Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Siege of Pelargir III

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“The lord Maharis is here to see you, my lord prince.”

“Have him approach.” Pharazôn looked down the ramparts, where a pile of corpses was being gathered for burning. Most of them were Orcs, whose blood left black, irregular trails upon the white pavement, but there were also Men: some familiar to him, from Haradric tribes with long-standing alliances with Mordor, and some wholly unfamiliar. Those wore strange garb and carried strange weapons, and they had travelled from distant lands only to die here.

“My lord Pharazôn.” The chief of the Arnian cavalry avoided the bodies that still lay strewn in their vicinity, until he came close enough to greet him with a perfunctory bow. He was a tough old man with a weather-beaten look, perhaps enhanced by a beard which was not in fashion among the Arnians, but which he had grown so it would hide the worst of a large scar covering most of his chin, courtesy of the minions of Sauron. And as distrustful as a pack of rabid wolves in the wild, he added, ruefully, to himself.

As Pharazôn had moved swiftly through the region, choosing speed over numbers and securing only the alliance of the tribes whose territories he would need to cross, he would have met his deadlines early, if not for this man’s stubbornness. After Sauron’s general had grown strong in the city, imprisoning the King in his own palace, he had taken the mantle of leader of the resistance, and it could not be denied that his actions had been brave, but he would never have reconquered Arne only with his ragtag band of followers. In spite of that, he had the reckless audacity of denying Pharazôn for two days straight, risking their position and jeopardizing their survival until he was sure of the Númenórean’s intentions. Pharazôn had been forced to bear with his attitude for the sake of the greater cause, but he would not be sorry the day he saw the last of him.

“Did you find the King?”

“Yes.” The Arnian shook his head with regret. “He is dead. They killed him as soon as we launched our attack.”

One less problem to contend with, then, he thought.

“Anyone still alive with a drop of royal blood in their veins?”

“No. I am afraid that the royal line of Arne is extinct. Most of the ministers are either dead or missing, too.” And perhaps the old man was not so sorry about it as he tried to pretend. Suddenly, Pharazôn’s keen nose detected a whiff of ambition. “This poses a complicated problem, my lord.”

“A problem that is no immediate concern of mine. Tomorrow at dawn, we ride for Pelargir with your cavalry, as we established in our treaty. There will be time to discuss the government of Arne after the war is done.”

“What if Sauron decides to attack while we are away?”

Trying to go back on his deal, didn´t he? Pharazôn sized him up with a steely glare.

“You have a stronghold. You have infantry. If they decide to abolish the unfortunate custom of welcoming the Dark Lord’s armies inside their walls, your people may even hold out until I am free to come to their aid.”

The answering look that he received was as hostile as he could expect. At least, basic prudence prevented Maharis from showing as much frankness in words.

“If I stayed here, I could re-establish order and secure the kingdom against any further attacks.” Starting with my own, for you would ward your gates against me the moment I turned my back on you, Pharazôn thought, but a different kind of prudence forced him to swallow those words, too. It was as if he was holding two different conversations at the same time: the voiced and the unvoiced one.

“I need your cavalry with its leader” he reminded the man, in a rather sharp tone. To this, the Arnian did not reply, though he seemed to be thinking furiously, perhaps of another subterfuge that would allow him to emerge victorious from their battle of wills.

Pharazôn did not leave him the chance.

“You are dismissed now. I suggest that you employ the few hours that you have to organize your troops, for we will ride at dawn, and I will not be delayed for anything less than Sauron himself showing up at our gates.” He paused for a moment, silently daring the man to speak. “And if you still have time after that, I suggest that you sleep. Rest will be rather scarce in the days to come.”

Not even waiting to see if Maharis gave any signs of assent, he turned away, and walked on. He listened for a moment for the tell-tale sound of footsteps that would indicate that the Arnian warrior had followed him, but he heard nothing.

Good, he thought. He had conquered Arne twice now, the Ringwraith had fled in fear from his advance, remembering his previous defeat, and the soldiers of Mordor were all scattered or dead. He did not feel like engaging in a ridiculous power struggle with an ambitious old man.

All he felt now was the need to be alone, even for the brief span of an hour.

Finally coming upon the flight of stairs he had been looking for, Pharazôn started a laborious descent from the ramparts of Arne.

