Elegy for Númenor - Volume 1: Journey to Umbar by elfscribe

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Chapter 11 - Of Mud and Machinations

Chapter summary: Amandil learns some troubling things about Sauron and Ar-Pharazôn sends Tigôn on a frightening mission.

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Amandil sat in his tent drinking a cup of tea and sloshing his aching feet in a basin of hot water. By Ossë, he wasn’t as young as he used to be and the work of moving his company was taking the tar right out of him, not to mention wrecking havoc upon his arches. By evening tomorrow the King’s immense army would have filed through Arzog’s Pass, which was the last remnant of the high plain that dropped down from the Ephel Dúath. And the day following, Amandil hoped to see the white tiered walls and glittering coastline of Umbar. It would take maybe twelve days to secure provisions and load the ships, and then, weather permitting, a little over two fortnights later, they’d be home.

 He was well ready to be quit of this place and more than ready to see the fair shores of home.  His true home, he reflected, not the manse in Rómenna, but the one in Andúnië, where he grew up. He missed his friends, his library, his grandsons, the fair shores where he could walk in peace.  He had a sudden memory of sitting on a dune watching the waves, feeling the sea breeze in his hair. Above the shushing surf, he heard again the laughter of his gentle Silmariën chasing their son, and his heart ached. Sighing, he rubbed the entwined serpents on his ring, their heads smooth from his ancestors doing the same thing.  It was said that time healed all griefs but he’d found the platitude to be false.  He still missed his wife, even after all these years.  He thought of Silmariën’s warm smile that lit up her eyes, her dark hair that had begun to grey, and her lovely voice lifted in song. He wondered again, as he often did, if there was indeed a place where he would meet her, once his life was over.  The elves had the Halls of Mandos.  Why was it a mystery what happened to Men?   

Gently, Amandil swirled his feet.

It had been six days since they’d captured Annatar, or perhaps more to the point, since the sorcerer had surrendered. The return trip had been hard going. They’d left the snow behind, but it was still rainy and muddy. Yesterday one of their wains became buried in muck and they’d broken an axle in the process of dragging it out. With no time to repair it, they had to shift all their goods to another wain and leave the broken one behind, causing an uncharacteristic argument amongst Amandil’s normally staunch followers. He’d been forced to promise Luncatur, one of his vassals, that he’d purchase a new wain for him upon their return to Rómenna. In addition, there had been supply issues, particularly in finding fuel on the barren plains northeast of Umbar, and more than once he’d had to interfere when warriors from other houses had besieged a local hamlet to help themselves to wood, stray chickens, or daughters. An army moving across the landscape in many ways resembled locusts chewing through a wheat field. Curse Izindor and his oafish sons!

Then there were the troubling rumors about the King’s growing relationship with Annatar. Elendil’s young friend Tigôn had turned out to be a promising intelligencer. He’d struck up a useful friendship with the King’s zirâmîki, Sûla, who seemed to be in the thick of matters. From Sûla, Tigôn had heard tidbits of information that he’d passed along. It wasn't much. Sûla seemed rather reticent and Tigôn’s comments involved impressions as much as actual facts. But Sûla had told Tigôn about the rape.

Amandil combed fingers through his beard, thinking. As dissipated and power-hungry as he knew his old friend Calion had become in recent years, beating and raping Annatar seemed out of character, as well as foolish. He couldn’t imagine that Annatar would allow such a thing. Did that mean the Zigûr really had lost his powers? Or were they all in for an ugly surprise one day soon? He felt he needed to do something to protect his people, but what exactly, he had no idea. The whole thing was eating at him, causing sleepless nights, and when he did sleep, he dreamed of ravens. He was not especially prone to superstition, but it was enough to give him the shivers.

Speaking of which . . . Nits! The water was growing cold. He raised one dripping foot. Where was Bansil? He’d sent him after more wood for the brazier quite some time ago.

The tent door opened and Elendil entered, wrapped in his dark green cloak. “Ada, a man is here, asking to speak to you. I believe he’s one of the King’s surgeons.”

Amandil sighed. “What does he want?”

“He says his wife is acting strangely.” Elendil gave him an apologetic half-smile.

“His wife? Why in thunder is that my concern?”

“He thinks the Zigûr put a spell on her. Because of the delicacy of the political situation, he feels you are the one to talk to. I must say, I rather agree.”

Something cold shivered up Amandil’s spine. “Very well.”

