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

---

Chapter 12 - The Haradrim

Chapter summary:  Tigôn visits the Haradrim encampment while (Sauron) Mairon offers Ar-Pharazôn some military advice.

---

Note:  Aphanuzîr is Amandil’s Adûnaic name.

 

Within the confines of his tent, Mairon paced back and forth in agitation, his chains clinking.  “You say the Haradrim staged an ambush at the Pass, then sat down quietly on the plain and asked to talk?”

Sûla nodded, a muscle in his jaw bunching as he laid out the evening meal on a low table.  “So they tell me. No one knows what they want.  The King sent a messenger to find out.”

“I know what they want.  It’s obvious. The fools!” Mairon snarled.  

Sûla looked up, alert. “What, my Lord?”

“Me!” Mairon spat. He smacked his forehead with an open palm.  “Ai, I should have foreseen this complication.”

“Why would they want you?” Sûla ventured.

“Why?  Why do they want the greatest sorcerer in Middle-earth?  Figure it out for yourself my little sweetmeat.” 

Sûla ducked his head but persisted. “I thought the Haradrim were allied with you and that the Serpent clan worship you as a deity?  Perhaps they think you will be grateful if they free you?”

The boy was right on the mark. Mairon glared at him. “You are much too clever, Sûla. You must look and act more foolish or you will land that sweet little arse in an anthill of trouble.”

Sûla’s face took on a dull expression. “Yes, my Lord.”  He bowed.  “I’d best return to the King.”  

Mairon flapped a hand at him. “Come back later; I may need you.”  He sat down to the meal, wondering what to do. He remembered his advisor Gron’s map with the little colored markers and heard his creaking voice saying, ‘six thousands from Haradwaith.’  It was a mere fraction of Ar-Pharazôn’s force. Before Mairon left, he’d ordered Dolgu to send a message to Hybernan, the Haradrim king, telling him to withdraw.  Why hadn’t he? Hybernan must know Ar-Pharazôn’s forces were superior. But then he hadn’t attacked; instead, he’d asked to talk.  And Mairon had a fair idea why. Deluded fool! Why couldn’t he just do as he was told!

He sensed Sûla pausing at the door. Anxiety fluttered about the boy like moths in the lamplight. Mairon could almost hear his thoughts. It was an emotional state that drew him. “You have a question. What is it?” Mairon asked, looking up.

“My Lord, the King . . .  he sent his messenger, Tigôn, to talk to the Haradrim.  I would like to ask if I may, is there a spell you can cast that will safeguard him?” Pressing his hands together, Sûla brought them up against his mouth in a pleading gesture characteristic of the Umbarians.

Oh ho, Mairon thought, he cares about the boy. A good piece of information to save.  He relaxed his face into a kind expression. “Spells that will keep him safe? How long has he been gone?”

“Several hours.” 

“Hmm,” Mairon murmured. “Do you have something of this boy’s?  Something he touched?”

“Uh, yuh,” Sûla said. “The buttons on my breeches, they used to belong to him. I won them in a game of ratcatcher.”

“Come here.  I need to touch them,” Mairon said, then laughed. “I think it best if you pull a button off and give it to me. I don’t fancy having the King walk in here with my hand on your crotch. My back is still sore from his displeasure on the subject.”

Sûla cracked a half-smile.  He took out a pocket knife, cut off one of the buttons and handed it to Mairon.

Mairon closed his hand about the button, feeling it warm to his touch, looking for the vibrations around this messenger boy, Tigôn.  Mostly the button spoke of Sûla.  Long minutes passed and he was aware of Sûla at his side, impatiently shifting from foot to foot. Nothing. The messenger must be at the limits of his range. Then yes, very faintly, he had a sense of the boy, a whiff of fear. Ah yes, this was the one on whom Sûla had tried the freezing spell a few nights ago.  He could still sense it like a distant echo.  “I’ve got him,” he said. 

“I’ve already said the warding spells for him,” Sûla said, chewing a nail. “But they’ve never . . . I’m not . . .  I don’t have your power, my Lord.”

