Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Arnian War I

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Melkyelid. Melkyelid.

The Princess of the South gave a start. As her eyes flew open, the first thing they saw were the embers of the altar fire, where she must have fallen asleep in the middle of her prayers. Before her, the Lady of the Seas sat on her throne of ivory, watching over her with an inscrutable golden glance. The weak scent of burnt incense still lingered in the darkness.

“Melkyelid”, the voice repeated. A soft sound of footsteps, one, two, three, and the figure was standing next to her. She was wearing her favourite green silk dress, which brought out the colour of her eyes, and as Melkyelid looked up to meet them, they were as warm and welcoming as ever. “Come with me.”

“Mother”, she replied, simply, letting the woman take her hand and pull her up to a standing position. Her knees ached, and for a moment she stumbled on her feet, but years of practice allowed her to hide her clumsiness by turning it into a welcoming bow.

Iolid laughed.

“Always the proud one! You do not need to pretend in front of me. I have always known you, ever since you were born – no, even before that, since the first time you kicked my womb to let me know that you wanted to go out into the world.” She sobered slightly. “And you went far, indeed.”

Melkyelid was tempted to rub the ache from her joints, but she withstood this temptation, even as her mother turned her back to her to tend to the altar fire that was about to burn out. She did it quickly, in that elegant yet efficient way that her daughters had always watched in awe, dreaming of emulating her when they were older. As the flames began roaring again, the Princess of the South felt a gust of warmth in her chest, like the spirit of life rekindled.

“Why have you come, Mother?” she asked. There had been no messenger, no letter, and in spite of that, she had been allowed past the guards, both those who protected the Palace and those who watched, day and night, over her slightest move since the South Wing had become a prison.

Iolid turned back, gesturing at her to approach.

“To show you.”

Slowly, Melkyelid came to stand beside her, and her eyes, too, gazed into the fire. It seemed to her that it burned brighter than the fire she had tended with her own hands, brighter, in fact, than any other fire in Armenelos. She remembered the fires of Gadir in her childhood, in the temples and the houses, and even those burning in the streets and squares of the city for the summer and winter feasts. How magnificent they had been.

“Look”, Iolid insisted. And Melkyelid saw.

It was her city, their city, anchored like a large ship in the middle of the Bay of Gadir. Behind it, the greater island of Kotine extended its white, sandy slopes for miles, separated by a long yet narrow channel crowded by flocks of crying seagulls. The tide was at its lowest, so rocks could be seen on the surface, almost as if tracing a path for the sea giants of the past to cross from one landmass to the other.

Then, she saw the ships. A large fleet of seaworthy vessels, over a thousand between war galleys and merchant cargo ships, were disposed in ranks between the islands and the mainland on both sides. Most of the ships had been lined up in the wider Eastern strait, while a smaller force held the narrower Western pass. Facing them, a slightly smaller fleet, but composed entirely of war vessels, was sailing towards them. It, too, had been divided in two squadrons, but their disposition was surprising. The largest force had been sent to the Western pass, while the smaller charged at the larger number of enemies.

“There he is”, Iolid said, conversationally, pointing at the prow of the largest warship of the main attack force. Melkyelid looked, and saw Pharazôn, magnificent in his gold and silver steel armour, and the deep blue cloak which Númenórean generals wore at sea. She was taken by a feeling of wonder, as she realized how different this man was from the Pharazôn she had always known. Confined in Armenelos, in a Palace full of people he despised and intrigues he could not face head on, hiding his feelings for a woman who frightened him as much as he loved her, her son had been out of place, like a fish out of the water. Here, however, at the brink of life and death, it was as if he truly came alive, giving orders, moving here and there, wherever he was needed to fight, to kill, to face the enemy with no trace of fear in his eyes and the shadow of a laugh. He was the Lord of Battles come to life, she mused, then blinked in surprise, wondering where that thought had come from.

As if she had guessed what was happening inside her daughter’s head, Iolid frowned.

“There, look!” she insisted, in a tone which indicated displeasure. Apologetically, Melkyelid turned her eyes away from her son, and back to the evolution of the fleets. Back in the Eastern side, the fleet from Umbar did not seem to be making progress. It was all they could do to hold their ground against a superior force, and not retreat in spite of the losses. At some point, part of them began to retreat, and the Gadirites rejoiced, preparing for the pursuit.

