his stubborn opposition. Here, he merely carried on with his business without a word, an argument, or an explanation to his son, as if deep inside he was aware that there was none to be given. The Prince would not go as far as to venture that his father was feeling guilty, but at least he had the impression that Ar Pharazôn did not consider himself to be the author of this system; that it was a handy tool he had found somewhere else, ready to be used. The King of Númenor detested “sensitivity” –as he referred to Gimilzagar’s own disposition- and any kind of squeamishness, which is why he could go to great lengths to get his hands dirty if he perceived it to be to his own advantage or that of the Island. But his mind was not so twisted.

Who had come up with this diabolical scheme, then? Nobody would have been able to tell Gimilzagar outright, even if he had asked, but he immediately suspected the hand of Lord Zigûr in it. He had never seen the High Priest act as anything but the perfect courtier, yet certain details and indices that the Prince had been piecing together for a long time now, from the words of a tutor to an impressionable young child to the tales of the Umbarians about the Haradrim, the looming darkness of Mordor and, above everything, the sinister shadow who presided over every one of his most recent nightmares, had slowly eroded this beautiful appearance of wisdom and kindness. Now, faced with such perfect mixture of simplicity and cunning, directed towards the total control of everything and everyone living and breathing on Middle-Earth, Gimilzagar could not help but think of the ancient spirit’s subtle manipulation of those around him to achieve his desired outcomes, in ways that made it difficult for those involved to recognize or resent his hand on the strings. One particular conversation came to his mind: the one where Lord Zigûr had pretended to defend him and ended by having the King come up with the idea of taking Gimilzagar to Middle-Earth. Had he known that this journey would lead to the estrangement of father and son? Or had his thoughts run even deeper, to the point that he was able to foresee something happening that would rid him of Gimilzagar for ever? So far, the boy had been mere leverage to him, and his extended existence a tribute to his powers, but Zigûr must have been aware of his innermost feelings even before the Prince had grown aware of them himself. In the dreams, he had always claimed that Gimilzagar had to die for opposing his plans.

Then again, killing Gimilzagar was not exactly difficult, as it was much easier than to keep him alive. To do so while Father and Mother lived would be high treason, but after they were gone, his survival would hang from a thread – a thread which, he saw in a horrible moment of realization, could very well depend on his compliance with Zigûr’s designs. He would be the perfect puppet ruler, so perfect that he could not understand why the High Priest would see him as a threat. Unless he feared that Gimilzagar could find a way to reverse the tide, to end his influence before his parents fell to the Doom of Men. But this is where his thoughts ran into a powerful wall, as he could not see a way to do it that would not require his own death.

Day after day, he did nothing but run over those thoughts obsessively while hiding in the tent, protected by the woven fabric of its walls from the dreary landscape around him. They would stay here at least for another week before resuming their journey, Father had told him in one of their few conversations since the day of their arrival. But before half of the time had passed, Gimilzagar began to experience a strange feeling, which reminded him of sitting on the cliffside of Rómenna on a pleasant summer evening, only to start noticing, as the hours passed by, that the cooling breeze was seeping into his skin and bones and turning into an insidious cold. On the morning of the third day, he awoke from an agitated sleep to the chilling realization that all his dreams had belonged to someone else. In them, he had been a woman who picked a red-dyed pebble from a clay pot, propped against some kind of altar in front of a miserable cottage. An older woman was crying in the background, tearing her face with her fingernails, while two children watched her with huge, terrified eyes. She had been locked away in an enclosure that smelled of urine, blood and vomit, brought across mountains and plains, among many others who spoke different languages from hers. Still, no matter how many people she saw, how many cities and roads, whenever she closed her eyes the face of the younger of the children was all that she could see, floating in and out of her mind.

It took him a long time to make sense of this, as he lay on the bed in a daze, trying to extricate the memories that belonged to Gimilzagar, son of Ar Pharazôn and Prince of the West, from those which had adhered themselves to them. But even when he did, he realized that the accumulation of gloom and despair emanating from the doomed souls who slept at the other side of the enclosure was already running too deep under his skin. For the next hours, while he tried his best to forget what lay behind the flimsy canvas painted in purple and gold, he was assailed by more of those thoughts, remembrances of things he had never lived and of people he had never seen. A young man, younger even than Gimilzagar, had been herding goats too far from his village, and he had been waylaid by painted warriors who pressed his head against the ground to bind his hands, while the beasts scattered around them. An older man who had been a powerful courtier, lording above many, had been framed by a rival and accused of conspiracy: he had been dragged away with the others without being allowed to prove his innocence. A woman had been taken when her village was destroyed by enemy troops. A warrior had been caught alive, instead of dying honourably on the battlefield as he was supposed to. Another woman came next, also victim of a surprise raid, and then a man from another village, also destroyed. After a while, Gimilzagar realized that the stories themselves were very repetitive, and yet the details were always different and unique.