 

*     *     *     *    *

 

Some soldiers had found the stash of Númenórean wines which had been kept for banquets in the Palace. Though rigorously rationed, each of the conquerors had been able to enjoy a cupful of it, to warm their hearts in this brief lull of the storm. Holding a goblet on each hand, Pharazôn headed towards what used to be the Queen’s gardens, now a wilderness where weeds had been growing indiscriminately for what looked like months. It had taken a while to extricate himself from his most pressing obligations, from those who sought instructions and asked for orders, but finally he had found one golden instant of quiet.

Carefully, he counted his steps, until he reached the spot where the earth gave signs of having been recently disturbed. The soil was damp from the humidity of the night as he sat on it.

“You are wrong, Barekbal”, he spoke. “I am aware that you have a poor opinion of Elendil, but he is not like his son, and he will have held out in Pelargir, waiting for our reinforcements. You were already wrong about him once, remember? He attended the sacrifice in Gadir, though you insisted that he would not. My, you are such a hard man to convince! Once you have decided that you dislike someone, they can prove themselves as much as they want, but they will never stand a chance with you. Merimne used to say that the one thing she admired about me was how I had managed to get you to like me. All the other things I had ever done were within reach of any great warrior from the lore of her people, but not this.”

An oppressive silence met his words, only broken by the distant noises of the Númenórean and Arnian soldiers’ last preparations.

“Here, drink this. I saved it for you.” Solemnly, Pharazôn tipped the goblet he was holding in his right hand, spilling the wine on the wet soil. At first, it would not swallow it, and the red liquid formed a puddle at his feet, but after a while the puddle slowly began to dwindle. “There, that is much better.”

Barekbal had been slow to drink in life, too, for there was nothing he disliked more than losing control. To him hot, volatile emotions, impulsivity and recklessness, were the attributes of barbarians, and the reason why Númenóreans were able to conquer them so easily. But then, as he stood at the pinnacle of his career, and in command of the greatest garrison of Númenor, he had abandoned everything to follow him on this reckless adventure without a word of complaint. Or almost without a word of complaint, he corrected, the chuckle becoming stuck in his throat as he remembered all the complaints that Barekbal had voiced to him over the years.

“Do you remember those first months? I used to tell you that you were welcome to return to the Middle Havens, where you would be able to organize everything to your entire satisfaction. Then, I realized that you enjoyed being the lone voice of reason too much to relinquish the role. Almost as much as you enjoyed hating Merimne and endlessly complaining about our allies, too. The darker your brow was, the gloomier your expression, the happier you were feeling inside. You were one twisted bastard!”

It would be just like him to be happy now, for having given his life for Pharazôn and for Númenor. Pharazôn himself, however, would rather have him sitting by his side, drinking his wine in the proper way, and throwing dark insinuations about the situation downriver. And he would have Merimne, too, fixing him with that fiery gaze which seemed to be issuing a perpetual challenge. He would have them argue, and Adherbal would join in after a while, when he finally thought of something witty to say.

For a moment, this desire became so strong, so overwhelming, that it robbed him of the ability to breathe. He tried to drink a mouthful from his cup, but it would not pass through his throat, and when it finally did, he felt the liquid burn his innards, like flames in a sacred altar that rose to receive a sacrifice.

Sacrifice. The idea was too unbearable now, but he could not prevent his mind from following its thread. The gods did not grant their favours in exchange for nothing, or so the priests taught, and the price rose together with the stakes. The King of Armenelos himself had once died to triumph over his enemies, and to imitate Him they sacrificed birds and bulls, mere beasts that were worth a certain amount of coin. Weren’t they deluding themselves all along, thinking that this could be a reflection, even a pale one, of that one true sacrifice? Barekbal, whose body lay in an unmarked grave to prevent the possibility of enemies desecrating it before the war was over, and all the unnamed soldiers who had perished on the way, were much closer to it than a thousand bulls could ever be. They could try to cheat Heaven of what was rightfully its due, using civilized subterfuges, but in the end, it would always find a way to reclaim it. And then, he might claim ignorance and grieve for his fallen friends, but victory being the only acceptable outcome, he knew that he would still have sacrificed every single one of them if he had to do it again.

Bullshit, the most pragmatical, down-to-earth part of his mind rebelled even as it harboured that thought. This was merely the way of war as it had always been: people died, and their deaths were necessary payment for victory. Covering this truth with the ornate garb of religious talk did not make it any more, or any less, terrible. It had been Elendil’s fault that he had been thinking so much about sacrifice lately; perhaps even now, this was all but an attempt to make sense of the horrified look he had seen in his eyes that morning in the harbour of Gadir. And of course, it had also been Barekbal’s fault for dying. He had been the last of his faithful circle, and without him, Middle-Earth had suddenly become an empty and silent waste, where his thoughts could turn and twist into monstrous shapes without anyone being left to prevent it.

