Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Arnian War II

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“The Lady Eluzîni is here, my lord.”

Elendil looked up from the scroll he was reading, his eyes widening as he took in the meaning of the words. In a desperate attempt to gather his wits for the intrusion, he took breath and tried to push strands of hair away from his face, but she was already there before he was done.

“What are you doing here? We agreed…”

“Thank you for your gracious welcome”, she cut him, directing a meaningful glance at the secretary who had ushered her in and who was still lingering at the doorway to the inner garden. Then, making a show of being out of breath -as if she had come running from her own house-, she diverted herself from her purple silk cape, and sat at his side without waiting for an invitation.

“Eli…” he began, though he already knew that it was useless. “This is the Andúnië residence, you cannot barge in here on your own. It is not proper!”

She smiled brightly.

“I said that we needed to rehearse a scene.”

“The play was cancelled months ago.” Her mane fell down her shoulder, loose from any bindings, and as she leaned closer to him, he fancied he could feel it caressing his own arm even through his clothing. “Don’t you think they must know it by now?”

“Perhaps not”. She shrugged, the raven black mass rustling softly with her motion. For the second time, he was forced to take breath, but he could not surrender so easily to her irrationality.

“What do you think that could happen if rumours about you and me spread through the Court?”

She laughed.

“I do not know, tell me. What could happen? Perhaps we would have to marry!”

“This is no joking matter.” They were probably whispering about them already, wondering if he was the last in her list of conquests, or worse. The high and mighty champions of ancient morality were the first to fall.

Her good humour vanished as soon as it had come.

“It is you, who is turning this into a joke. You, who will not take me seriously.” Her eyes gleamed in a dangerous way. “Just because I am a…”

“Please, Eli, stop that. You know it is not true. I love you.” But as soon as the words escaped his mouth, almost against his will, he felt a burning shame gathering in his chest. “I am sure you must be worried, too, about what people will say… about how they will understand this.”

“My uncle is very happy.”

“What?

“Yes, he is.” Unperturbed by his shock, she leaned back, a gesture which left the fullness of her chest in his direct line of sight. “He has offered to adopt me. Can you imagine? The Lady Eluzîni of Hyarnustar, sister to the Prince of Númenor! Who could possibly refuse my hand?”

“And your father?” His head was reeling with the implications, but he refused to surrender to this turmoil. Her expression hardened.

“My father has nothing whatsoever to say about this.”

If the stories about him were true, it was not surprising that they wanted to keep him out of the picture as much as possible, Elendil thought. Still, the fact that Lord Shemer knew…. and that he had directly involved himself in this matter, Eru knew with what hidden purpose in mind, while Elendil’s own family remained ignorant, deeply troubled him. And what of the King?

“My uncle believes that the King will not be opposed”, she said, as if she had guessed his thoughts. She did that too often, he realized belatedly. “An alliance between my family and yours is a death trap for the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay. And then, there was that unfortunate business involving the Princess of the West… we must stand united and forego petty grievances, shouldn’t we? Especially now, with this terrible war in the mainland, and civil strife everywhere from the Council to the royal family.”

“Nobody in my family holds a grievance against Prince Vorondil”, he replied, with a little too much vehemence perhaps.

“I know that you do not.” Her smile was almost irresistible, he thought. And not only her smile, a truthful voice added in the back of his mind as she arched her back even more. “If not for him, we would not be together.”

This was madness. Utter madness.

“What is it?” she frowned. “Do you want me, or not? Because if you do not, all this… talk is pointless.”

Wanted her? By the Valar, who would not want her? He remembered being in the company of the Princess, how he was never able to lower his guard, always looking for the right words to say, the right actions to take to remain in control of the situation. With Eluzîni it was completely different: she came in like a whirlwind, robbing him of his ability to think, to plan ahead, to say the right thing. She could reduce him to a blubbering idiot in a matter of seconds, and instead of shame, what he experienced was relief. Before her, he never felt that he had permission to fail, that he could afford to, but she made it inevitable. With her, he would always fail.