He did not need to go out and see their faces, for it was as if they were all there, staring at him with unseeing eyes. Most of them did not notice his presence, though some glances revolved wildly, trying to discover who was this creature that penetrated their thoughts. Gimilzagar had never realized the extent of his power before: he had always been able to feel the overflowing emotions of others if he set himself to it, just like a cat would lap down spilled milk from the floor, but he had never intruded upon the minds themselves. For a brief moment, he wondered if he would be able to suck them empty, to take all their thoughts out until only the shells remained behind, to be driven across the world without ever being touched by fear, grief or horror again. Even though this fantasy was driven by compassion, however, he balked at the idea of doing something so evil. Instead, he tried to concentrate in warm thoughts of his own, of Fíriel’s kiss, of Mother embracing him, of dusk on the peaceful waters of Rómenna, wondering if they could bring at least a kind of temporary comfort to someone. But they were too many, their despair too much of a gaping chasm, and Gimilzagar could not even manage to comfort himself.

It was like this that his father found him at midday, curling under the sheets of his bed while his gaze stared vacantly at the painted stars of the ceiling. Ar Pharazôn’s tone held an edge of worry, and Gimilzagar guessed that he must have called him several times before he received a reaction.

“What is the matter? Are you sick again?”

“No.” He did not recognize his own voice, as if a part of him was still not sure that he was not someone else. To let go of all those people without losing himself in the process was more difficult than he had anticipated, so much that he did not have any wits left to be prudent, or careful. “I am… inside their minds, Father. Inside their thoughts.”

“Inside wh…?” The King’s voice died abruptly when the meaning of his son’s words became clear to him. His features paled, and he advanced towards him, livid. “Stop doing it!”

Gimilzagar did not flinch.

“I cannot stop it. They are many, and I am alone.”

He had never thought he would see the Golden King look completely speechless. And perhaps the Golden King was as unprepared for it as he was, because he hissed a strong curse and stormed away from the tent, leaving Gimilzagar alone again.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Sometime later, the Prince did not know if minutes or hours, Ar Pharazôn was back. This time, he sat by the edge of the bed, and Gimilzagar could feel his callused hands on his face. He tried to tear himself away, but the pressure did not abate until their eyes met, and he was forced to give his father his undivided attention.

“Get ready”, Ar Pharazôn barked. “We are leaving.”

“What?” This new information was so surprising that Gimilzagar was not sure he had heard it correctly. Perhaps this was one of his dreams, and Father’s face would fall down to reveal Lord Zigûr brandishing his sacrificial blade. “Leaving? H-has it –been a week already?”

“It has been enough” the King retorted, with a quelling look. “Put on your armour; your horse is being readied while we speak. The vanguard of the army will break camp with us, and the rearguard will follow tomorrow. Will you rise, or not?”

Now, the thoughts of his father were closest to him, and they became stronger than the dull hum of all his victims. The King was unnerved, aware that it had been a terrible mistake to bring Gimilzagar with him, only because he had been too wilfully blind not to see that the boy was his mother’s son. But it was too late to rectify, and all that was left for them now was the need to ride forward, until they came to the end of their appointed journey.

“I will be ready as you order, Father”, the Prince nodded, struggling into a sitting position. “Just… allow me a moment, please.”

“Very well. But do not tarry too long. We should reach the land of the Seres in a fortnight, and the mountain passes are difficult to cross even in the proper season.” Ar Pharazôn stood up, and, apparently satisfied by Gimilzagar’s responses, moved towards the door to signal his aides to enter. The Prince watched him quietly, repressing a shiver as he yanked the covers away.

“Couldn’t we… stay at this side of the mountains?” He did not know what spirit had possessed him to speak like this, but as the words trickled out of his mouth, he felt as if he was merely letting go of them. “Not just now, but forever. Grandfather, Great-grandfather, Great-great-grandfather, all the other Kings of Númenor never crossed them, and they were powerful kings too, weren’t they? Everybody remembers their names, and their deeds.”