In his life, Pharazôn had learned to fight. He had learned to lead. He had learned to be a politician, a councilman, the Prince of the South, the King’s rival, Zimraphel’s lover. There was nothing he had not been able to learn, as long as he set his will to it. Now, he had to learn how to focus his thoughts and remain in control without the help of anyone, and he knew he would be able to do it, too. Once he achieved this, there would be no more weaknesses left for his enemies to exploit. He would win this war, be acclaimed as the hero of Pelargir, and then, he would be King in Armenelos.

“I swear by the Lord of Battles that I will come back for you, my friend”, he promised, standing solemnly at the edge of the grave while his hand clenched on the empty goblet. “One day, I will.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Malik. Malik! Oh, there you are at last! I was beginning to think that you had gone to attack the enemy camp on your own.”

To anyone who overheard him now this might seem an odd fear indeed, and yet Isildur was only half-joking. His friend was capable of this and more, and in his current state of restlessness there was no way of telling what any of his prolonged disappearances could mean. At the very least, he could be wandering alone in no man’s land, risking an encounter with an enemy patrol.

“You wrong me with your assumption”, the son of Ashad declared solemnly. “I would have brought you along if that had been the case.”

Isildur shrugged, allowing himself to fall back on the rugged edge of the stone where he had been awaiting his friend’s return.

“My father would not be pleased to hear you say that. There are enough troubles on his plate as it is.”

“You are a good son. Tell me: if it was Barekbal, would you have hesitated?”

“Now, it is you who offends me. When have I ever stopped at anything if the outcome was to make Barekbal angry?” Then, he sobered a little. “Listen, I know that this whole situation is trying…”

“You don’t say!” Malik retorted, angrily. He had been in a foul mood ever since the start of the campaign, even worse than Isildur himself. Though he understood the motives behind the decisions that had been taken, he chafed at the deliberate slowness, the studied air of incompetence, the Vorondil-like arrogance mixed with the Governor of Sor’s unwillingness to commit to a situation of risk. Elendil had played this so well that there was barely a single soldier in their army who did not dream of mutiny by this point. He had explained to Isildur, many times, that their role was to act as bait, that they needed to avoid direct engagement until the reinforcements arrived from Arne, and that the only way to do so without arousing suspicion was to behave like a bunch of inexperienced fools who had just sailed from Númenor. His father had drawn from his years of observation of his fellow councilmen’s behaviour to create this persona of a Númenórean lord who advanced on the Bay as if on a triumphal parade, and yet wasted his time setting camp and organizing a complicated system of fortifications around his location while he repeatedly enjoined the enemy to surrender. Ironically enough, the men who came from Númenor with them were the most vocal in complaining about this; Isildur had heard many of them claim that their numbers were enough to face the troops from Mordor and break the siege on their own. Which was dubious at best, even without the constant threat of the troops in Arne sweeping on them and catching them in a pincer attack.

This, however, was only part of what was bothering Malik since they got there. Back in Umbar, they had been involved in skirmishes and minor actions of war against the tribes of Harad, and this had not seemed to concern him, even as some people -the General among them- frowned at his mixed ancestry. Here, on the other hand, they had soon discovered that the leader of the Mordor army that was besieging the city was no Orc or Ringwraith, but a Man, a half-Haradrim, half-Númenórean man like Malik himself. Once, he had agreed to a mocking travesty of parley in neutral territory, during which Elendil had professed to believe that their common Númenórean blood would allow them to understand each other and come to an agreement that would spare the lives of many. Malik had been present, together with Isildur, and he would never forget the look in his friend’s eyes when, all of a sudden, the servant of Sauron had fixed his gaze on him.

“There is nothing in common between you and me, Heir of Andúnië, and there never will be”, he had said, in a deep voice that held an edge of infinite rage and derision. “But here, among your men, I see one I could talk to. He would be welcome to join me, and he would be a great captain in my ranks.”

Malik had paled slightly, but managed to stand his ground despite the surprise, and the weight of many eyes suddenly turned towards him.

“You could not be any more mistaken, my lord. I am a man of Andúnië and a soldier of Númenor, and I will fight your evil master to my very last breath.”