“Look at me,” Mairon said. Sûla raised his eyes, so lovely, a soft golden brown, the lids lined with kohl. “In this instance,” Mairon said, “you are better suited than I to conjure a warding spell since you know this young man more intimately.” Ah, he felt Sûla flutter. “You are more attuned to him. That is, you would be, if you had the power. Would you like to gain a little more power, Sûla?  So that you could protect yourself and your friends?”

The boy’s eyes widened, then a hunger curled his mouth. “Yes, my Lord,” he said.

Mairon suppressed his smile.  He was reminded of Dolgu when they first met.  So much useful pain and anger beneath the surface. Although this boy was younger and perhaps even more pliable. “You’ve taken the first step when you learned to wield the freezing spell,” Mairon said. “I can continue your instruction, if you like--under one condition, the King must never find out.” 

Sûla nodded. “He will never hear about it from my lips.”

“Good. Hold out your hand,” Mairon said. “Together we can augment the magic.”

Mairon dropped the button into the boy’s extended hand, then pressed Sûla’s fingers around it, enclosing his fist within his own hands. “Think about him. Think about the essence of this boy, his personality. Do you feel him?” he commanded.  Mairon sensed energy snaking in small eddies around Sûla. He spun it, drawing the threads in closer, closer.

There was a long pause while Sûla’s eyes glazed.  Then he smiled. “Yes,” he said in a pleased voice.  “I think I do.” 

“Clever boy.  You’re a natural talent,” Mairon said. He could feel Sûla lighten with the praise.  “Now then. We’re going to erect a protective shield around him that will repel a weapon.  It won’t keep back a determined attack, we’re too far away, but it will be better than nothing. Are you ready?” 

“Yes,” Sûla breathed. 

“And afterwards, Sûla, you must go to the King.  Tell him I have the solution to the problem with the Haradrim and would like an audience.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla said, sounding pleased. He lifted his eyes to Mairon’s, shining with the glow of worship that Mairon craved. A lovely boy.  An asset to his ambitions.  Perhaps, Mairon thought, he could turn even this setback with the Haradrim to an advantage. If all went well when this was over, the King would be beholden to him.  As ever, he must be careful not to show too much of his power. Ar-Pharazôn must believe that he was the one in control. It was a gamble but Mairon was nearly purring with the challenge. Smiling at the boy, he said, “Repeat after me, Sûla . . .”

* * *
Breathe, Tigôn told himself, forcing his cold fingers to relax on the reins.  He could hear his father’s voice in his head during fighting practice more than a year ago calling, ‘stay loose, stay loose,’ while Tigôn battled his gangly limbs, trying not to cut his own head off. Then invariably, his father would say, ‘Tactics, Tigôn, especially important if you are physically weaker than your opponent. Watch his eyes. Try to anticipate where he’s going next and be there first. Move.’   
 
A cold wind blew in his face. The walls of the pass towered up on either side, blacker than the night. To his left, he could hear the sound of water roaring far below in the canyon. Moonlight bathed the path ahead. The sound of the horses’ hooves, both his own and the company of guards on either side, thudded in his ears. He wondered if he would survive the night.  Every tale he’d heard of Haradrim torture and mutilation permeated his fevered thoughts. But worrying was not productive; he should calm his mind, focus on the task at hand. He patted the neck of his bay horse.  Breathe.

They passed another encampment of Lord Rothîbal’s forces, huddled around small fires, not having had time or space to set up their tents. 

“Halt,” called Hazûn, one of his guards.  He raised a mailed fist.  They pulled up short, their horses side-stepping, snorting.  Another group of men appeared, moonlight glinting off of their armor, the burly figure of Lord Rothîbal in their midst.  “Who goes there?” one called.

“The King’s messenger,” Hazûn replied. 

The group approached.  One held aloft a torch as Rothîbal came up close to Tigôn, squinting in the flickering light.  “Oh it’s you, Tigôn,” he said in his high-pitched raspy voice. “Tell me, what does Ar-Pharazôn plan?”