Ar Pharazôn’s hand was raised again, and in the other chamber, the aides must have stopped in their tracks. For a long, agonizing moment, there was nothing but silence, only broken now and then by the distant sound of cries, the neighing of horses, or the stray rattle of a chain.

“That advice could have been valid twenty years ago”, he finally spoke, in a rather quiet voice. “But we already crossed the mountains, and none of those Kings would have been remembered with honour for surrendering what they had been bold enough to claim as their own. Get ready to depart, Gimilzagar, and do not try my patience further.”

And, signalling to the men to approach again, he crossed the threshold and left.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ar Pharazôn had not meant to take the Northern route for this journey. His original idea had been to reach Seria via the Southern road, which ran parallel to Mordor’s Northern range. But now, all those plans had been changed, and he ordered his generals and commanders to ready their men to cross the mountain path he had inaugurated in the past, turning it into the way of victory. This, he said, would confuse their enemies, those who had not paid their dues and expected the Númenórean army to come from the South. It would also remind the inhabitants of Northern Seria that they, too, were subject to the Númenórean Sceptre, as it had been quite long since they were last confronted by its military might.

Beyond any of those strategical considerations, however, Pharazôn’s decisions had been influenced by Gimilzagar, to an extent he could never allow his men to know. He needed to snatch the boy away from the clutches of the invisible enemy gnawing at his soul, from those thousands of wretches whose despair had broken into his mind, aided by the gloomy landscape of Mordor. Zimraphel had soon learned how to discard that artificial identification with the fate of every creature who crossed her path: anything else would have led directly to madness. But Gimilzagar had never been taught to do it, and the only person who could do so was a world away, of no use to either of them. Even if he had been taught, moreover, Pharazôn was starting to doubt that his son would have benefitted from those teachings. Since he set foot on Middle-Earth, the boy’s sensitivity had been turning, more and more, from a matter of mere inexperience into a matter of defiance. Pharazôn knew how to deal with the defiance of the Faithful, of the Haradrim, of the tribes and kingdoms of Rhûn, but his son’s defiance was proving a harder challenge than all of those put together. To look into the dark well of his eyes, and see there what the heir to the Sceptre of Númenor thought of the deeds of his father and the price of his inheritance made him feel under the constant pressure of a relentless attack. It was as if Amandil had returned; a new, improved Amandil whom Pharazôn could not even banish far from his sight. Worse, an Amandil who could one day have power over Pharazôn’s legacy and destroy it on a whim, as if it had never existed. And perhaps this comparison was no mere coincidence: Gimilzagar, after all, had been hoodwinked by Amandil’s Faithful bastard in Rómenna in the past. Who knew if a clumsy kiss or two was all they had shared? If he ever had proof that they had planted ideas in his son’s head, he would have them and make them beg for death.

All this pent up frustration made him spoil to engage in war; against whom, it did not matter, as long as there was an enemy to be defeated. Gimilzagar could sit back and watch, and when he saw his fellow Númenóreans scream and fall before his eyes, he might even learn that barbarians were not all tame victims who were led away to slaughter for no reason. When he had proof of their double dealings and treacheries, he would grow wary of them, and avoid the insidiousness of their thoughts. The world was not his friend, and no one would repay his compassion with love and loyalty, as in the tales. The only friends he would ever have were those who stood more to gain from his life than from his death; the rest would see an unguarded flank and pounce like a rabid pack of wolves.

This season was the only time in the year where the mountain pass was crossable. Still, the night before they started the climb, they made a generous offering to the Deliverer to make sure that they had his goodwill in this endeavour. Gimilzagar stood by his side, watching the fervorous chanting of the soldiers with wide eyes while the bodies were consumed by the flames. The soldiers belonged body and soul to Melkor, as they belonged body and soul to Pharazôn, because they knew better than to spurn those who protected them and guided them to victory.