“Is this what they have told you?” the man had laughed. Then, he shook his head, the anger back in his features. “I would like to say that if you ever grew tired of their contempt, you would be welcome here. But as you will be dead soon, I am afraid I must save my breath for worthier causes.”

Malik had not said a word about this incident, not even to Isildur, but it had obviously been weighting on his mind. Unable to bear the thought of anything been left unsaid between them, Isildur had tried to force the issue by asking him one day, taking advantage of he did not remember which mean pretext, if he had grown tired of his contempt. Malik had pretended to laugh it off, but he still had refused to discuss it.

That man is just a fool, an evil fool at that, and he will be dead long before me, he had said, with an air of finality before which Isildur could do little but shrug. Perhaps he was right: for all his malice and attempts to breed dissension, the man had been a fool who knew nothing about Malik. He must have seen the telltale features, and assumed that he was the spawn of some whore from the mainland, as he probably was himself. That Malik could have been born in Númenor would never have occurred to him in his wildest dreams.

Still, the foul mood had not abated then, and it did not show signs of abating now. Sometimes, Isildur had the suspicion that his friend could be thinking of pulling some kind of life-threatening stunt, only to prove Eru-knew-what. They had always been close, and even back in Andúnië it had often been remarked that it was impossible to see one of them without the other, but this had never been so true as it was at present, with Isildur dogging Malik’s steps like a bloodhound.

Tonight, at least, would be the last night he would have to worry, for good or for bad. The next day would be the twelfth since they set from Gadir, and the Prince of the South had ordered them to retreat if he was not there by then, and so far there had been no sign of his coming. Isildur was one of the very few who knew this, but on the second day of the siege -the seventh since their departure from Gadir- his father had let one of the messengers from the host of Mordor circumvent their sentry posts along the river and sail to Arne. This way, the enemy would believe that they were bound to fall into their trap, and they would not rush an attack before their second host appeared. On the other hand, if Pharazôn had failed and Arne was still hostile territory, the time it would take for them to get the message and march on Pelargir would be enough to ensure them a safe retreat. Isildur had never known his father to possess such deviousness, but he had to admit that it was not such a bad ability to have in certain circumstances. Now, if only his blind observance of all the Prince of the South’s whims could also be a devious plot on his part, Isildur would be fully reassured.

“Do you think that the Prince of the South will arrive tomorrow?” Malik asked then, as if he had guessed the direction that his friend’s thoughts was taking. Isildur was only too eager to find him in a talkative mood.

“He was absolutely sure that he would. Even if it is only to avoid such a terrible blow to his princely pride, he should find a way to do it.”

“If he does not, we should attack. They have laughed at us long enough, but if we were to retreat now, how could Mordor respect Númenor ever again? How could the rest of the mainland not mock us? Tribes and kingdoms would revolt from the Middle Havens to the south of Harad!”

Isildur sighed.

“They would respect us even less if we lost two armies in the same year. Not to mention that we would not have the means to defend ourselves from further attacks. That is why they laugh at us, not because we are laughable, but because they are trying to goad us.”

And with you at least, they have succeeded, he thought, but he did not say it aloud. Malik’s temper, however, flared again.

“I can barely recognize you from your words. You speak of defeat and counsel prudence, you, the boy who swam away from the coast of Andúnië to defy the Ban! The man who rode into Haradric territory with only a few companions when the General’s back was turned!” He laughed, but there was no true mirth in his laugh. “What happened to you?”

And now, Malik himself was trying to goad him, Isildur thought. Something at which he had always excelled in the past, if his memory served him right.

“Nothing happened to me” he replied, between clenched teeth. “I do not make the decisions here, but the day we are allowed to charge, I will be in the front line. I want to kill their general myself.”

“No. He is mine.” Malik’s anger seemed to have been successfully redirected towards a worthier target. “And your father will probably want you somewhere more protected, since you are his precious heir, so I will get to him first.”

“Fuck you.”

The expletive was followed by a companionable silence, of those that they used to share back home in Andúnië. Isildur relaxed a little, instinctively turning his glance towards the ramparts and, by extension, towards what lay beyond them.

Mere moments later, or so it seemed to him, Malik jumped to his feet, his hand clenching over the pommel of his blade. At first, Isildur thought that his friend was once again having a fit of restlessness, but then he could hear it as well: the distant echo of turmoil.

“It comes from upriver”, Malik said, heading in that direction.