That was why it was necessary to use every ounce of his self-restraint and responsibility to turn away from this.

“Your family”, she muttered, in a low voice. “Your family does not agree. Of course, they are so much holier than the rest of us that adoption would not be enough. Not for the lords of Andúnië.”

Those words would give him an easy way out -if only he was able to take it.

“That is not true. They do not know about this.”

“But you know what would happen if they did! Your father…”

“…married the daughter of a lowly Palace Guard after getting her pregnant, as I am sure you must have heard!” he argued. “And in case you do not know, he blames himself for the ‘unfortunate business involving the Princess of the West’, as you called it. He should have been the one to marry her; they were of an age, and the King wanted that match, but he was already married in secret and so the task fell to me. If I said I wanted to marry someone, anyone, he would not find it in him to object. I know.”

Eluzîni shrugged.

“Your mother, then?”

“My mother would be happy to know I have found love.”

“And your grandfather? He surrendered his office, but surely he is still in charge of the family, is he not?

“My grandfather is away, in Middle-Earth. He visits us once every five or six years, at best.”

Her expression became unreadable.

“I see. The problem is not what others will think, the problem is you.”

Elendil sighed. Leave it to her to forego empty ornaments, and head for the truth like an arrow leaving its bow. Smokescreens were of no use, neither for her nor for him.

“As I said, I love you. But, as I also said, nobody in my family is able to think clearly about this matter. Their own past weighs heavily upon them, clouding their thoughts and informing their decisions.”

“So… you have to think clearly, because they cannot do it. Is that so?” For a moment, he did not know if it was pity or anger what he saw in Eluzîni’s eyes, tinged by something else that he could not recognize, but cut him deep. “And I should accept this, and leave it at that, because that is how your twisted mind works.”

Elendil wished he could say that yes, his mind was twisted, that he was an idiot, and that he was sorry. And then, kiss her.

She stood on her feet, pulling the folds of her cape over her shoulders in a rustle of silks, but without covering her face, which was still intently set upon his with the same expression he could not pinpoint.

“Elendil, you are the greatest fool in all of Númenor. But I think… no, I feel that I love you, not in spite of that, but because of that. Eru help me.” Their eyes were now exactly at the same height, as if joined by an invisible line. “I will wait until you realize how serious I am about this.”

And leaving him in an even deeper turmoil, she turned her back to him and left.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Please, Mother! You have to come with me!

An ominous rumble shook the earth under his feet, as if the world itself was collapsing around them. The scorching heat and suffocation warned him of the impending arrival of the spreading fires, but he neither backed away nor withdrew his hand, stretched towards her with the urgency of desperation. The eyes of the Princess Melkyelid, however, remained blank and expressionless, as if she had not noticed his presence, or heard his shouts. They passed through him as if she could not see him at all, as if he had been a ghost.

She burst into flames.

“My lord prince! Wake up, my lord prince!”

He must have been yelling himself hoarse again in his sleep, for as he opened his eyes, he saw the telltale shadow of apprehension in the faces around him. How many times now, he thought darkly, willing his heartbeat to slow down and his features to appear calm. Perhaps they thought that he was losing his grip in this campaign.

What had Amandil done to deal with this insidious foe, which crept under his skin when he was most defenceless and exposed? How had he kept it under control?

He hadn’t, his mind supplied him with the answer almost as soon as he thought it. He always had dreams, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. The reason why it had been easier for him was that Amandil did not have an entire army scrutinizing him day and night for signs of weakness – or, worse, for evidence of second thoughts that could lead to betrayal.

“What is the cause for this disturbance?” he asked, hiding his shame under a frown of irritation. “It is not even morning yet.”

“I apologize, my lord”, Adherbal recited, with a slight bow that did not manage to cover his impatience. “But the enemy is here. Their forces are scattered across the plain.”

Pharazôn yanked the covers away, and stood up. He was barely aware of someone handing him a cloak; without which he might have stepped outside his tent and climbed the ramparts half-naked. Adherbal and the others followed him, straining their forces to keep up with his pace.