As they walked under the mantle of the god, this time there were no furious thunderstorms, no black clouds engulfing them until they could not see the abyss rise before their feet. The mountain tribes, for the most part, hid away in their dens as soon as they heard the clatter and din of the Númenórean army’s advance, only killing two men who, according to the report, had grown separated from their companions and taken a wrong turn. Still, the way was steep, and the nights frozen cold. Dismounting from the horses because the way was too narrow or too dangerous was a common occurrence, and more than a few beasts fell to their deaths or were snatched away by bears. One night, it was the man on guard duty who was snatched away, and at first they did not know if he had been taken by man or beast, until they found his body lying on a ravine, with its innards eaten. Gimilzagar, to his credit, remained mostly impassive through this, walking when he had to walk, stopping whenever they stopped and shivering in silence. His body looked weak, but it was deceptively strong, stronger than his mind at any rate. The first nights, Pharazôn heard him tossing and turning, and he grew concerned that he would fall sick. He gave the boy every blanket that could be spared, but his forehead remained cool, and the circles under his eyes were a mere symptom of sleeplessness.

Pharazôn was a little sleepless those days, himself. Taking this route had awoken remembrances of that fateful campaign twenty years ago, and the choices he had made. Sometimes, he could not help but wonder what would Númenor’s fate have been if he had decided to let those mountains defeat him, if he had not conquered Seria, and all the lands that lay beyond. Perhaps, as Gimilzagar claimed, his reputation as an undefeated general would not have suffered such a terrible hit: after all, the Númenóreans had believed the edge of the world to be near, and even the soldiers who had accompanied him in that expedition would soon have been telling tales about the dark chasms and terrible monsters who closed the way for Men, partly influenced by their own superstitions, partly unwilling to be subject to accusations of cowardice from those they had left behind. Ar Pharazôn the Golden had already claimed the title of greatest of Kings of his line for defeating Mordor, and he would have remained so even if he had not been King of the World. But his pride and determination had not allowed him to think in those terms, and once he realized what truly lay beyond –a different world, just as huge as the one the Númenóreans knew- it was already too late to turn back. So he had done the only thing he could do, go forward, even knowing that he was stretching his might too thin, and that those vast lands would never be truly part of Númenor, receive colonists, or know of its rich civilization and flourishing culture.

Still, once they had been claimed, those new conquests could no longer break away from his empire without bringing great harm upon the Sceptre’s reputation. If they did, more rebellions would soon follow, and a chain of consequences which could shake Númenor to the ground if one of their truly valuable territories was inspired by their example. Even if all the rulers stayed loyal, there was always a neighbour farther away who could threaten their borders, strike a dangerous alliance, or sweep in to take advantage of a power vacuum. At some point, Pharazôn could not help but feel like a prisoner of his own decisions, increasingly unable to find room to manoeuvre. If it had not been for Zigûr’s advice, he did not know how he would have managed this untenable situation. Now, at least, he had a hold on Rhûn, even if it was not the kind of hold that either his ancestors or him would have preferred. Kings cowered in terror of the faraway might of Númenor, sending him abundant tribute of future sacrifices and slaves to keep his good luck running and the fields and mines supplied. Moreover, as all those prisoners belonged to him by right of conquest, the Sceptre had grown immensely wealthy just from selling the surplus to merchants, nobles, and other particulars from every coin of its territory. Much of that wealth had been spent in building new marvels in Númenor and bettering the lives of the colonists, who could conduct their trade unimpeded and grow more prosperous in turn.

He had done the right thing, and made good of a difficult situation. And if Gimilzagar could be bothered to ask anyone, apart from those wretched Baalim-worshippers who licked their wounds in Rómenna, they would surely agree.

Their arrival to North Seria, less than a month after they took leave of their last camp, brought a great commotion to its inhabitants, who had not witnessed the deadly magnificence of the Númenórean host since the Day of the Conquest. Their passage found many villages deserted, as their inhabitants chose to take their most precious belongings and hide in the wilds rather than to risk meeting them. The soldiers took everything they found, but they did not tarry in those places, preferring to go straight for the cities, where the first count of tribute was made before it was sent to the capital. The day they entered the largest of them, they were received with as much reverence as trepidation. Streets were empty, windows closed, and after Pharazôn’s ordered the local authorities to surrender all their reports so he could check if the numbers tallied with the reports that their king sent to Númenor, they rushed to obey without question.

As the scribe translated them to him, under the watchful eye of the Númenórean interpreter, the King noticed that there were several data rectifications in the original manuscript. Interrogated about it, the scribe confessed that the caravans were often raided by “lawless tribes who did not obey the glorious Emperor”, and that they regularly took part of the tribute away. Pharazôn took note of this, and once they had been carefully transcribed into Adûnaic, he took the documents with him.