“Hey, wait!” Isildur called, but his friend had already bolted off. Making sure that his own blade was at the ready, he stood up too, and ran after him.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

An emergency meeting had been called in Elendil’s tent when Isildur entered it. He barely had the time to see many faces turning towards him before he was forced to blink, dazzled by the glow of what seemed like a thousand lamps lighted for the occasion.

“Excuse me, my lords”, he apologized. It had been Malik’s fault that he was there, but now his friend was nowhere to be seen, and he had interrupted an important conversation by the looks of it. Elendil, however, beckoned at him.

“Never mind. Enter.” His mood was solemn, but more in an energetic than in a gloomy way, Isildur gathered, wondering what on Arda could have happened. Outside the tent, he had seen horses, and people running, and the soldiers who were supposed to stand guard during meetings were nowhere to be seen. His eyes swept over the men who were gathered inside, looking for details that could provide a clue, until he saw something that gave him pause. A man he had known in Umbar, whose name he could not recall, was standing in a place of honour, looking like a terrible mess. His hair was dishevelled, wet and clotted in parts, he had not shaved in what seemed like weeks, and there was so much dirt in his skin that it made him look like a barbarian.

“This is an envoy sent by the Prince of the South”, Elendil explained, as if Isildur was expected to be there since the beginning but had been delayed by an unfortunate circumstance. Not knowing very well what to say, he nodded. “His army is stationed not far from here. He wants us to engage in battle tomorrow.”

So he had made it in time, damn him. No wonder the soldiers were led to believe that those filthy sacrifices worked: that man was the luckiest bastard to have ever lived.

The council was prolonged for at least another hour, as they discussed the situation and the tactics proposed by the Prince’s envoy over a large table map. It looked relatively straightforward to Isildur, but there was still endless doubting and squabbling over what seemed like every minor point of the plan. He did his best to remain silent, both because his knowledge of battle strategy was limited, and because he had not forgotten Malik’s words about his father wanting him away from danger, which made him yearn for anonymity more than ever. Not before long, however, this passivity chafed him, and he wanted nothing more than to grab them by the neck and yell that there was no need to talk so much when they already had their orders. Apparently, the envoy thought so, too.

“My lords, this is not a proposal” he shouted over a particularly heated argument questioning the convenience of driving the enemy towards the river so Pharazôn’s troops could destroy them there. “It is an order. If the Prince of the South was here, you could try arguing with him, if you dared, but he is not, and I do not have the time to play messenger between both camps again.”

Months ago, when Isildur first came to Umbar, he had soon learned that the soldiers there were not very respectful of Númenórean nobility. Their lives were spent too far from the Island and its Court, and what little they saw of men of high blood were adventurers who came to win renown and generals appointed by the King, none of which impressed them much, when they were not treated with outright suspicion and hostility for their penchant to get other people killed. Now, this hostility had increased even more after Prince Vorondil’s stunt, so Isildur was not surprised to see it reflected in the man’s tone and words. For the commanders from the Island, however, it was an offense, and if Elendil himself had not intervened, the discussion might have turned into a fight.

“You are right, Eshmounazer. You did us a very valuable service, and no more could possibly be asked of you. You should go and have some rest before tomorrow’s battle. And this goes for all of us.” He fixed all the men around him with that look of quiet power he was so good at. “There is no more to be gained by arguing over woulds or would nots. The board is set, and we are but pieces on it.”

This effectively put an end to the meeting; all that was left to do was for each of the council members to receive individual orders before they filed past Isildur towards the exit. Seizing the opportunity, he made as if to leave, too, in an attempt to take advantage of Elendil’s momentary distraction. As his foot was already on the threshold, however, he heard a voice calling him back.

Damn, he cursed.

“Yes, Father?” he asked, arranging his features in what he believed to be an expression of the purest innocence. Elendil finished saying something to a man who bowed to excuse himself, and their eyes finally met.

“I see that you already know what I am going to say.”

Was he so obvious? Or was Elendil acquiring some of Lord Númendil’s uncanny powers with age?

“Do you know what I am going to reply to that, too?” he retorted. “Or perhaps I can try to convince you, at least?”

Elendil said nothing for a while, turning to stare at the departing men with a thoughtful expression. Isildur braced himself for the worst.