“I’m to find out what the Haradrim want and report back,” Tigôn said, in as confident a tone as he could muster.

“What does the King wish of me?” Rothîbal asked.

“He said you are to hold the Pass here until such time as you receive different orders.”

“Ah, no change in orders then,” Rothîbal came closer and said under his breath. “Tell me, is the King vexed . . . with me?”

Tigôn paused.  It was never a good idea to involve himself in the politics between the lords and his King.  “He is not pleased at the interruption in the march,” he replied. “But I think his anger is directed at the Haradrim. Hopefully, we’ll know more when I return.”

“I’ll look for you,” Rothîbal said.  Then he grinned. “Have a care out there Tigôn.  The Haradrim can be unforgiving of mistakes.  I’ve seen too many trees decorated with their flayed prisoners in past campaigns.  Be off with you then.”  He swatted the rump of Tigôn’s horse, which jumped forward into a trot before Tigôn slowed him to allow his guards to catch up.

Thank you very much for the boost in confidence, my lord, Tigôn thought as he and his escort left Rothîbal behind.  About a half mile down canyon, Tigôn saw the pass widen to reveal the vast plain beyond.

Hazûn turned, speaking over his shoulder.  “We need to use caution here,” he said. “I expect they have scouts waiting.”

Suddenly, they heard a clattering up ahead, as if a load of pebbles was rolling down a cliff.  Several riders appeared, wearing armor.  They halted, swaying slightly on their horses.  One advanced until Tigôn could see him fairly clearly.  He wore a helmet that ended in a sharp crest, a cuirass of small, interlocking wicker plates, and carried a long spear. A scarf covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible.  “Are you the messenger from Ar-Pharazôn?” he called in accented Adûnaic.

“Yes,” Tigôn swallowed. 

“Come with me,” he said, abruptly turning his horse.  Tigôn’s guards began to follow and the Southron stopped.  “Only the messenger,” he said. 

The guards looked at Tigôn and he nodded, his throat dry.

“We’ll await you here,” Hazûn said, giving Tigôn a friendly pat on the thigh. Then, under his breath, he added, “Keep a wary eye out. May Manwë protect you.”

“Thank you,” Tigôn said stiffly.  He followed the escort of about a dozen Haradrim out into the open plain.  Soon he became aware that more of them were following, closing in around him.  Here and there, like bright orange flowers in the darkness, he could see campfires.  The wind was stronger out here, blowing a stinging dust.  Tigôn could see why the Haradrim covered their faces. Eventually, they reached a large campfire.  Surrounded by the sounds of snorting horses, creaking leather, and clanking metal, Tigôn halted his own horse.  He watched the approach of a tall man on foot wearing a scarlet cloak over his armor and a headwrap, with the face scarf pulled down around his neck. His black hair flowed over his shoulders in two long plaits, braided with gold and lapis beads.  His face was weathered, burned dark by the sun, with a scar along one broad cheek.

“Are you the Númenórean messenger?” he called in a rumbling voice.             

“Yes,” Tigôn’s voice squeaked and he thought he would die on the spot.  He could hear his father telling him that now was the time to show his mettle, to earn the high-ranking position the King had granted him, but he was nearly paralyzed with fear. He cleared his throat, pressed his knuckles against his horse’s neck to ground himself and said in as deep a tone as he could, “I am the messenger of Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor. Who are you?”

“Aksan, Chief of the Serpent Clan and nephew to King Hybernan of the tribe you call the Haradrim. You are expected. Come with me.” 

Something about the man made Tigôn shiver.  He dismounted.  His legs felt like water when they hit the ground, but grew stronger as he walked.  The others closed in behind him.  He could feel their hostility like a physical barrier. A large man with a blue facial tattoo of some intricate curly design and a ring through his nose blocked Tigôn’s path. Tigôn swallowed as he looked up at the mountain towering over him.
 