Meanwhile, Gimilzagar remained in a taciturn mood. His silent presence trailed Pharazôn’s footsteps like a shadow, watching all his dealings with an unreadable expression. He did not even ask anything when his father introduced him as his son instead of “the heir to the Sceptre”, as he was officially known in the lands of the West, though it was the time that he appeared closer to having a reaction.

“The Seres believe me to be immortal” he informed the boy anyway, as they rode South early on the following morning. “According to their legends, I defeated the god who ruled over the Dark Land and wrested immortality from him. I cannot let any talk of heirs jeopardize this useful pretence.”

Gimilzagar nodded, gravely.

“I see. I… suppose it is especially useful when your heir is someone like me.”

Was this his new strategy, to behave like a victim?

“It is indeed convenient, when my only son refuses to accept his duties, and prefers to behave and look like a walking invitation to revolt.”

“Then why don’t you ask Lord Zigûr, Father? He said that he knew the secret of immortality.”

Pharazôn could not believe the boy had grown so bold. He bristled, trying to put out of his mind the complex thoughts and feelings that this particular issue had never failed to arise since he had first heard about it.

“If Zigûr ever makes me immortal, you will have to learn to hold your tongue, as I will no longer have any use for you”, he growled. Gimilzagar flinched, but he did not fall behind as his father had expected. Instead, his forehead curved in a frown, as if he was wrestling with a troubling thought.

“That man, Father. The scribe who was translating the documents to you. He was –lying.”

Pharazôn blinked, distracted from his anger.

“Of course he was lying.” Something occurred to him. “Were you looking inside his mind?”

Gimilzagar hesitated briefly, then nodded.

“And yet you waited until we left before you told me, because you thought I would kill him if you let me know then and there, and you did not want to feel responsible for his death.” He did not know if to remain angry or laugh. “At least you still had enough loyalty in you to let me know at some point. But never mind”, he interrupted the boy before he could protest. “I already knew that, but I am endeavouring to catch bigger fish. I am glad I came this way; I should have done it sooner.”

“Are you… going after their King?” Gimilzagar gasped. Ar Pharazôn shrugged.

“Certain rumours had reached me before I undertook this expedition. Some ludicrous story about the man keeping a part of the tribute for himself so he could conduct his own sacrifices. I was not too bothered by it, for, as you know, without Lord Zigûr’s knowledge and his sacred fire, no sacrifice is worth anything beyond what superstitious belief may attribute to its action. But after taking the Northern route and finding proof in those documents, I have changed my mind. If this is indeed his doing, and not that of his intermediaries, he has grown careless. And if someone in his position feels comfortable enough to deceive the Sceptre in such a way, what else will he feel comfortable doing in the future?”

“So”, Gimilzagar winced, as if endeavouring to understand those dealings was a painful process for him, “those missing people were… sacrificed by their own king? He made them disappear, and then demanded those poor cities to bring him more victims to make up for those who were lost?”

“By their king, by their governor, by a minister. We do not know yet. But someone demanded more victims from those poor cities, and those, no doubt, demanded them from even poorer villages.”

The Prince seemed to mull this over for a while. Pharazôn waited for him to ask the next question, but when it did not come, he galloped ahead with a shrug, calling for a herald to send orders to the commander of the rearguard.

That night, Gimilzagar’s tossing and turning returned again.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The Emperor’s son-in-law governed the Northern province from a fortress perched atop a steep hill. He had received notice from his spies that Ar Pharazôn was in his lands, asking inconvenient questions and keeping compromising documents, and his terror was so great at the news that he chose to trust the protection of his stone walls rather than the foreign conqueror’s mercy. Ar Pharazôn was irritated at this delay, an irritation which turned into fury once he was shown the severed head of the messenger he had sent demanding an immediate surrender. It was obvious that the governor of the North believed that his foe could not afford to waste his time on a siege, and that if only he could hold out enough, the Númenórean expedition would just pass him by and head to the capital.

Instead of that, Pharazôn unleashed his troops on the countryside, telling them to destroy everything they found, but to bring every prisoner to him alive. Once that a sizeable amount of them were held in his camp, he seized the neighbouring hill, which could be clearly seen from the fortress, built a great altar, and had them sacrificed. After the last body was given to the flames, he made all the priests and commanders retreat until they were at a distance from the fire, opened one of the vials that Zigûr had made for him before his departure, and dropped it into the flames. At once, the altar turned a sickly green colour, and the smoke rose high, forming a mass of dark cloud in the sky which began moving slowly but inexorably towards the enemy, until it engulfed the entire fortress. As the soldiers watched in awe and sang their prayers to Melkor, the haze began to dissipate, showing deserted ramparts, where the sun did not longer give away the enemy positions by reverberating on the surface of a shield or a helmet. When Pharazôn gave the order to storm the place, they found the grounds strewn with dead people, whose swollen eyes and gaping mouths bore witness to their horrible demise.