“I won’t force you to do anything. I do not even have valid grounds to do it, since the succession of our house is guaranteed without you. All I will do is relay your mother’s wishes, as I promised her that I would. She loves you more than words can say, and she would be most upset if you fell in battle in a distant world because you decided to value fame and glory more than your life or the happiness of those around you.”

Isildur had opened his mouth when his father was still at the middle of his sentence, but closed it again when the words he wanted to say would not come as easily as he expected them to. The ensuing silence somehow became so long that it felt almost strange to break it.

“Then I will ask you one question, Father. If everybody valued life and happiness more than fame or glory, how could Númenor have won even one battle? How could we rule the mainland?”

Elendil frowned. He looked deeply worried.

“To which I would answer with another question, Isildur. Should we?”

And before he could think of a reply to this, his father walked past him and disappeared behind the curtain.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Though his mood was dark after his conversation with Isildur, Elendil did his best not to allow his worries to cloud his mind on the eve of such a fateful encounter. Debatable as their moral standpoint was, in the general scheme of things, in the here and now there were still men, women and children who depended on the outcome of his efforts. For them, he rode to battle at dawn with the calm assurance of a good general, gave his orders in an unbroken voice, and refused himself the luxury of searching for Isildur among the ranks as they attacked.

I am sorry, Eluzîni, he thought, regretfully. In the end, arguing against the logic of war was like trying to keep the tides from overrunning the beaches of Andúnië; an impossible, pointless endeavour.

As they began their advance, their attack took the enemy by surprise, but not unprepared. After the first moment of chaos, Men closed ranks around their commanders, Orcs charged savagely, and archers began regrouping next to the city walls. Fortunately, there they became the target of the besieged army, and when their arrows flew they were few and easily scattered.

The Orc charge was another matter. It was so fierce, so bloody, that Elendil was glad he had put the Islanders on the rear. The Umbarians yelled their battle cries, and he rode among them, grabbing his sword as if it was a lifeline. The sword which Pharazôn had given him as a wedding gift, he remembered, suddenly realizing how incongruous that instrument of death must have looked in a celebration of life and love. He wondered why he had not noticed it earlier.

Be as it may, and mostly thanks to the ferocious resistance of the Umbar soldiers, the vigour of the charge began to degrease after a while in that side of the field. By the river, a messenger told him that both men and Orcs had progressed almost to the riverbank, finding little resistance. As the Mordor general started an attempt to surround them from there, however, the horns blew, and Pharazôn’s army fell upon them.

Carnage was all that was left after that. The enemy was not simply routed, for the aim was to surround them and massacre them, and this meant a greater amount of casualties in their own ranks as well. There was a point when Elendil thought that he had seen more blood than any man should see in a lifetime. His face and hands were bloody, like the day he stood at the foot of the altar in Gadir, but so was the rest of him, his clothes, even his horse. He had been surrounded by an escort, which had grown thinner and more scattered as they progressed until he was forced to fight with his own hands, watching, as if behind a veil of shock, as an endless succession of men and Orcs fell by his sword.

See, this is how you should hold it. Be sure not you let your grip slacken, and that will happen if you lose your concentration, even for a second. If you are disarmed, you will die.

Those words he had spoken to generations of students seemed to mock him now, from the back of his conscious mind. For what had he known of death, what had they known about it, back in Armenelos? Nothing, for all they invoked it in idle words.

At some point, his horse’s legs gave way, and he had to jump to the ground before it fell atop him. Noticing this, a large group of Orcs approached him. He brandished his sword at them, and for a moment he thought he could see a flicker of doubt in their tiny, monstrous eyes. But the Orc who looked like their leader laughed.

“Tall man will not be so tall when he is lying on the ground.”

Elendil did not waste time answering his challenge; he merely fell into a stance. Behind him, he heard a clatter of armour, and he thought that the Orcs had succeeded in surrounding him. Dismay threatened to overcome him, for it was impossible to defeat them if this was the case.

But it was not Orcs behind him. Instead, a familiar voice reached his ears.

“There will be many lying on the ground today, but none of them will be him, you ugly beasts!”

It was Isildur, and with him came Malik, both unhorsed and covered in battle gore. For a moment, a relief which had nothing to do with his own rescue overwhelmed him. Then, he forced his mind to concentrate in the battle, and the three of them charged. Two Orcs came at him at once, and while he was disentangling his sword from the corpse of one of them, the second advanced on him. He felt a sharp pain explode on the side of his face.