Dawn was already falling on the large plain that lay between the mountains and the fortified city of Arne. Under its faint light, Pharazôn could see the enemy army, which must have achieved their journey South under the cover of darkness. Noxaris and his men were right at the centre, many of them riding horses, but most of the rest was composed by Orc infantry. In silence, he tried to calculate the numbers.

“At least one hundred thousand, I would say”, he ventured. “Possibly more.”

Nobody challenged his appreciation. For a while, in fact, nobody said a word, and the silence became so heavy that Pharazôn had to turn away to face them with a frown.

“What?” Even Adherbal was looking pale. “You do not like those odds?”

“The-they are many, my lord”, a young, recently promoted captain said in a rather low voice, as if he was not sure that he wanted to be heard. Behind him, Pharazôn could see two others nodding.

“Look, now”, he said, moving until he was just inches away from them. The young man flinched. “This is not a Haradric tribe, this is Mordor. Did you expect Sauron to send some spare Orcs to humour his allies, when he has just been provided with the best chance of crushing us that he has had in hundreds of years? Of course he was going to send every Orc he could spare! Why do you think that we have been building all those walls and fortified camps, because I was bored?”

“N-no, my lord.”

This was more like it, a reckless part of him exulted savagely. Compared with his dreams, this vast enemy host was an interesting challenge. A challenge which would try his body and his mind to the utmost, allowing him to forget about all else for the duration.

“Numbers are not that much of an advantage. If they try to surround us, they will have to spread too thin. If they want to breach our defences, they will need to concentrate on one spot”, he explained. “And they are Orcs. Open warfare is not among their strengths.”

“Yes, but what if the Arnians break the siege and attack us from behind?” Adherbal asked. “If we are attacked on both sides…”

“That is what they will try to do. They probably think they have it figured out, that they have us in their grip.” Pharazôn nodded. Adherbal’s eyes widened in puzzlement.

“But our defences are far from being unbreachable, my lord prince. The garrison by the river is still weak. It is under construction, and there are but a few men stationed there. As soon as they realize it, they will attack and try to get to the city!”

“Oh, yes” His lips curved into a wild grin. “Oh, yes, they will do that.”

 

*      *     *     *     *

 

The morning went by in a blur of activity and war preparations. Pharazôn put on his armour, summoned his council, strategized, dispatched orders to the heralds who would bring them to the commanders of all the fortified camps. By the time he could finally leave his tent, the sun had risen almost halfway through the sky, and the air was growing warmer by the second. With a grimace of disgust, he waved away at the flies hovering over his head, but he was well aware that this one was a lost battle. The vicinity to the river brought mosquitoes at night, while the vicinity of horses brought flies at daytime.

As he trudged along the path, he crossed many of those horses and their riders, Haradrim warriors who paused in their preparations to salute him in different dialects of their slippery tongue. He waved back at them, but did not stop until he reached the small paddock right under the fortified wall. There, one rider was still going through her daily exercises, with such concentration that he had to wonder if she had managed to miss the news which had plunged the rest of the camp in turmoil. In quiet admiration, Pharazôn watched her black steed gather speed, until both became an almost undistinguishable blur of motion. One dagger flew through the air, then two, three, and finally four, all of them following a perfect trajectory until they sunk in their appointed targets. Only then, she galloped to his side and stopped dead, and even though the horses of the Haradrim had no saddle, she did not slide an inch from her position.

“That was excellent”, he admitted. He had become a better rider than most Númenóreans during his years in Umbar, enough to make his horse do whatever he wanted it to, but this easy grace would always remain beyond him.

She acknowledged the compliment with a brief nod, setting foot on the ground to caress the horse’s black mane with her fingers.

“So, we are going to war.” Ah, she had heard. Good.

“Yes, we are”, he nodded, producing an elaborate golden rod that he had been holding in his left hand. “And I am here to give you this. You are in command of the cavalry now, so you will be the one to lead it in the charge against the Mordor army.”