Elendil went to the door and beckoned the man in. “I think I’d better keep a watch outside,” he remarked to Amandil. “To make sure no one falls over our tent ropes.” He winked.

“Good idea,” Amandil said. Ah, he recognized the man who entered. He wore the headcloth of the surgeon’s trade with the red circle on the forehead and a droopy mustache. His eyebrows rose at a sharp angle nearly meeting between his eyes, giving him a befuddled expression and he exuded a sour wine smell. All in all, his appearance was not adding to his credibility. Amandil wondered how he had obtained his lofty position as one of the King’s staff. “Good evening, Yanak,” Amandil greeted him.

“Thank you for seeing me Councilor Aphanuzîr, Lord of Andúnië. I have a matter of import to discuss with you.”

“Sit then. Do you wish some mint tea?” It could only help dissipate the man’s air.

“Aye, please,” Yanak said, drawing up a stool to their brazier of coals while Amandil poured out tea from his pot.

“What can I do for you Yanak? Is the King not in good health?”

“He’s in good enough condition near as I can tell. He hasn’t required my services for a spell,” Yanak said putting on his professional expression. “It’s not that.” He took a breath. “It’s since she came back from the Zigûr’s tent. Remember five days ago when we halted for a day of rest? I was very ill that night when the guards came in with their backs flailed, so I couldn’t answer the summons in the morning when the Umbarian zirâmîki came, and she had to go with him . . .”

“Halt a moment.” Amandil raised a hand. “By she, I presume you mean your wife?”

“Aye,” Yanak blinked at him owl-eyed for a moment, then continued. “I noticed right off something wasn’t right with her.”

“When she left or when she came back?”

“Oh aye, when she came back.”

“What did you notice?”

“Well, she was quiet, for one. Most uncharacteristic, which you’d know if you’d met her. At first I thought she was just mad at me, but that was strange too because Manwë knows usually she rails about rather than keeping quiet. But as the day wore on and she didn’t say a thing, I began to worry. And she was pullin’ on her ear funny, like a dog trying to get rid of a tick.” Yanak paused to demonstrate. “I told her to sit down so I could see what was wrong with it and that’s when I noticed the second thing amiss.”

“What was that?”

“Right off, she did what I told her!” Yanak’s eyes opened wide with the enormity of this revelation, and Amandil covered his smile by taking a sip of tea.

“I could find nothing wrong with her ear and she didn’t complain of any pain. Then, later she began speaking but only when spoken to and it was in this voice, this dead voice. Uh, see?”

“Maybe she wasn’t feeling well,” Amandil suggested.

“So I thought, but as I said, I couldn’t find anything wrong. I bled her, just to make sure, and she accepted it meek as a lamb. Now that right there.” He waved a finger at Amandil, “that told me things were not well with her, because she and I quite differ on the efficacious nature of bleeding. And then I began to think that something happened when she went to heal the Zigûr.”

“She went to heal him?”

“Aye,” Yanak looked around and then lowered his voice. “The King beat him bloody or didn’t you know?”

“The whole battalion knows,” Amandil said. “I daresay the King had good reason.”

Generally, the men seemed to approve of the King’s treatment of Annatar. Amandil had heard admiring talk among the other councilors and some of the guards. Izindor writhed himself into a knot in his haste to congratulate the King over it. Why was it that these days so many of his countrymen seemed to see brutality as a sign of strength? A sentiment more appropriate to the wild men of Ennor. Apparently, only a handful, including himself, Elendil, Sûla and Tigôn knew about the rape, although Amandil doubted that anyone would hold it against the King, whose penchants were well-known and Annatar was, after all, a prisoner. But Tigôn had reported that the King was spending several hours every evening in Annatar’s tent. What possible reason could Calion have for doing that? He did not even want to know, except that it may be threatening the security of Númenor.

Amandil reached for a cloth to dry his feet. “Forgive me, Yanak, but we must tend our aches and pains at our age, mustn’t we?”

“Indeed, I know all about them,” Yanak commiserated as he shifted on the hassock “A hot bath is just the right thing for feet.” He took a gulp of the tea. “As far as Zôri goes, she might have been overly quiet but she went about her work, cooking and fetching water and so on, so I have to confess, the change was not exactly displeasing.” He gave Amandil that nod of understanding, man to man. “It was just that strange quiet, like she was sleep-walking. And then last night, I couldn’t find her anywhere. A whole group of us went looking for her and finally she was found down by the river staring at the water, just staring. I fear what she may have been about.” He chewed on his lip.