“Die, you treacherous vermin!” Malik yelled, chopping off the Orc’s head with his blade. Elendil reeled back from the pain, but he could not afford the distraction, so he willed himself to keep fighting, even as he felt the blood clouding his sight and trickling down his cheek. At some point, Adûnazer arrived with the men he had managed to regroup, and soon afterwards all the Orcs were dead. It was then, and only then, that Elendil allowed himself to check the injury on his face.

“It’s not deep,” Malik said to Isildur, who had approached him in concern. The gash was quite long, however, starting at the forehead and almost reaching the chin. If the Orc had aimed slightly more to the right, he would have lost his left eye.

“Do not worry about that now. What is the situation?” he asked Adûnazer, who had remained in the background, perhaps on the lookout for more Orcs. The man from Andúnië bowed slightly.

“We have won. The battlefield is under control, and the Prince of the South has reached the wall by now. I have heard that the soldiers who were in the city opened the gates and rode out to join the battle themselves when they saw that he was here.”

“That is good to hear. Let us close ranks for safety and go find him. I am sure there won’t be many Orcs left in his vicinity.”

Isildur smiled wryly.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

When Elendil came upon Pharazôn, the Prince of the South had been basking in the adoration of his soldiers for quite some time. Perhaps this was why his skin was flushed, and his eyes shone brighter than Elendil had ever seen them, or perhaps it was the residual excitement of the battle itself what made him come so alive, even as it made Elendil feel deader inside. As soon as he saw him, the Prince disentangled himself from all the others and rushed to engulf him in an embrace, which added even more gore to his already soaked armour and cloak.

“Congratulations for the victory, my lord prince”, he spoke, in a loud voice that carried over the soldiers who surrounded them. “You have succeeded in freeing Pelargir.”

“We have succeeded in freeing Pelargir”, Pharazôn corrected. “You did very well in your first war, as I always knew you would. See, I was right to believe in you, wasn’t I? But, what is this? This blood is not enemy blood!”

“No, my lord, it is mine.” Elendil lowered his face as Pharazôn grabbed his chin to inspect the wound. “An unfortunate accident, and yet the blade did not hit its mark.”

“I see. Well, for an Orc I suppose it is difficult to aim that high.” Some of the men laughed. “Behold, everyone! The sword of kings has fought at our side today!” He pointed at Elendil’s sword, which was almost incongruously bright in the middle of all this butchery, as if it was able to repel the blood that had stained it so many times. “Small wonder that we won so easily!”

Easily? For a moment, he wondered if the Prince was mocking him.

“I only followed your orders.” He could feel Isildur’s eyes on him, filled with all the disapproval he could muster for what he no doubt considered his father’s excessive humility. It did not matter what he thought, Elendil realized, as if slowly waking from a dream. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

“Be as it may, come with me. We must prepare our triumphal entrance in the city. But I must warn you. “Pharazôn’s brow creased in a frown, giving him a more serious air. “Victory preparations have been known to be a greater cause for strife and dissension than war preparations. I only hope a new war will not arise from them.”

Elendil shook his head.

“I am sure it will not come to that”, he said, even as the arm which the Prince had slung over his shoulder tightened its grip and steered him towards an unknown location.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

It almost did come to that. For the remainder of the evening, even as wine flowed freely through their camp, and the victorious survivors remembered their fallen comrades and rediscovered the joys of living that they had been so quick to forsake, a matter of contention arose among the leadership. It had nothing to do with protocol or pre-eminence, but rather, once again, with the accursed issue of religion.

“I believe it would be very unadvisable to sacrifice to Melkor within the walls of Pelargir”, Elendil objected. “Its citizens are faithful to the teachings of the Valar.”

He had avoided using the word “Faithful” as an absolute term, in an attempt to be diplomatic. As he was beginning to learn, however, such efforts were grievously misplaced when facing war commanders who had been killing enemies on a battlefield mere hours ago.

“Do not speak His name with such disrespect! He just blessed us with victory!”

The man who had spoken was one of Pharazôn’s men, of those who had conquered Arne with him. Elendil did not know his name, but he seemed to have filled the post left by Barekbal, who was counted among the fallen.

“And your affirmation is untrue, too. Many of your people live in Pelargir, but they are not the entirety of the population. There are also Gadirites, and veterans from Umbar who settled there after they retired. “Pharazôn intervened. Elendil did not like the emphasis that he put on the words ‘your people’, but he was the one who had picked this battle. “We will celebrate the sacrifice for those who wish to participate. Those who do not wish to do so are welcome to hold their own celebrations, but I am sure you will agree that you cannot prevent us from performing our rites.”