“An insult, Aksani. They’ve sent us a mere boy,” the man mocked, thumping Tigôn’s chest with a forefinger. “One who looks like he’s about to wet his pants. Perhaps he’s one of the Númen King’s pretty suckcocks. Clearly the King is not taking us seriously. We should send his boy's vâkis back in a bag.”

There were some guffaws and a surge of movement. The men closed in, shoulder to shoulder. Some rested their hands on dagger hilts; others leaned on their spears.  Tigôn swallowed.  This was the moment of truth. He recalled what Sûla had said.  Brash but courteous.  He drew himself up and stared fiercely into the man’s dark eyes.  “A boy!” he declared, summoning up a righteous anger that he currently didn’t feel.  “I’ll have you know I am the son of Lord Eärdur of Eldalondë and the personal messenger of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, an honor I have earned through many campaigns.”  An exaggeration but Tigôn felt the exact truth of his recent appointment would not avail him. “Do you speak for these people?” He poked the man in the chest in the same manner as he’d been treated, and looked for Aksan, who was clearly the leader.  He had halted a little further ahead, and was watching, amused but wary.  He was the key.

Tigôn pulled the King’s letter from his pouch and thrust it past the tattooed man toward Aksan. “My King sends his respectful greetings to the great Haradrim empire, but he asks, why you have arrayed your forces as if for battle?”

“He asks why we threaten battle,” Tattoo Face mocked, his voice pitched high like a woman’s. “Has the Númenórean King forgotten that only last year he attacked us without provocation?  My brother was killed in that fight and viciously hacked to pieces.”  He stroked the little goatee on his chin. “I wonder how long you could live without your pretty white skin. I would like to wear it as a nightshirt.”  With a cruel smile, he drew a long, curved knife.

Tigôn’s heart thundered in his chest, his palms sweaty. Was this to be his death then? He tried to speak, but the words stuck. The man feinted, making a slicing motion. Tigôn threw up a hand to block it, but there was no need. Suddenly his assailant’s arm snapped back as if repelled.  Swearing, he dropped the knife with a clang, shaking his hand as if it pained him. What in Mandos’ name? No time to question it. Tigôn felt his fear drop away and a clear-eyed strength took its place. He stepped onto the knife blade.

“I had heard the Haradrim were a hospitable people,” Tigôn said in a tone ripe with threat, “and that they honor the sacred role of the messenger.  Is that not so?  In any event, I doubt it would serve your purpose to kill me, since you are the ones who planted the flag and indicated you wanted to talk. But if you have changed your minds,” he shrugged, “I’ll be going. I’m missing a lovely party back at the King’s tent . . . with strong drink and beautiful dancing girls. I was hoping to get lucky.”  He winked.

The men around Tigôn chuckled, breaking the tension.  Aksan grinned.  He came forward, landing a heavy hand on the tattooed man’s shoulder. “Rhag ena,” he said sharply. “Stand away, Korizar, your master is no longer in charge here. It appears that Ar-Pharazôn chooses his servants well. This one is not easily intimidated.  What is your name, messenger?”

“Tigôn, son of Eärdur.”

“Come with me, Tigôn, son of Eärdur.”

Someone took his horse’s reins and Tigôn found himself in the midst of a jostling crowd, sweeping him along amidst excited chatter.  Aksan bade him sit by the roaring fire, which was throwing sparks high into the air.  A man brought him a wooden cup filled with some kind of foaming brew. Tigôn eyed it suspiciously. 

Aksan sat next to him, leaning against a leather saddle covered with beautifully woven blankets.  Accepting a flagon of the brew, he raised it in the air, and roared something in his own tongue, the rest of his men did likewise. Then they gulped it down. Tigôn took a swallow and choked on beer laced with a bitter herb.  He steeled his expression.  “It’s good,” he stammered. 

“It’ll put hair on your chest, little messenger.” Aksan clapped him on the back nearly causing Tigôn to spew his mouthful.