In the Western strait, however, the real purpose of the strategy was becoming apparent as it unravelled. The bulk of the Umbar forces had broken the enemy ranks and passed through them, like knife through paper. Melkyelid could see it even before it happened: after sailing around the island, they would meet the Gadirite main fleet, and then the second force would suddenly turn back and close the trap. As dusk fell on the bay of Gadir, the wreck of the Merchant Princes’s naval empire would lie scattered by the waves, red with the blood of the citizens, allies, and mercenaries who had fought for them.

“It is over”, Iolid said, looking away from the fire. Melkyelid, however, stood there gazing for a moment longer, watching the sun set over their beautiful city in the heart of the seas. As she looked at the stone buildings, the cobbled streets, and the white forest of towers gleaming with a thousand lights brought by the terrified spectators, who refused to abandon their lookouts even after it became too dark to see, she found a spark of hope.

“Is it, Mother?” she asked. “The city stands. Without a fleet, they are defenceless. They will have to surrender now, and even if their power is lost, even if the council is broken, they will remain, and endure.”

Iolid shook her head.

“No. They will not endure.”

Melkyelid should have asked her how she could be so sure, but instead of that, she felt the warmth of the fire abandon her chest, and a cold chill settle in its place.

“Mother, please”, she begged, struggling to find her voice. “Do not leave. Stay here with me.” Do not return there.

“I cannot do that. You know why.” Their gazes met, and for a moment, the Gadirite woman looked older than ever, older than the ancient Kings who lived for five hundred years and saw generation after generation of their subjects grow and wither, like leaves scattered by the wind. Melkyelid’s fear became terror. “For my abode is there, and there it will remain until the world ends.”

Her knees gave way, and she fell. She tried to find the right words for the litany, the one she was chanting before sleep took her, in honour of the Lady of the Cave in the Forbidden Bay, but she could not remember them. All she could recall were older words, which she had not spoken for a century.

Words which had been at home in another cave.

“Queen of the seas” she muttered, “guide of sailors, fortune of merchants. Protectress of the Bay, Lady of Gadir. Queen of the seas, guide of sailors, fortune of merchants. Protectress of the Bay, Lady of Gadir.”

When at last she looked up, the eyes of the golden statue were still upon her, fixing her with her impenetrable glance. Iolid was gone and, as if recalling a distant dream, Melkyelid remembered her funeral rites, and how she had travelled across the wide expanse of the Sea to stand over her grave. Her son had been with her then, holding her arm, and there was something which had been said that was pushing at the back of her mind now.

“I am sorry, Mother.” Pharazôn looked grave, and at the same time he seemed to be trying for a comforting voice that did not quite come to him. “I know that she meant to visit you in Númenor before she fell ill, but the gods had their own plans, and there is nothing we can do about that.”

Melkyelid smiled sadly.

“The gods made sure that she would not be able to visit me anymore, indeed. But they are still merciful in ways that we do not understand, and they will still allow me to visit her.”

Her hands clenched on her lap. Was this the reason, why she had taken that particular disguise? To remind her of those words before the shellstone mausoleum?

Melkyelid did not need to be reminded. She was well aware of the workings of the divine, more than most people of this age and time. Each manifestation of a particular god had an entity of its own, and upon losing its temple and its worshippers it would inevitably perish, though the god itself would remain. Still, to lose one of such manifestations, one which was beloved and revered among the ancients, was the closest thing to mortality which a god could ever experience. Now, the goddess of Gadir was dying, and she had visited her.

Would she have the strength to return the visit?

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Well, well. I am happy that negotiations have been so productive. For a moment, it almost seemed as if we would never come to an agreement, but fortunately those difficult times are behind us now. “Pharazôn sat on the ivory chair which Adherbal had pulled for him from the large table at the back of the hall. It had taken almost all morning, but finally the entire city council, minus the runaway Magon and his friends, had been rounded up at the council building. They had not opposed much resistance in the way of armed fighting, but a few of them had tried to reach the mainland on boats, and one of them had persevered so well under the cover of the night that he had almost managed to land. That should be the one in common sailor disguise, he mused, and Merimne is not pleased with him. She had been in charge of finding him, and like all the Haradrim, she detested all the water that she could not drink, so now she was having her revenge by dragging him across the floor while hissing abuse in her native language.

“Let him go, Merimne. He is supposed to be paying attention to me now.”

She obeyed, so literally that she threw him face flat on the floor. With a groan, he struggled to his knees while the others stared, their faces very pale. One of them -not the Magistrate, but a younger man Pharazôn had never seen before, perhaps a relative- stood in anger.

“This is outrageous! You have won the battle, but that does not give you the right to treat a Númenórean representative in this fashion, much less give free rein to barbarians like this…this woman!”