“It does sound strange. Why do you think it was something the Zigûr did?”

“Who else could it be? Look, my Lord, she goes out in the morning yammering at me like a wildcat. Hits me on the head with a pan, mind you. Says she’s going to tend to the Zigûr’s thrashed back and when she returns, well, it’s as if she became a ghost.”

“Have others remarked on the change?”

“Yes, indeed. It’s spreading around the healers’ area. We’ve tried to keep it quiet, but rumors go like fire in the hay.”

“Why did you come to me?” Amandil asked.

“I didn’t know anyone else who might be, um, discreet enough, to deal with this witchery.”

Amandil sighed. “Bring your wife to me and I’ll talk to her.”

“Oh, bless you, my Lord. Thank you. That would be a relief,” the healer said. “Well, I’ll not trouble you further.” Carefully setting down the empty mug, Yanak rose, bowed, and left the tent.

Shortly thereafter Elendil returned.

“Did you hear?” Amandil asked.

“A little. Either the poor woman has lost her wits, or . . .”

“Or Annatar is up to his old tricks. And actually, that should not be so astonishing. I’m more surprised he hasn’t done something before now.” Amandil nodded thoughtfully. “I’m thinking on the return voyage it might be prudent to take Annatar aboard our ship, for safe-keeping you see, and then one dark night quietly drop him over the side.”

“Are you serious?” Elendil asked.

“I wish I was not.”

Elendil sat down on the hassock and poured himself a mug of tea. “I would not advise giving Annatar midnight swimming lessons as I don’t fancy having to explain to the King what happened to his prize. He has been most adamant about keeping the Zigûr close. You know he plans to parade him through the streets of Umbar and no doubt through Armenelos too?”

Amandil grunted acknowledgement.

“Well,” Elendil continued. “These days, I wonder if the King would remember your old friendship, Ada? If we cross him, I can see us both hanging from the gibbet. The King’s actions of late regarding Annatar have been most curious. Perhaps this woman will tell us something that we can take to the King to show him what Annatar is capable of?”

“I don’t know if the King's behavior is so curious,” Amandil replied. “I mean the offer of eternal youth, becoming like one of the elves? That’s mighty tempting. The more my bones ache, the more pleasing it sounds.”

“Ada, I can’t believe you mean that.”

“Of course I do. But then do we want to pay the price? Oh and there’s always a price for such gifts. This is dragontalk Annatar is using on Calion.”

“I’ve been wondering how the King plans to contain Annatar once he’s back at Armenelos?”

“Perhaps he’ll chain him to his bedpost,” Amandil snorted.

Elendil clucked his tongue. “Ada, that is not to be said, even in jest. I wish there were an heir to the throne because I can’t see this ending well for the King.”

“Nor I,” Amandil said. He looked at Elendil. “I may have to stick my neck out with Calion and insist that we leave Annatar with the regent in Umbar.”

Then they heard a low voice calling outside the tent. “Aphanuzîr, my lord, are you within?”

“Enter.”

Tigôn appeared, ducking through the flap, his tender mouth drawn tight. “The King calls for you. It's urgent. We’ve been attacked.”

* * * *
When Amandil entered Ar-Pharazôn’s tent, the King was seated in his chair surrounded by a small knot of men.  Lord Azgarad’s hawk-like face looked more haggard than usual. Dark circles marred his eyes as if he too had not been sleeping well.

“It’s the Haradrim,” Lord Azgarad was saying as Amandil and Elendil joined them. “Several hours ago, they ambushed the forward column led by Lord Rothîbal just as they were emerging from Arzog’s Pass. The Haradrim arrayed themselves in a long line beyond it, blocking any exit. Then, unaccountably, their commander set up his standard just beyond bowshot, displaying a blue flag indicating he wants to talk. It’s most peculiar.”

“What’s peculiar,” Lord Izindor said, “that they attacked or that they held back?”

“Both,” Azgarad said, slanting an eye at Izindor.

“Could it be that they’re upset about last year’s disciplinary measure in which we took home several hundred slaves?” Amandil asked mildly.

“They deserved that,” Azgarad snapped. “You might recall the circumstances for that punitive expedition. Their slavers captured some of our citizens from Umbar. They had to learn better than to try it again.”