“Oh”. She seemed surprised, almost uncertain as she extended her hand to pick it up. For a while, she appeared to be inspecting it, taking in each and every one of the engravings that some renowned Númenórean goldsmith had made centuries ago. A spark danced in her dark eyes, and she lowered her head in a bow. “This is a great honour.”

A deadly honour, Pharazôn thought, trying to keep regrets at bay. The charge of the Haradric cavalry would be decisive for their victory in this battle, but many casualties were to be expected. For most Númenórean commanders and soldiers, it went without saying that barbarian allies were there to sacrifice themselves for them, which was why they were tolerated at all, but Merimne had proved to be a wonderful asset in many difficult situations. If he could, he would put her someplace else, where she had a better chance of survival, but he needed to win.

Apparently, this instant of hesitation lasted long enough over his countenance as to be detected by her penetrating glance. She shrugged, raising her eyes from the golden engravings to set them on his. They were fierce and steady, and there was no trace of fear in them.

“Back when my mother bore me, I was given a life. That life, I gave away for my people, and then it was no longer mine. It is yours now, for a time. But in the end, Nergal of the Vale of Shadow will claim it back, because all Men belong to him.”

Short-lived barbarians always had to be so morbid, Pharazôn thought.

“Then take your arms and come with me” he said, walking back towards the footpath.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

At midday, Pharazôn sacrificed a bull to the Lord of Battles in front of his tent, before the assembled officers of the encampment and the cavalry. The omens proved favourable, according to the priest, so even the greatest doubters left for their appointed places with renewed confidence. Still, the enemy did not budge from its position, and the deployed units had nothing to do for the rest of the day except contemplating their respective numbers in their minds.

Behind the lines of their fortifications, in the besieged city, the mood was one of hope. Pharazôn could see many Arnian soldiers stand over the ramparts, waving and singing war chants in their tongue. He sent two extra companies of archers there, guessing that they would be the first to attempt a breach, and he was not wrong in this deduction. By mid-afternoon, they had already tried to cross the perimeter and scale the walls thrice, but it was not so easy as it used to be before the Núménóreans finished the construction of the moat and double walls, so in the end they opted for regrouping behind the walls of their city and waiting for their allies to make a move.

The move did not come until nightfall - as he should have expected, considering the nature of the creatures who composed the largest part of the army. Darkness complicated matters, especially for archers, but the difficulties were not unsurmountable, as the spawn of Mordor was not trained in stealth, and when they attacked the sound alone was often enough to determine their position.

Pharazôn stood at the command centre near the main camp, where messengers rode back and forth sending news and taking back directions. There, he received news of two breaching attempts at the Southern encampments, which were manned only by a skeleton crew of Númenóreans, and the bulk of the defence had been left to the tribes. Reinforcements were desperately requested, but he kept his cool and sent none. That was merely a diversion: the real attack would take place by the river, in the North, at the weakest spot of their line of defences.

He was careful not to show any signs of doubt before his men, but in his innermost of hearts, he had to admit that he was relieved when his predictions turned out to be right. When the messenger came, he allowed his composure to crack at last, and gave a yell of fierce jubilation which caused Adherbal to stare at him.

“They fell for it!” he shouted, by way of an explanation.

The bulk of their infantry, the best in the world, stood there under Barekbal’s command, waiting for the enemy to breach the single line of defence remaining from the construction. Most of the archers were also there, waiting to sink their prized arrows into the roaring darkness.

Pharazôn could no longer lean back on his chair and wait calmly for the first updates of the clash. Seized by a manic energy, he stood up and paced back and forth around the campfire, listening for the distant sounds of battle.

“My lord prince.”

He stopped in his tracks, turning towards Adherbal, who had quietly left the line of bystanders to approach him. Upon meeting his glance, Pharazôn had the feeling that the man knew him too well for comfort.

“There is nothing we can do now but wait.”

“Indeed. You are growing wise with age, Adherbal.”

“We are the best army in Middle Earth.”

Only this morning, you were not so sure, Pharazôn thought peevishly.

“Yes, yes.”

Adherbal was silent for a while, but not because he had nothing else to say. Rather, he was probably looking for the most delicate way of saying it.