“You are no longer a representative in any kind of official capacity, since the King decided you had committed treason against the Sceptre. “Pharazôn reminded him. “Also, I told her to stop.”

“What do you want from us?” Now, this was the Magistrate. Being in Magon’s deep counsel, Pharazôn marvelled at the fact that he had not tried to escape the city earlier and join his associate in Sor or wherever he was. Perhaps he was like one of those sea heroes who went down with their ships. Or perhaps he was just one more useful idiot. “Have you brought us here to kill us?”

“I have been telling your representative what I want for months. I want to enter the city, I want the hostages back, and I want you in Númenor for trial” he replied. “I am in the city now, but the hostages have not been retrieved yet, and you are still here. Now, I know they have been distributed among all your households, but it is a very difficult, not to mention tedious task to find and identify them one by one. If you wish to remain here, at least for the time being, perhaps you should make yourselves useful and collaborate in finding them for me. I need a speedy passage up the Anduin and I need all the tribes on my side before the end of Spring.”

Hearing that their demise was not imminent seemed to give them some courage.

“This is a mistake”, the younger man spoke again. “You must know that we were falsely accused. We only took the hostages to prevent them from falling in the hands of the lord of Mordor!”

“So you say. I would have been more inclined to believe in your innocence before you raised a fleet against me and forced me into battle.”

“That was self-defence!” He did not know who had shouted that; he was not too good with faces. However, it angered him.

“Self-defence against what? Self-defence is invoked against enemies, not against your own king in Armenelos!” He rose from the chair. “Now, tell me where the hostages are, or you will go the way of your fleet!”

The Magistrate hurried to speak before any of the others could make things worse. Perhaps he was not that much of an idiot.

“We will, my lord prince. For the sake of our family and our city, we will collaborate with you, and do our best to help you retake the Bay.” He gave a long look to the man who had spoken in the back, who lowered his eyes to avoid his glance. “And we will endeavour to prove our innocence.”

If it was me you had to convince, you would have no chance, Pharazôn thought, but did not say it. As much as he would like to take his frustration out on them, the matter remained that he needed their cooperation, at least for now. The war had just started, and while he took his troops upriver, he could not afford trouble behind his back. They had not surrendered peacefully, far from it, but the fact remained that the city was still standing, and he intended to keep it that way, if only for his mother’s sake.

“Then”, he said, “let us start.”

From the place where she had stood for most of the conversation, propped against the wall and watching them with a sideways glance, he could see Merimne shake her head, and spit on the floor in disgust.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“So.” He stared intently at the list, then at the Magistrate, scrutinizing his features for a hint of nervousness that could alert him to further double-dealing. “Twenty boys, fourteen girls, twenty-seven women, is that all?”

“Yes, my lord”, the man replied calmly. He had some nerve; though a prisoner, and followed everywhere by soldiers who reported on his every move, he had dressed himself in all his Magistrate finery as soon as he had been able, complete with bejewelled rings in his fingers. This seemed to have given him the aplomb that he needed to coordinate the search and identification of the hostages across the city’s main households. Pharazôn had not been present, as Barekbal convinced him that it was not prudent to expose himself too much, but he had heard that the city people had shouted insults, and even threw rotten food at the soldiers, who fortunately had not fallen for the provocation.

Why don’t you throw them at your fool of a magistrate? he thought angrily, even as he counted heads for the second time. Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six... where was the last woman? The one with the curly hair had moved, and was now standing next to one of the children, but no, he had counted her before, it was not her.

“There is still a woman missing”, he noted.

“Oh, no, no, she was brought in last but she is over there now, see? The dark one from the tree folk, there by the corner, my lord prince. Behind the old lady.”

“Fine”, he barked. They were all there, in one piece, which was good news. And reasonably fed and cared-for, by the looks of them.

“Who speaks Adûnaic here?” he asked. Almost half of the hands went up, most of them children. He nodded.

“Very well. I am the Prince Pharazôn, legate to the King of Númenor, and I am glad to see that you are safe and well. You were taken here against the will of the King of Númenor, and I am here to redress this wrong.” As his words began to be translated, the effect was nothing like the low buzz of the Council translators in Armenelos. Children spoke in loud voices and argued about the meaning of words, while the women who listened pelted them with questions. He paused, to let each of his sentences sink into this motley crowd. “Soon, I will take my army upriver to fight my enemies in Arne and Mordor, and I will take you home. In exchange, I ask for your help in securing the loyalty and allegiance of your people in the war to come. You are here because you belong to the greatest families, those that others will follow into battle. If you do me this service, I will set you free.”