“Melkor lies in the Void, and your sacrifices are nothing but evil superstitions!” So much for diplomacy, Elendil thought, rushing to interpose himself between what looked like a horde of scandalized warriors at the brink of drawing swords and the man who had spoken, a middle-aged commander by the name of Melek who had been with his father in the Arnian expedition.

“What were you thinking?” he hissed. “Leave, now, before they kill you!”

Reluctantly, Melek stormed out of the tent, and Elendil allowed himself to relax a little, though he had become the new target of all the looks of hostility. Pharazôn, meanwhile, was watching the scene as if it was a piece of theatre performed for his amusement.

“Melkor lies in the Void”, he said, repeating the man’s bold words with a touch of sarcasm. “The Baalim are in their Blessed Land, and do not hear the prayers of men. Eru is beyond the Circles of the World. And I say then, why don’t you worship me?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Elendil frowned, while the murmurations around him rose again in intensity. Pharazôn shrugged, as if his point was obvious enough and he was just explaining it for the benefit of the slow of mind.

“If no god saved Pelargir, then I did. You did. All of you sitting here did. If they refuse to recognize the hand of the Lord of Battles in their deliverance, nor do they invoke other gods, then they should worship me, and you with me, because we owe our success to no one.”

“That is blasphemy!” a voice rose about the din. Elendil sought to identify its owner, trying to calculate if they would try to attack him next, and whether he would be able to prevent it in time.

“Yes, it is. Your blasphemy. I am not the one who refuses to see the hand of the god in my victory, you are. As Ar Gimilzôr used to say, you are godless.”

“That is enough.” Elendil was surprised at the intensity of his own voice. It even gave Pharazôn some pause, as he stood again to look at him. “There is no reason to spoil our victory by fighting among ourselves. As you said, my lord prince, no one can prevent you from doing as you please, but you cannot force those who still lay their trust in the Valar to be present. We will hold our own ceremonies, and you will be the guest of honour if you wish to attend, of course, but forgive us if we do not worship you.”

For a moment, he felt that the Prince of the South was sizing him up. A part of him could not help but wonder if he would be found wanting, and what could happen if he did.

“What I said before is true for them, but not for you, Lord Elendil”, the Prince spoke at last. “They are free to do as they wish, but you were a general in this campaign, and so you must attend the sacrifice.”

Elendil had the answer already prepared since that afternoon, when the battle was over. Back then, he had not imagined that it would be spoken in such a hostile context, but it could not be helped.

“I apologize, my lord prince, but I was wounded across the face. This is an impurity according to the scrolls of the Four Great Temples, and precludes me from participating in a religious ceremony.” The remaining, scattered mutterings dwindled into a tense silence. Everybody’s eyes came to rest on Pharazôn, whose look betrayed no emotion at all.

Suddenly, he let go of a long breath, and laughed.

“Now, that was unexpected! You are learning even faster than I gave you credit for! I believe you will be well suited for your new appointment.”

The expressions of those who surrounded them seemed equally divided between relief and anger, but both extremities seemed to agree about one thing, at least: the tension had successfully been defused. Little by little their stance grew more distended, and voices rose again, first as a vague background noise, then gradually turning into whispered conversations. 

Elendil alone did not move.

“What new appointment, my lord prince?”

The Prince of the South smiled at him. It was a warm smile, of those he had always given Elendil since he was a young man, as if he wanted him to believe that their confrontation of moments ago had been nothing but a figment of his imagination. Instead of being reassured, however, Elendil felt his uneasiness grow.

“I have decided to make you the governor of Arne.”

The heir of Andúnië’s stomach plummeted. As he stood there, he could hear nothing but a buzz in his ears, which he realized belatedly was the sound of blood rushing to his head. He felt disoriented, as he had not been on the battlefield, not even when the Orc’s spear had struck him on the face.

“What do you say? It is a great honour. As there are no kings left in that wretched dynasty, you will rule from their palace, and the whole Bay will pay tribute to you.”

“It… it is a great honour, my lord” he managed to say, he did not know how. The prying eyes of all those men felt like as many bright torches waved before his face, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to cower away from them. But he could not. “If you will excuse me.”

Only after he stepped outside the tent, he allowed himself to walk fast, faster than the people who waited for him outside, faster than Adûnazer, Melek, and even Isildur, who called after him in vain.