They had to go deep into the main building to find living people, most of them coughing blood and choking, as if an invisible presence was pressing their throats with ghostly fingers. The Governor, however, was nowhere to be found among them. He, together with his closest councillors, wives and children, turned out to have been hidden in a subterranean cave under a trapdoor, which had luckily protected them from the worst of the attack. It took the Númenórean soldiers the best part of the day to find them, but once they did they dragged the prisoners before Pharazôn, who sat on the highest chair of the fortress’s council room with a shaking Gimilzagar by his side.

“So you thought you could escape the wrath of the god of the West”, Pharazôn sneered to his interpreter.

The Governor of the North was dressed in even richer attire than the Arnian courtiers. His robe was made of embroidered silk, and precious gems glittered on his brow, but his size was stunted, and he had the sallow skin common to the barbarians from this part of the world. Despite his earlier bravado, he cut a rather poor figure now, trembling and sobbing. He had learned Adûnaic, and used it to blame everyone around him: his councillors for clouding his mind with their treacherous advice, his eldest son for beheading the Númenórean messenger without his knowledge, the Emperor for forcing him to partake in his treason, and the Emperor’s daughter –his main wife, who was staring at him with a look of great hatred and contempt- because her father had sent her to ensure his cooperation in their nefarious plans. Before he was over with his sad story, however, his son interrupted him, claiming that his father was lying and that he had kept the tribute for himself, refusing to send it to the Emperor and imprisoning his wife and loyal sons so they would not be able to denounce him in the capital. His goal all along had been to usurp his father-in-law and perhaps, one day, though the idea was too foolish to even contemplate, defy the Emperor of the World himself.

“Who do you think is telling the truth?” Pharazôn asked Gimilzagar. The young man did not answer. He had not said a word since they set foot on the ghost fortress: his features were livid, and his hands were twitching. “Never mind. We will take them with us to the capital for a family reunion.”

They were led across the stone corridors and the great ramparts, past the dying and the dead, and then through the devastated countryside, where the wind blew the cinders in their faces and made them cough. Soon, their bickering died, and they grew as quiet and unresponsive as Gimilzagar, not offering any resistance when they were chained and put under watch at the back of the van. Meanwhile, the King of Númenor sat down to dictate a letter to the Emperor informing him of what had happened, requesting a new governor for the Northern lands who would be better suited for the requirements of the role, and a new army to serve him in his endeavours. Once this was done, he sent one of the former Governor’s councillors ahead of them to bear the message, escorted by a cohort of his best soldiers.

“This is not how I like to fight my wars”, he explained to his son, as they both retreated to their tent for the night. “It is cowardly and despicable, but they left me no choice when they forced me into a siege. We cannot stay in this province for months without the Emperor hearing about it and covering his tracks, or perhaps even staging a revolt while my hands are tied here.”

“Did Zigûr tell you how to force the souls of those peasants to attack their former lords?” Gimilzagar asked. It was the first words he had spoken in all day, and a part of Pharazôn felt strangely relieved.

“Yes”, he replied. “It is one of the many instances in which Zigûr’s immortal knowledge has come in handy for us.”

“Aren’t you afraid of someone who has such knowledge?”

Ah, there it was. The defiance, again.

“He has the knowledge. I have the means to put that knowledge into practice, Gimilzagar”, he explained. “Judge by yourself who should be worthier of fear.”

The boy shook his head at this, Pharazôn did not know if because he disagreed with his assessment, or because he did not wish to contemplate the question at all. He chose not to ask.

“In any case, I trust you will regain your bearings before we enter the capital city. I could make good use of your insights at the trial”, he said instead, sizing the young man’s pale features with a long look. As he had expected, he detected a hint of trepidation, and more than a hint of refusal, but it was no more than he had expected by this point. He shrugged. “And those who may be innocent in this affair could make good use of them as well.”

Gimilzagar winced, and he knew that he had him at this. He was not good at threatening his son, for even when he did, he remained aware that those threats could be easily recognized as empty. But if Gimilzagar was the sort of person who could be brought to his knees by threats to others, he would be a fool if he did not take advantage of it.