The cacophony of voices increased, and he turned briefly away from them to find the Magistrate.

“Where is he?” he asked. The Gadirite didn’t need to ask who “he” was.

“Do you see those three boys who are sitting together, by the second pillar to the left, my lord prince? He is the one in the middle. He used to stay in my house, a fine and princely guest he was.”

He seemed to be about ten, Pharazôn calculated, though it was difficult to be sure with the short-lived folk. Perhaps he could be twelve, even thirteen. His robes were richer than those of the people around him, but if he had ever been a fine guest in anyone’s house he showed no evidence of that now. He stood almost perfectly still, like a statue, his features betraying no emotion at all. The other boys were speaking at him, but he did not answer, and did not even seem to be hearing them.

Pharazôn walked towards him. As he waded into the human river of hostages, he was stopped several times to be asked questions in broken Adûnaic, and even to be offered a few solemn expressions of thanks. It definitely seemed to him as if some of the women were trying to catch his eye, but he had no time for that. Besides, bedding hostages had never ended well that he could remember.

Finally, he reached his target, and stopped in front of him. As he did so, the other two boys bowed and stood up to leave them alone, but their companion showed no sign of recognition.

“Can you understand me?” Pharazôn asked. Noxaris’s son stayed silent, but after a moment he nodded.

“Well, I did not see you raise your hand before.”

The boy raised his glance for the first time, to meet his. He was not bad looking, with large dark eyes and a finely chiselled nose. His hair was black too, gathered back in the traditional braid worn by underaged boys in the kingdom of Arne.

Pharazôn had seen Noxaris once, when he had been to Gadir on an embassy, and he had to admit that they looked somewhat alike. He even saw the father’s arrogance, or rather a pale imitation of it, probably in an attempt to look brave in front of his enemies.

“You were not talking to me. You were talking to them.”

Fair enough, Pharazôn thought.

“You will not be coming with us.”

The boy’s composure cracked a little: he paled, and bit his lip. But to his credit, it did not last long.

“My father will defeat you.”

“That is not very likely”, Pharazôn replied. “What is your name?”

“Phaleris” the boy said. “Phaleris son of Noxaris, Prince of Arne.”

“Well, Phaleris, son of Noxaris, Prince of Arne. You are going to sail to Númenor in a ship. We have to keep you safe, as you may be the one to sit in the throne of your people once this is over.”

Instead of looking reassured, the boy seemed even more dismayed at this.

“I do not want to go to Númenor! And you are wrong, I am not sitting on the throne. In case you do not know, my uncle is the king, and he just had a child. I have two brothers, too, and my father….”

Pharazôn sighed. Probably ten, after all.

“Just stay safe and we’ll see about the rest”, he repeated, turning away. Then, however, he thought better about it, and paused for a moment to submit the boy to a long and critical stare. “And don’t even think of doing anything foolish. Do you hear me?”

Phaleris mumbled something that could have been anything from assent to a curse to his face. Whatever it had been, Pharazôn considered him warned enough.

He needed a drink now.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“What is he saying?”

“Chief wants lord of Númenóreans to have drink with him” the interpreter explained in broken Adûnaic. It was not a moment too soon; with the way he was yelling and flailing his arms around, Pharazôn had been wondering if he was calling upon his tribe to attack the intruders. “He accept alliance for battle.”

“Oh, thank goodness. He does not look very friendly, does he?”, Adherbal sighed, then edged closer to Pharazôn to whisper in his ear. “I thought he had found out that you slept with his wife.”

“I didn’t sleep with his wife!” Pharazôn hissed back, all while he nodded and made wide gestures to indicate approval at the man’s tirade. “Now shut up before anyone manages to understand you!”

A rather large wooden bowl, filled to the brim with some red liquid, was put before him as he spoke. He watched it suspiciously, bringing it close to his nose in the hopes of identifying the smell. The odour was acrid and very bitter, like tree bark, but at least it was not the blood of their enemies.

“You should have someone taste it first, my lord prince. It could be a trap. It could be poison”, Barekbal intervened, laying his hand on the bowl before Pharazôn could raise it to his lips. The prince shrugged.

“Having someone taste their friendship drink for poison is not how you show your trust in your allies”, he said. Before Barekbal could prevent it, he drank it all in one long swallow. The taste was foul, and as it made its way down his throat, he wanted to retch more than anything in the world, but he managed to keep his composure.