“However, if we were to lose our supreme commander, even we might… have difficulties to extricate ourselves from this war situation.”

“And why would you lose your supreme commander now?” Pharazôn asked, arching his eyebrow. It was no use, he knew.

“Because if you were to enter the fight before we have a clear tactical situation…”

“Your confidence in my judgement touches my heart, Adherbal” he retorted, sarcastically. “After all the times you have seen me charge blindly against the enemy and die…”

“You have never died, but…”

Right then, the sound of galloping alerted them of the arrival of a messenger, and Pharazôn’s heart leapt. Ignoring Adherbal, he strode towards the incoming rider, who had to rein in his mount abruptly in fear of trampling him over.

“My lord prince, both armies have engaged in battle now! Our infantry is breaking the ranks of the Orcs, but we cannot be sure of how many there are left, and we cannot spot Noxaris and his cavalry anywhere!”

Noxaris had last been spotted in one of the attempts at breaching the southern fortifications, labouring under a volley of darts from the forest tribes. He could be dead, but he probably wasn’t, in which case he was waiting for the appropriate moment to enter the fray.

“Send word to Merimne to be ready”, he said, trying in vain to curb his impatience.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Hours went by, and reports became increasingly intermittent and imprecise. Sometimes, it seemed that the Orcs were all but routed, and victory was imminent; others, that they were gaining positions on the Western flank, near the river. A report spoke of Noxaris and his cavalry heading there, but the most worrying one mentioned a sinister commander from Mordor in a black steed, who was rallying his troops there. No Númenórean could approach him, because arrows missed him and men and beasts panicked in his vicinity. Some thought it could even be Sauron himself.

That was more than enough for Pharazôn. He sent dispatches to the Haradric cavalry, who was waiting at the gates of the South Eastern line of fortifications, and pulled away the soldiers that had been manning the rest of the encampments with orders to gather in his position as fast as they could. After this was done, and ignoring the ominous looks which Adherbal had been sending in his direction for the last hour, he asked for his horse and his sword.

“My lord prince, you cannot…”

Pharazôn climbed on his horse, heedless of the commander who ran after him except to shout, one last time, over his shoulder. “You are in charge of this post now!”

Adherbal was too cautious, he thought. There were moments when it was wise to stay protected, but sometimes taking risks became inevitable. It was not recklessness, he told himself, it was just a good grasp of the situation.

As the rearguard army followed him towards the main battleground, it seemed as if the darkness was becoming somewhat less thick. He realized that he had not been keeping count of the time, and could not help but hope that dawn was near and that it was not merely an illusion produced by wishful thinking.

The closer they came to the battlefield, the louder the noises became: yells, screams, and rallying cries, drowned by the ever-dominant clash of steel. Darkness was indeed lifting, and as he strained his eyesight, the first thing he could see was a ghastly view of the creatures from Mordor strewn over the ground in countless numbers. Many bodies of Númenóreans and barbarians also lay beside them, black and red blood mingling in the haze.

Looking at them, he noticed that the battlefield seemed to have shifted over the night. After the enemy had penetrated the unfinished defences, they had been slaughtered by Pharazôn’s army in that spot until they retreated -their retreat cut by the volleys sent by the archers, as could be guessed from the many bodies with protruding feathered shafts-, but from the sounds of battle coming from the vicinity, the last report seemed to have been at least partly right. Noxaris, or that unknown commander, had rallied their numbers closer to the river, and the main fight had moved there.

“Do we charge now, my lord?”

Pharazôn smoothed the wrinkles of his purple cloak, wishing that there could be more light. But if he could not attract their attention by sight alone, there were other ways.

“Now, listen to me!” he shouted. “We are here to send our enemies to the Everlasting Darkness! Let them hear of our arrival, so they might tremble and lose heart, and rue the day they dared to face the might of Númenor! Sing, sing to the Lord of Battles!”

The chant was picked up by those closest to him first, but it spread fast enough among the ranks. By the time they were running towards the battlefield, it had become a deafening roar, echoed by their comrades in the vanguard, who rallied to him, their hopes rising.