“Now then, let’s talk.  I believe in plain speaking, not cowering behind Númenórean air talk.”

“So do I,” Tigôn said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 

“So, I shall forgo the hunt and go for the kill. We have heard that your King took the Zigûr prisoner.  Is it so?”

“Not completely,” Tigôn replied. “The Zigûr surrendered to us.”

Aksan frowned. “I cannot believe that,” he said.

“Whether or not you choose to believe it, it is true,” Tigôn said. “I have seen him for myself.”

“What does he look like?”

“Very tall and beautiful, like an elf with long, red hair and the eyes of a cat,” Tigôn said.

Aksan looked thoughtful.  “Strange,” he said.  “I've only seen him once before – and he did not look like that.  Are you sure this is The Zigûr of Mordor?”

“Reasonably sure,”  Tigôn replied.  “He showed us images of Thangorodrim with dragons flying about.  If it is not him, then it is another great sorcerer who has seen Morgoth’s works.”

Aksan’s eyes narrowed.  He leaned forward.  “This is an outrage,” he snarled. “How dare you unbalance the dark forces by defiling our god! We want him delivered to us or we will make your King pay dearly to go through the Pass.  That is our message.”

“What will you do if the King refuses?”

“Many of you will not return to your island fortress,” Aksan said. “Tell him we demand that the Zigûr be brought to the mouth of the Pass by noon tomorrow. No tricks.”  

Tigôn nodded. “I will bear that message.  But the Zigûr is a great prize and it is unlikely that Ar-Pharazôn will give him up simply because you ask for him.”

“Then the King will doom himself and all his subjects,” Aksan said calmly. “Hear my words.  I am a Serpent priest and know this to be true.  The one you call the Zigûr has powers you cannot comprehend. You will pay a great price if you take him to your world. I have foreseen it.”

“I hear you,” Tigôn said, “but I suspect the more likely outcome is that you will all be dead by noon tomorrow and we will still hold the Zigûr in chains.”  With an effort, he finished his drink.  “Will that be all?”  He could already feel a slight headache coming on and longed to be back at the camp, preferably face down in his fur-lined cot.

“No, you spoke the truth, we have not treated you hospitably,” Aksan said, with a sly smile. “I wish to amend that.  You must stay until the moon is high. It will not delay you overlong. We like to dance too. Come,” he waved at his men. “Strike up a drum.  Tomorrow will tell itself.” He laughed, putting a heavily-muscled arm about Tigôn’s shoulders. “More orzini for our guest,” he called. He smelled like the bitter herbs in the beer. Tigôn looked at the dozens of fierce men seated around, all laughing at him, and did his best to smile.  

* * * *
Having delivered his news, Sûla bowed low, his long black tresses sliding over his shoulders.  So, Pharazôn mused, Annatar wished to speak with him about the Haradrim situation. Things were becoming more interesting all the time. He turned from the map that Azgarad and Aphanuzîr had laid out on the table, and gestured to the guards. “Bring the Zigûr here.”

As Sûla rose and backed away, the fire from the brazier starkly lit his face. There seemed something harder about his expression, something about his eyes, Pharazôn thought.  Perhaps he would outgrow his prettiness faster than some of the other boys.  A shame.  He was a gifted bedmate.  Well, it didn’t matter, there were more where he came from. These days it was Annatar who filled Pharazôn’s waking thoughts, who appeared naked in his dreams, beckoning with a slender finger encased in a fiery golden ring, his parted lips promising unspeakable pleasures. 

The memory of the beating and its aftermath haunted Pharazôn.  It felt like a dangerous loss of control, one he could ill afford.  He knew his two most valued servants, Azgarad, his Steward, and Aphanuzîr, his longtime friend and councilor, did not approve of taking Annatar prisoner and they might be right. But there were clear advantages to having access to the Zigur’s knowledge that he hoped would prove him right in time.  He fingered his lips, thinking of that coupling.  He had relived it in his thoughts, over and over, relishing the surge of pleasure the memory afforded. At the same time it troubled him. Something was not right about the whole encounter. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that Annatar had enticed him purposefully. Annatar had wanted it. Perhaps he had even enjoyed it.  And why not?  Pharazôn knew himself to be an accomplished lover with considerable stamina. What harm could it do, once they were back in Armenelos, to have Annatar lie at his side on the banqueting couch?  It would be the ultimate show of his power and at the same time, let the Zigûr know his place.