It was another sore point between Amandil and the King, which Amandil did not think should be argued at this moment, not with a host of Haradrim shaking their spears at them and blocking their retreat.

“They were thoroughly defeated last spring,” Azgarad continued. “And they’ve been sending tribute as per the treaty. It is madness for them to attack us now since surely they know our forces are much superior to theirs.  But they found a vulnerable spot at the Pass. I told that fool Rothîbal to send out scouts before they entered, but he went forward heedlessly, thinking there was nothing to oppose us. We are lucky. The Haradrim could have done a great amount of damage to our forces. But for them to just stop like that instead of pressing the advantage . . . ”

“This is not a mere act of revenge. They want something,” Amandil said.

“My conclusion as well, but what?” Azgarad asked.

Ar-Pharazôn sat hunched over in his chair, chin in hand, brooding. A little behind him stood the Umbarian zirâmîki, Sûla, holding the King’s winecup. He stood very quietly, as if trying not to attract any attention, but his eyes followed the debate closely. Amandil noted that the boy sported a new ornament curling about his upper arm: a golden dragon with ruby eyes. Huh, Amandil thought, well someone had been earning the King’s favor aside from Annatar.

Ar-Pharazôn stirred, addressing Azgarad. “Do we know the size of their force?”

“No, my Lord,” Azgarad said. “We’ve dispatched scouts. They should return before sunrise.”

“Most of the army is already settled for the evening,” Ar-Pharazôn said, “Have Rothîbal pull back within the pass and guard it. Tell his crack archers to go to the top of the hills on either side and wait for the sunrise. We will send a messenger to find out what this Haradrim captain wants and then see what the morning brings.”

“That seems wise, my Lord,” Azgarad said, bowing. His glance sought out and met Amandil’s.

* * * *
“Do you understand your mission?” Ar-Pharazôn intoned as he handed Tigôn a letter of passage carrying his great seal in red wax.

Tigôn’s face had grown pale. He bowed. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Good boy. May Manwë lend you speed,” Ar-Pharazôn said. With another bow, Tigôn backed away from the King and turned to go.

Sûla glanced around the room. The councilors were talking urgently amongst themselves, paying him no heed. As if to get more wine, he edged to the far end of the great tent, then set the cup down and slipped out the side entrance in time to catch Tigôn leaving by the front door.  The torchlight illuminated the messenger’s curly hair into gold froth. Tigôn strode purposefully away from the tent, but once he’d reached the shadows he doubled over, leaning his hands on his knees as if he couldn’t breathe.

“Tigôn,” Sûla whispered.

Tigôn stood quickly. “Mandos, Sûla! You startled me.”

“Sorry.” Sûla came closer. “If I may ask, you seem upset.”

“Upset! You think so!” Tigôn scrubbed his hand through his hair.

Sûla put his hand on Tigôn’s forearm. “It’s a great honor to be the one the King trusts enough to carry messages in a time of war.”

“An honor,” Tigôn said bitterly. “One that will, no doubt, do much for my reputation, if I survive the night.” He fiddled with a button on his jacket. “I . . . Sûla, I don’t know if I can walk into an enemy camp like that, all alone.”

Sûla withdrew his hand. “His Lordship’s elite guard will accompany you, and messengers have safe passage, even among the Haradrim.”

“Unless they decide they want to make a point of some kind. In that case, guess whose head they’ll send back.” Tigôn wiped a hand over his mouth. “They can’t be happy about losing that battle last year.  Have you heard what the Haradrim do to their prisoners?”

“Heard?” Sûla snorted. “You forget, Tigôn, that I used to live near Haradrim territory. I saw people who’d been held captive by them, and yes, I will not lie to you, there is a danger. But the tales told in Númenor are exaggerated. The Haradrim are an honorable people, despite what you might have heard. They will respect  the messenger’s safe passage. I would swear my life on it.”

“Would you? Then you can go in my stead,” Tigôn replied.

“Ha, they would take one look at me and decide that I had escaped from their slavers,” Sûla said. “You, at least, look the part of a blooded Númenórean.”

“I’m not sure that will aid me,” Tigon said, biting his lip. 

“That’s not the attitude you need to have with the Haradrim,” Sûla said.  “They value bravery.  You must be strong, brash, and forthright.” Sûla gestured with a fist. “Oh and courteous, too. Don’t insult them.”