“Where is he?” he asked Barekbal’s second-in-command, who was riding to meet him. The Orcs scattered before them, retreating into the shadows.

“Noxaris is at the other end of the battlefield, near the ramparts! But the other…” By the faint light of early dawn, he saw a shadow of fear cross the man’s features. “He is there, by the river. Those Orcs, they just went to join him. We cannot approach him, my lord prince!”

“But if we let him proceed undisturbed, he will soon have all the survivors gathered there, and they will reach the city”, Pharazôn guessed. The answer was a silent nod. The man was ashamed of his failure, obviously, but not enough as to volunteer for another attempt.

Who could this commander be? Surely Sauron would not have left his fortress in person for a battle such as this, would he?

Whoever it was, however, he knew one thing: someone had to fight him, or the day might be lost.

“I will go. Companies from one to five, with me! The rest, stay here under Eshmounazer’s command and try to get to the fortifications! The cavalry is riding there now, as we speak, all you have to do is catch them in a pincer attack, kill that bastard Noxaris, and bring me his head!”

No one stopped him, not even the Orcs, who seemed to be fleeing before them like ants crawling back into the holes of their anthill. This, however, was not much comfort, since the anthill was exactly where they were heading now. The sudden smell of humidity told him that the river had to be near, and he braced himself for whatever expected him there.

At first, he only saw Orcs, holding ranks tighter than he had seen them do in other battles. The front line pointed their spears at them, and when their companions reached them, they barely opened a small tunnel where they could disappear to safety. This was a formation that belonged to Númenórean strategy; apparently their leader, whoever it was, was not a fool.

“Charge!” he yelled, his sword held high. His soldiers answered him with a battle cry, and both armies clashed, but even in the middle of the fierce struggle than ensued, Pharazôn had a dawning feeling that something was not right. For his host was clearly superior in strength and weaponry, and still they seemed to be retreating from the onslaught of their foe.

Suddenly, as he hacked his way across a swarm of Orcs who attempted to pull him from his horse, he saw it. At a short distance from his position, in a slight elevation that overlooked the riverbank, a rider sat on a black horse. He was neither charging nor retreating, but all those who tried to approach him were scattered away like leaves before the wind.

A ray of sunlight gleamed briefly, before disappearing under the grey clouds of the mountains. Under its gleam, Pharazôn had the impression that the rider was looking back at him. For a moment, he experienced an emotion which seemed to have spilled into the waking world from his darkest dreams: the cold grip of irrational fear.

He gripped his sword tightly, trying to remain in control of himself.  The rider, however, had definitely spotted him, and he was now coming in his direction, his own minions scattering before him as fast as the Númenórean soldiers did. The closer he drew, the stronger the fear became, until Pharazôn was sure that this had to be the effect of some kind of unholy spell that the creature was directing at him.

This deduction made him angry enough to shake the feeling away, and he forced his suddenly reluctant horse to meet his attacker. He would not fall prey to this fell sorcery, he thought. If he needed to plant fear in the mind of his enemies, this commander was probably not a good fighter.

His horse stopped dead, almost throwing him to the ground in its refusal to go further. The rider’s eyes gleamed with a fell red light, which seemed to bear into his skull. But even worse than this, worse than anything else he could possibly imagine, was the sudden realisation that it had no face. Under the helmet there were only his eyes, those terrible eyes, floating in a pool of darkness.

Pharazôn had never been so afraid in a battlefield. He was tempted to turn tail and flee, as all the others had done before him. What if this foe was beyond the abilities of mortal men, even beyond the power of the Númenóreans? Was there any hope, then, for this battle or for any other? If Sauron could summon dark spirits out of nothing with his sorcery, what could they do against that?

Slowly, despair was trickling in, mixed with the fear. The enemy had only been playing with them, making them believe they could win. In his pride, he had fallen for it, and now he would die together with all his men. Mordor would hold sway over the mainland, and the colonies would be lost.