“In the name of… the King of Númenor…” He almost couldn’t pronounce the words. “We are grateful for your aid.”

The chief of the tribe did not seem to have similar difficulties downing his own drink. Both empty bowls were picked up by his newly-returned wife, who looked splendid in a cloak made entirely of tree-leaves. As she drew closer to Pharazôn, she smiled widely at him.

The prince felt his knees weaken a little. So, it had contained alcohol.

For a moment, he could feel Barekbal’s frown of disapproval in the back of his head. That man was so much like Amandil that it surprised him that they had not become friends, back when they were stationed at the Middle Havens years ago. Maybe their innate humourlessness had precluded them from standing each other’s presence.

“How many days do you need to gather your forces?” he asked, trying very hard to concentrate in the words he was uttering. If this was like most alcoholic beverages, the dizziness would take some time to sink in.

“One”, the interpreter replied. “We live close by.”

“Very well. Then, we will leave for Arne in a day. Thanks for everything.”

The chief was gesturing again.

“He says stay. Hospitality feast.”

“Oh, no, no, no.” Pharazôn shook his head. “We are an army of sixty thousand now, including the allies. There is no hospitality to be offered to us.”

“You stay with your sworn men.”

“My sworn… ? oh.” This conversation was not going well, and he was starting to feel dizzy. “I am honoured, but Númenórean custom dictates that we all have to share the same food and the same drink before going to war.” Sometimes, this had worked.

“Our custom dictates we must share same food and drink before going to war, too. We go to war with you.”

Nice try.

“I will begin preparations”, the chieftain’s wife chimed in, smiling at him again before walking away.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He did not know how he had managed to win this battle. Assailed from every flank with trays of strangely seasoned dishes whose contents he did not dare investigate, the real danger had come from the drink that flowed freely across the table. Availing himself of an old strategy, he had filled his stomach with the food before going for the drink, so the worst impact would be absorbed, and he had been very careful not to cross paths with the damn woman as much as he could manage it. For precaution, he had given secret orders to a number of his men to scatter across the table and not have any drinks, just in case that foul play was intended, but the forest tribe proved loyal to a fault, and no harm was done.

At least willingly.

At around midnight, the loud feast began to dissolve into a quieter gathering, and he felt steady enough on his feet to walk back to his barge. As he stood and took his leave from the leader of his new allies, Barekbal immediately stood as well, and fell in behind him like a silent shadow.

“I am not that drunk”, he spoke, when the silence was beginning to feel bothersome.

“I know, my lord prince.”

“You also needed an excuse to leave, huh? Lord of Battles, that wine was foul. I wonder what it was.”

“Well, I know for sure that it contained elderberry. They made something similar in the Middle Havens”, Barekbal replied. Pharazôn nodded, not knowing very well what to say to that.

“Foul, I tell you”, he repeated after a while.

“My lord prince, may I speak freely to you?”

Pharazôn sobered slightly at this. They had to be getting closer to the river, for the noises of merriment had faded away in the distance. Above their heads, the moon was shining bright.

“From now on, I will not drink anything without knowing what it is first, I promise”, he ventured. But Barekbal did not even crack a smile.

“I have stood loyally by you through the preparations of the expedition, through all the meetings and conferences, and in our journey here. However, I am… not sure of this strategy.”

“By the King of Armenelos, do I have to explain it again? They won’t surround us, I´ve said it about a hundred times. They would need to at least treble our amount of soldiers, and a force this size does not exist anywhere in the world. Yes, I know that Prince Noxaris has ridden to Mordor, probably to seek aid. But Orcs have no cavalry to add to his own, and we have the best cavalry in Middle-Earth.”

“It’s not only that, my lord.” Barekbal seemed to be struggling to put his unease into words. “You left Gadir behind…”

Pharazôn’s heart sunk, but he kept his tone even.

“With a garrison.”

“Lord Amandil did the same in Pelargir.”

“Not at all! Look.” The prince took a deep breath. “Do not take me wrong, I respect Lord Amandil, but the circumstances were very different. I have broken the might of the Merchant Princes’s navy, and Gadir is a fortress, impossible to attack except by sea.”

“But it is not a friendly fortress. It is swarming with enemies, with the deposed city council being held at their own homes and the people…”

“The people? You mean the people of Gadir? Even if they do not like us very much, they are not fighters, what can they do?”

“My lord, I understand that you have kinsmen among the Gadirites…”

“Enough!” Pharazôn shouted, stopping in his tracks. The glow of the fires of their encampment was already visible in the horizon.  “Have others spoken of this to you?”