In the meantime, he must get hold of himself.  The current situation caused anger to roil about in his belly. How dare the Haradrim oppose him? Up until now the campaign had been faultless and his objective accomplished with no loss of life or resources. His wisdom proven. He didn’t like unforeseen events. That fool Rothîbal would pay for having ignored Azgarad’s orders and failing to send scouts ahead through the Pass. Pharazôn watched Azgarad, gaunt face intent,  poring over their inadequate map of the region and said, “Why are we even treating with the Haradrim? We can overwhelm them.”

“They could block that pass for quite some time, and inflict great losses upon us,” Aphanuzîr said, thoughtfully stroking his silver-flecked beard. “It is the weakest point in our march.”

“We can’t let them get away with such impudence,” Pharazôn replied. “I say let them attack us. We came to Endor expecting a battle and our men are spoiling for a fight. This is as good a time to give it to them as any. In the morning we can charge through the pass and overwhelm them.”

“That tactic will do no good if the pass becomes choked with bodies, my Lord,” Aphanuzîr said, lifting his grey eyes to look wearily at him. “Better to hear their terms and see if we can accommodate them with far fewer losses.”

“When did you become such a craven, Aphanuzîr?” Pharazôn said gruffly. “You were not that way in your youth.”

Aphanuzîr’s forehead crumpled angrily, but he set his jaw and said nothing. Good.  Annatar was right the other evening. Aphanuzîr traded on their long friendship and all too often spoke his mind in front of others, making Pharazôn appear weak.
   
Pharazôn heard the guards in the outer foyer and the clank of chain. They entered with the prisoner shuffling between them. Pharazôn felt his body hum at the sight of that willowy form with the exotic cat-like eyes. The silky red hair fell like a burnished mantle about his shoulders. Pharazôn thought it might feel heavy and cool wrapped in his fingers. And those lips!  The last time he’d visited Annatar in his tent, intending to talk, he could not keep his eyes from them. Finally, just as he had risen to leave, he found himself grasping Annatar by the back of the head, roughly kissing his mouth. He’d realized what he was doing in time, realized he was losing control, and fled in a most unkingly fashion.  But it wasn’t a weakness, was it?  He had every right to treat his prisoner as he wished. 

Annatar’s alluring lips quirked slyly, then he inclined his head in a respectful manner.  “My Lord,” he said in that dulcet voice. “You wished to speak to me?”

“My cupbearer said you knew something about the Haradrim army blocking our path to Umbar.”

Annatar dipped his head again. “I do.”
 
“Well, bring him here,” Pharazôn growled at the guards, who hastened to do as he bid. “Have a seat, Annatar, just there. Sûla, get him a drink.” Pharazôn snapped his fingers at his cupbearer. Both Azgarad and Aphanuzîr’s expressions were stony as Sûla dipped up the mulled wine, and with a bow, presented the goblet to Annatar, who smiled prettily in response. 

“There, that will whet your voice,” Pharazôn said. “Tell us, Annatar is our intelligence correct? Are the Haradrim part of your forces?”

“Alas, no,” Annatar said. “To my great disappointment, King Hybernan failed to honor the alliance made by his nephew Aksan and attend my summons. I wonder what he wants now?”  His lips quirked again as if he found the situation humorous.

“I suspect you know,” Aphanuzîr said.

Annatar turned to him. “I do not know, but I can guess. Think about it. What do you now possess that you did not when you disembarked at Umbar nearly a fortnight ago?”

“You,” Aphanuzîr replied. “Are you saying they want you?  But why?”