Out of pure instinct, as he always did when facing danger, Pharazôn grabbed hold of his amulet, the one Zimraphel had given to him before he first sailed to the mainland. This familiar motion brought some degree of clarity to his thoughts. This was insane, he thought, angrily. How could he merely decide that everything was lost before he had even faced his enemy? Could those be his own thoughts, or had that… thing put them in his head, too?

Yes, that should be it, he decided. Pharazôn the Golden had never, ever admitted defeat without a fight.

The horse was of no further use to him; all his attempts to force it to charge were in vain, and it seemed closer than ever to throwing him over its back. Pharazôn doubted that even Merimne would be able to manage such a ride. Jumping to the ground, he sought his surroundings for a spear, but he could not find one anywhere. The black rider was edging closer and closer; his only chance was to have him -it, he reminded himself, with a dulled pang of horror- dismount as well. Frantically, he kept seeking around him. His men had retreated from the immediate vicinity, but some of them remained nearby, watching the scene unfold with looks of sheer terror, as if too petrified to even flee. One of them, a very young man, was holding a bow.

“You”, he said, motioning to him. “Come here.”

The archer did not move. He seemed paralyzed. Feeling a renewed surge of anger, Pharazôn strode towards him, laid his arms on his shoulders and shook him.

“Come back to your senses, you fool!” he yelled. The young man was shaking.

“I..I…I-am s-sorry, I-I-c-can’t….”

“Look at me. I say, look at me!” At first, he was unable to meet Pharazôn’s glance, for the eyes were out of focus, but gradually they began to send back some signs of recognition. Pharazôn stared into them deeply, without a blink. “You are a soldier of Númenor. I, the Prince Pharazôn, general of the Umbar troops, am going to fight our enemy, and I command you to assist me. Now, put an arrow in this bow, and stand behind me!”

As he saw the young man’s eyes clear, and the shadows slowly dissipate from his countenance, Pharazôn experienced a sudden, wondrous feeling of warmth in his chest.  I can do it he thought, feverishly. I can do whatever it is that it does. That power it has, I have it too.

He was not inferior to this thing.

The black steed was almost on top of them now, and it took him all his courage not to give the order to shoot before the firing range was the most accurate. The arrow left the bow with a dull thud, and embedded itself on the horse’s eye, sending it into an immediate paroxysm of agony. It reared back, thrashed forwards, until it finally fell on its hind legs with a powerful whinny. Its rider, however, did not fall; it merely glided to a standing position on the ground before him.

Now that they were standing so close, Pharazôn could see it in detail. Fascinated and horrified, he saw that the gaping hole where the face should be, under the helmet, was replicated in the rest of his body. The metal gauntlet that held the sword was hanging from no arm, the dark cloak hung on no shoulders, and the breastplate was floating in mid-air.

“Shoot at the face”, he ordered his companion, whose hands were trembling again. The arrow changed trajectory as if it had rebounded against an invisible wall, and embedded itself against the ground with a wet thud. Damn.

This was the last act of courage he could ask from the young archer, who gave a sharp cry and retreated as fast as his legs would allow him, leaving him to stand alone against the monster. Pharazôn extended his sword and adopted a battle stance, which was imitated by his foe. The red glare was now more scorching than ever, giving him the impression that the fell creature was angry.

“Well, let’s see how good you are at actual fighting!” Pharazôn taunted him, parrying his first blows. All his bravado, however, could not hide the fact that he was at a serious disadvantage, and both of them knew it. If weapons could not touch that thing, all he could do was defend himself.

Then, again, he wondered as he spiralled back and forth, retreating from his enemy’s advances in an attempt to win some time, if weapons could not harm that thing, why wear armour at all?

Maybe there is some weapon that could touch it, he thought. If only I knew what it was.

His movements were becoming heavier, and for a moment he had the strange impression that his thoughts were slowing down, too. He felt as he did back when he caught the hot fevers at the Second Wall in Umbar, weak and delirious, and cursed aloud. What other underhanded weapons did this accursed being carry in its arsenal?