“Brash, and yet courteous, interesting combination to try to pull off,” Tigôn replied, running his hand through his hair again.  He sighed as if  resigned to his fate. “Well, then farewell, Sûla. I have enjoyed playing bones with you.”

“I, too,” Sûla replied. He coughed. “You have to return, you know, because you need to win back all the things I took from you.”

Tigôn chuckled. “Maybe that’s a reason not to return. You are much too good at ratcatcher, but I did match you last night.”

“So you did, but I won the two nights before. I guess the little zirâmîki is good at more than painting his lips and offering up his arse, huh?”

Tigôn rolled his eyes. “I should have known you wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to say something vulgar.”

“You think that was vulgar,” Sûla laughed, “you haven’t heard anything yet.  Don’t you care for lewd pillow talk? No?”  He leaned forward, pursing his lips. “Give me a kiss goodbye, then. This could be your last opportunity to taste the pleasures of my mouth.”

Tigôn laughed. “If it is truly the last time you’ll offer, that alone would be worth the danger. I am not going to kiss you. Not ever.”

“Then you’ll never know what Aman tastes like,” Sûla said, looking at him through his lashes.

“Sûla, please, I don’t need your usual shite. I, uh, need a friend right now,” Tigôn sighed. “Strange as it may sound, I think that’s you.”

“Is it?” It was a surprising thought.

“I just want to tell you, that is . . . if I don’t come back . . .”

“Yes?” Sûla suddenly found his heart beating audibly.

“Please ask the King to send a message to my father, Lord Eärdur of Eldalondë. Tell him . . . that I always tried to make him proud.”

Sûla nodded and swallowed past the knot in his throat. His father had died when he was quite young and he’d never entertained the slightest hope that his step-father would be proud of him. “I can do that,” he said.

“And um, well, you can have my ivory bones set that the King gave me,” Tigôn said.

Sûla felt a sudden warmth, and with it came nervousness. “There will be no need to give up your royal gift, Tigôn. I will say the warding spells for you. To ensure your safe return.”

Tigôn flashed a lopsided smile, startling in its beauty. “Let’s hope your Umbarian magic is greater than the Haradrim’s,” he said. “Well, I’ve tarried long enough. I should be gone by now.”

“Tigôn,” Sûla began, but then words failed him. Instead, he threw his arms about his friend. Tigôn stiffened a little, seemingly holding his breath, but he did not pull away, and then he relaxed into Sûla’s embrace. Sûla gave his back a friendly pat, then released him, saying, “May Zizzûn protect you from evil.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Tigôn said. His face hardened, and with the look of one doomed, he strode off into the night. Sûla watched him until he was gone, a strange roiling in his heart. Had he ever had a real friend before? And now he might lose him. He crept back into the tent, hoping that in all the turmoil, the King hadn’t noticed his absence.

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Chapter End Notes

Luncatur  - (Quenya) “wain lord.” Thanks to Malinornë for the translation.

Note concerning Amandil’s ring. What a fascinating history Tolkien gives this ring!  It is, of course, the Ring of Barahir, a gift from Finrod Felagund for saving him in the Battle of Sudden Flame (Dagor Bragollach).  Stanzas in the Lay of Leithian describe it as wrought in the form of entwined serpents with glittering green jewels for eyes “that met beneath a golden crown of flowers, that one upholds and one devours.”  Barahir was killed by an orc and his hand with the ring severed, but Barahir’s son Beren avenged the death and retrieved the hand and the ring.  The ring passed from Beren to his son Dior to his daughter Elwing to her son Elros who took it to Númenor. Then, it passed to each succeeding King until Tar-Elendil gave it to his daughter Silmariën who gave it to her son Valandil, the first Lord of Andúnië.  From there the heirloom passed father to son, from Isildur to the Kings of Arnor and then the Kings of Arthedain. The last King of Arthedain gave it in thanks for aid to the Lossoth (Snowmen) of Forochel. The Dunédain of the north ransomed it and it was kept at Rivendell until Elrond gave it to Aragorn many years later.
                
Silmariën (Quenya) “silver-garlanded maiden’ or ‘silver-crowned lady’- elfscribe’s name for Amandil’s wife (unnamed, as usual, by Tolkien) who died many years earlier than the events in this story.  She was named after the queen who founded the line of the Lords of Andúnië.      Another thanks to Mal for the translation.

zirâmîki - “beloved boy,” elfscribe invented Adûnaic term for courtesan.