Were they whispering behind his back? He could not keep a rein on his thoughts any longer, and they seemed to be trampling on each other in a mad rampage to get out. Could they believe he was misusing his command because he was in league with the traitors? It was one thing for the King and Council to suspect him, as they had always hated him and never trusted him as far as they could throw him, but could his men share their opinion as well?

Barekbal had gone very pale.

“No, I… I believe this conversation was a mistake, my lord. Allow me to apologize.”

Pharazôn could barely hear this through the sound of blood rushing to his ears.

“So, perhaps you think I am a traitor? That I am in my cousin’s conspiration, and this is why I am leading you into a trap? That I left the garrison behind, with Balbazer in command, to fall into another trap? That I would sacrifice all of you, my comrades in a hundred battles, because the Merchant Princes want to keep their trade routes by dealing with Mordor? Then, why are you here with me? Do you want to die? Is that what you want?”

Pharazôn had begun to yell, and the man’s look had passed now beyond alarm, into the realm of incredulity.

“What? I did not say… I could not have possibly…”

“What would I need to do then, for you to trust me? Destroy a Númenórean city and kill everyone in it, just to prove they are not my fucking allies? Charge in the front line and fall impaled on a damn Orc-spear to prove they are not my allies either? Don’t I even get the benefit of the doubt after I…”

Suddenly, even in the middle of his rage, he became aware that he was being observed. His voice trailed off, and his hand immediately went for his sword. For a moment, Barekbal seemed genuinely afraid that he would lunge at him, until he saw her too.

“Merimne”, Pharazôn had to make a great effort to control his breath. “I did not know you had followed us.”

The woman from Harad advanced a few steps towards them.

“I was not following you. I heard you shout from the other side of the forest, and thought you were under attack.”

“Yes, well. Barekbal was accusing me of treason.”

“I was not! I merely said that leaving a garrison behind in a city full of enemies might not have been a safe strategy!”

“Should I kill him?” She looked eager.

“I’d like to see you try, woman!” Barekbal hissed. Merimne fingered her dagger, then looked at him as if she was sizing up a lamb in a butcher’s shop. That look had unnerved countless men before him, but the Númenórean commander, to his credit, did not seem cowed. He turned away from her, and back towards him.

“Will you please listen to me? I have always trusted you, my lord. I did mention your kinship with the Gadirites not because I believe you to be in league with them, but merely because I thought that you could feel more inclined to see them as harmless because of that. I am part of your advisory council, and I was advising you, nothing more! You have to believe this, for it is the truth.”

Pharazôn’s breath was slowly going back to normal, and the noise in his ears was subsiding as well. For a moment, he risked looking at Barekbal straight in the eye, only to look away, feeling like a complete idiot.

“There are no safe strategies,” he said, in a low, strange kind of voice that barely seemed like his own. “All those years in the mainland, and you still don’t know that? What kind of commander are you?”

“I will go back to check on the horses, then”, Merimne announced to nobody in particular, sheathing her dagger again with an air of finality that did not seem to leave room for any further discussion. As he saw her disappear behind the bushes, however, Pharazôn felt that he needed to say something else fast, before the incident was buried under a cloud of false politeness.

“Look… earlier, I did not accept your apology. Will you accept mine, now?”

Barekbal shook his head.

“No, I don’t! There is absolutely nothing to apologize for, my lord!”

“I suppose I had that coming, didn’t I?”

“I am serious.” Barekbal, you saying ‘I am serious’ is a redundancy, Pharazôn had used to tell him whenever he got as pompous as this, but this time, he had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. “I have heard about the King and the Council, how they are… uncertain of your loyalties. I have heard also about the Prince and the Princess of the South, how they are being suspected because of their ties with the Merchant Princes of Gadir. But you should know that none of us, of the soldiers who have been in Umbar under your command, or in the Middle Havens, would ever dream of considering you a traitor. You asked whether you had to charge in the front line and fall impaled upon an Orc-spear to be believed, but you forget that you have done that already. Many times. And we do not forget that.”

Something rose in Pharazôn’s throat, forming a knot that for a moment did not allow him to utter the slightest retort. Damn those savages and their berry wine, he cursed.

“So” he managed at last. “You do not doubt my allegiances, only my brain.”

Barekbal stared at him in incredulity -and this was what finally made him explode in a much needed, liberating fit of laughter.

“Come”, he said, clapping his back. “Let us go back to camp and catch some sleep.”