Lord of Battles, he prayed, save me. If I have ever performed your rites, knelt before your holy fire, and sacrificed bulls in your honour, give me aid now.

His last blow impacted sharply against the metal gauntlet, and as he jumped back he thought he could see it float in mid-air, displaced to the side. It was an eerie sight, as for that brief instant, it had not been aligned with the rest of his body in a remotely human way.

A ghost! he thought, in a burst of feverish inspiration. That was why it wore armour. Without it, it was a ghost, no, less than that – a shadow of a ghost, and ghosts had no bodies. They could not be seen by the living, or touch them. And then, with the recklessness of impending death, his brain hatched a mad plan.

The arrow had sunk in the darkness and disintegrated, but the armour it wore, and the helmet, were made of regular iron. Focusing on it, he pretended that nothing else existed, and charged on.

It was the first time that he had initiated an attack, and he could see that this gave the fell creature some pause. Taking advantage of that, he grabbed the breastplate with his left hand and pushed it, putting all his strength and body weight behind his shoulder. An icy cold enveloped him as they fell to the ground, freezing his sword arm in mid-movement.

So you do not fear nothingness, King of Men. I wonder if you will feel the same once that your proud strength and your power desert you, and the abyss rises to meet you under your feet.

The creature was talking to him without making any sounds. Its words trickled right inside his mind, giving rise to delirious visions, like the ones in his dreams about his mother, but even more real and terrible. He saw his mother’s dead face, the emptiness in Zimraphel’s black eyes. He saw Gadir’s proud towers crumbling, Umbar’s wall breached, the palaces of Sor and Armenelos falling like ivory pieces when the board was toppled. A black cloud engulfed the Island, heavy with the lingering stench of countless unanswered sacrifices. And then, he saw himself falling down a precipice of unnamed dread.

You will lead mankind to its greatest defeat in thousands of years.

At that moment, his fumbling hand finally found what he was searching: the feel of the gemstone engraved in Zimraphel’s amulet. As he touched it, warmth spread through his chest, thawing the ice from his bones and muscles, and dissipating the darkness of his mind long enough as to give him a single instant of clarity.

That was all that he needed.

“Not today, you… accursed… spawn… of… evil!” he hissed, his sword ensconcing itself firmly between the guards of the creature’s helmet until he managed to dislodge it from its head. As it clattered away down the battlefield, Pharazôn realized that his delirious intuition had been correct. The darkness that had been the spectre’s head and face blurred and convulsed, pulsating around its disembodied eyes. Heartened by this, he went for the breastplate next, and a black smoke rose in the air with a shrill scream, fleeing towards the East in a gust of pestilential wind.

He fell on his shoulder, cradling his still frozen sword hand as he attempted to prise it open to press the amulet inside. Before him, pieces of armour lay scattered across the battleground, harmless objects without the evil will of the dark phantom which had animated them. All around him, Orcs were fleeing, their screams echoing those of the master who had abandoned them.

“My lord! My lord prince!”

So they were coming towards him now, he thought. Before, they had left him alone to face the danger - well, except for that young archer, whatever his name was. He would have to be promoted, if they won. Surely they had to win now, didn’t they?

You will lead mankind to its greatest defeat in thousands of years.

Hands touched him, his arms, his shoulder, his chest, his face even, but they were all cold, and he recoiled from the touch. Seeing him shiver, someone covered him with the tattered folds of his cloak, but those felt cold as well, like a drizzle of ice water over his shoulders. The entire world seemed to have gone cold.

A ruckus of shouts came to him as if from a great distance, and among them he heard the sound of his name, repeated many times. He strained himself to listen.

“…back to the healers, must see to his wounds, fast!”

“No. No wounds”, he whispered, and the voice who spoke did not even seem like his own. He remembered Hannishtart, holding his limp body against his an age ago, in a desperate bid for life and freedom in the desert highways of Harad. He had almost died back then, too, but Hannishtart had saved him. He had not abandoned him, and he had known how to heal him, not like those cowards and fools. “The p-priest… the herb… I need the herb. Now.”

And then, at long last, the darkness rose to meet him.