“Yes, Father”, the boy mumbled.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

After a night of tense negotiations, Hazad was sent back to his tribe with a message for their chief. It was a haughtily worded command to vacate all their lands for the benefit of the Númenóreans, while Tal-Elmar remained in their camp as a hostage. After Mogru refused to consider this request and started preparing for war, Hazad went back home to confer with his other sons and gather their supporters, visibly for Mogru’s war, but in truth for his own purposes.

Meanwhile the Númenóreans, too, had to strengthen their defences to protect their position, and prepare for the hostilities. This had Isildur busier than he remembered having been in many years, as he not only had to contend with the preparations, but also with Anárion following him like a shadow and asking him questions about everything.

“Back when I learned to do this, there was never a why, just a sour veteran with a patch in his eye yelling at us to work faster”, he told his brother after a particularly trying morning endeavouring to explain the reasons for the distance they had left between the first palisade and the second.

Anárion ignored him.

“At ebb tide there is not much protection on the side of the ships, unless the enemy is too superstitiously afraid of water to risk taking a bath. After meeting our worthy ally and his son, I find it too much to assume.”

“Of course it is too much to assume. That is why we have archers. Some of them will be on the ships themselves, in case we have to retreat. But as I said, this is not my preferred plan. If you have the right figures, and Hazad is not a traitor, we can take them on their territory.”

“For the last time, Hazad will not betray us. What he stands to gain from this is too much.” His younger brother did not take well to insinuations that his judgement was faulty. “Besides, he knows that, if he does not follow our agreement, we will take his son to Númenor with us, and he will not see him again.”

Isildur’s gaze strayed involuntarily towards the spot where the young barbarian liked to sit, and stare at the ships with a scowl. Malik snorted.

You would like that, wouldn’t you?

“Perhaps that would not be such a bad fate for the boy. He will always be an outcast here, whether his father becomes chieftain of their tribe or not.”

Anárion frowned at him.

“And what is that to us? We have an agreement with his father, the future of our endeavours and perhaps the lives of our men could depend on it, and that is the only thing which should matter at this moment.” Suddenly, his eyes widened in comprehension. “He reminds you of Malik, doesn’t he?”

Aha! He found you out.

“If that is proof of your abilities reading people, perhaps we should be thinking twice about engaging in this battle”, Isildur struck back, a little more savagely than what might have been warranted. His anger, however, was as short-lived as a bolt of lightning, leaving a wistful mood in its wake. “He does not remind me of Malik, Anárion. I am… merely reminded of the fact that Malik was ‘half-barbarian’, as he always used to say. Did you know that once, during the siege of Pelargir, we attended Father’s interview with the enemy commander, and he was a half-breed, just like Malik? When he figured out his identity, he addressed him directly and tried to convince him to join Sauron’s army and be an outcast no longer. Malik was more upset than I’d ever seen him.” When he started speaking, he had not expected so much to come out, but Anárion seemed too surprised to make any retorts, and this encouraged him to continue. “He never had any reason to feel like an outcast, with his family living under our protection, not to mention those villagers feeling so thankful to his father for saving them from the priests of the Forbidden Bay. But that day, it dawned upon me that, if his fate had been any different, he could have been a bitter man, fighting for Sauron to destroy those that made him like this. And then we would have met on the battlefield as enemies.”

“You would not! If Grandfather had not brought his father to Númenor with him, Malik would never have been born. And no one born in the Andustar would ever fight for Sauron. Well –not in those days, at any rate.” Anárion shook his head. “You think too much, Isildur, but your thoughts make little sense.”

Your thoughts do make sense, you are just terrible at putting them in words.

“Then perhaps it is time for you to stop trying to understand them and focus on what is to be done”, Isildur answered, in a sharp tone. Anárion acquiesced, perhaps with some relief, and they went back to work as if the conversation had never happened.

Only now and then, Isildur believed he could see his brother looking at him in a curious way, as if trying to gauge something. And when the shadows lengthened, and Tal-Elmar abandoned his vantage point to go directly to Isildur and ask for food, ignoring everyone else, he thought he could see his brow crease in a frown yet again.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The next morning was the last day allotted to Mogru to answer their requirement. He sent another of Hazad’s sons, a burly, frowning tribesman whose life could obviously be spared, to spit on their words and declare war on them. Tar-Elmar acted as interpreter, and after he finished with Mogru’s message, he went on to translate a second message from Hazad, who informed Isildur and Anárion that the warriors of Agar planned to ambush them in the forest as soon as they marched on their territory. Mogru had claimed before the assembly that Hazad could not be trusted to hold his position since his son was a hostage of the Númenóreans, so the plan was to bring Mogru news that Tal-Elmar had been killed. After some deliberation, the young man suddenly took Isildur’s knife and cut his hair, held it over the flames until it caught fire, stepped on it and then gave it to his brother, who stared at him in horror and disgust. Apparently, there was nothing so dishonourable for a man of their tribe as parting with their hair, which was almost as terrible as death for them. But Tal-Elmar had been regarded as a freak of nature even before this, which might explain why he was not as worried about his appearance as the others were.

“Now, Hazad uBuldar have big funeral. He claim right to revenge. As Hazad uBuldar knows paths through forest where his clan posted, he send secret message and let you know. He let you pass and you go to village where you take Elders hostage.” An elder was a kind of priest, who remained sequestered in a sacred enclosure taking care of some sort of relic which determined the tribe’s fortunes, as far as Isildur and Anárion had been able to gather. Even in an all-out war like this one, they would never be left unprotected, so they would have to fight some of their best warriors before they reached them.

What worried Isildur now, however, was something entirely different. His chief concern had always been the war, but these latest developments had made him start to consider the aftermath as well.

“Our plan is to leave Hazad in charge and establish an alliance with him and his people” he said to Anárion in private, while they left the brothers to argue across the fire. The elder’s tone was scathing, and Isildur could imagine he was shaming Tal-Elmar for thinking so little of his hair, despite the fact that his gesture would help them all in their endeavours. “But after a betrayal like this, do you think the tribe will ever accept him as their leader?”

“I had already considered this”, Anárion nodded, in a serious voice. Of course he had. “But the fact remains that we cannot do this without his aid. If we had not struck this deal with him, we would have marched into an unknown forest without help or guide, and many of us would have died. Perhaps you would have welcomed the greater danger, but these people have families in the Island, and I assume they want to see them again.”

This angered Isildur.

“Know that I do think of the lives of others, and that I do not go to war without resources or plans.” Before he embarked on that suicide mission which had changed everything, many men had owed him his lives. “I would never have walked blindly into this people’s forest with others under my command.”

Anárion extended both hands in a placating gesture.

“You are right, and I am sorry. But Hazad is a good resource. He is full of resentment for his enemy, and he is clever. Once we have what we came for, we can re-evaluate our strategy. As soon as we can manage to bring some more soldiers and colonists, and build a proper fortification, we will not have to support him any longer. In fact, the more they fight among themselves, the weaker they will be, and the stronger that will make us.”

We are from the house of Andúnië, Tal Elmar uHazad, Isildur remembered his words to the young man, the night he stepped outside the tent to find him sitting there. We are not like the other Númenóreans your people has met. If you keep your word, we will keep ours. And then, even in a farthest recess of his mind, he remembered the day he had argued with Anárion and accused him of being idealistic. He wanted to laugh.

Then laugh. It is funny, if you think about it.

“We will keep our word, or soon we will become hated by all, as the Númenóreans of the Middle Havens, Umbar, and wherever else the people of the Island have set foot before. And then we will not find a moment of peace in this land.”

He had fully expected Anárion to argue, but instead of that, he shrugged.

“Then, I will inform you that, according to Hazad, Mogru took power from his clan through treachery, and people followed him, so they will do the same when he prevails. Also according to him, despite our Númenórean misconceptions, most of the people in his tribe are no fighters, but labourers, and have no deep loyalties except to follow whoever is in charge. As long as we do not burn their houses, fell their trees, rape their women or take their children to be sacrificed beyond the Sea, they will be no worse than they were under Mogru.” He looked in the direction of the brothers again; they had finally grown silent, but they were still glaring daggers at each other. “I took all this information with a grain of salt, as he was arguing his own case. But if it is true, we will have nothing to worry about. And if it is not, perhaps you are right, and knowing that we are serious about waging war to protect our puppet rulers will make us widely respected in this region.”

 “At least it will make us respected among puppet rulers. Which, I can assure you from my experience in Arne, is no mean feat”, Isildur retorted, turning away from him and heading back to the campfire to join their guests.