Azgarad raised his sleek head. “Perhaps they have bethought themselves and now plan to honor your alliance?” 

Impatiently, Annatar waved a hand. “The Haradrim are loyal to none but themselves.”

“What did you promise King Hybernan in return for his aid in this war?” Pharazôn asked.

“The usual: power, land,” Annatar replied. “They would love to expand up to the River Anduin. I suspect the rumor of the size of your great army is what caused them to fail in their promise to come to Mordor. That is also what caused the Umbarian pirates to bugger off. But now that I am vulnerable, they might believe there is something more I could offer them if they could lay hold of my person.”

Pharazôn felt a sudden grip in his belly. “They want your knowledge, the elixir of youth, don’t they?  They know you’ve got the secret and want to force it from you.”

Annatar’s eyes lit. “Very good,” he said. “I do not relish being skinned alive, their usual method of interrogation.”

“You are familiar with them.  What do you believe is the best way to counter this?” Pharazôn said.

Annatar paused, languidly using a finger to stir his wine and then sucking the finger between those artfully curved lips.  He said, “Tell me, why should I help you? You, who put me in chains when I surrendered to you in good faith?”

“Good faith, I hardly believe that,” Aphanuzîr snorted.

Pharazôn laid a quieting hand on Aphanuzîr’s arm. “The way I see it, Annatar, you have no choice. I could turn you over to their tender care or keep you and find my own creative ways to force your cooperation.”

“Better than the ones you’ve already employed?”Annatar asked.  He shifted on the hassock in a way that managed to look both seductive and as if sitting pained him. “As I recall five days ago, you paid me a visit early in the morning and worked me over with a particularly nasty whip and certain . . . other implements.  You said that if I cooperated, I might earn some freedoms.  Well, have I not cooperated, so far?”

Pharazôn opened his mouth to retort and then let the unsaid words writhe in his throat.  He noticed that Azgarad and Aphanuzîr traded a glance.  Did they know what had happened? Quite likely.  He cleared his throat. “Yes, I do recall that,” he said uncertainly.

Annatar fingered the rim of his cup. “Great King, you are not utilizing my skills to your best advantage.  I have vast experience in warfare and tactical knowledge that might give you an edge.  If I were to share that with you, enabling you to be victorious against your enemies, would you strike the chains from my wrists and ankles and allow me to walk with dignity?”

“Uh!” Azgarad growled, throwing up his hands.  “I can’t believe we’re wasting time listening to this honeyed liar.”
 
“Enough, Azgarad,” Pharazôn said. “We have this well in hand.” He turned to Annatar. “You are not in a position to dictate anything. Tell us what you know and if your word proves true and your advice sound, I will think about the chains.”  The fire in the brazier flickered.   

“A bargain of sorts,” Annatar said, demurely lowering his eyes. “Very well, if that’s the best I can do, let’s have a look at your map.”  Azgarad abruptly shifted his chair aside so Annatar could move in.  “Crude,” Annatar said, as he bent to examine the map, “but adequate.  Now here is the Pass, a long narrow canyon, the short way onto the plain.  When we were planning our tactics to counter your invasion, we intended to allow you to enter the pass and then block the back end with a full company of our troops.  I would have placed a force on the other side where we are currently encamped to engage the front columns.” 

“We still would have overwhelmed you,” Pharazôn said smugly. “When we saw what you were about, we would have sent our armies around the long way.  Here.”

“We planned to bring up catapults,” Annatar replied. “We would have bottled up a goodly portion of your force in the Pass from both sides, flinging fireballs among you.  It would be like toasting meat on a stick. Even if you had broken through, we would have inflicted serious damage.”  

“Carnage,” Azgarad muttered, his gaunt face looking pale.

Pharazôn had time to absorb how lucky they were that this had not happened.  “And still you surrendered,” he said.

“That would have been one skirmish,” Annatar said, pushing his long red hair out of his eyes. “Although undoubtedly we might have won there, ultimately we were evenly matched and our forces would have ground each other down.  It’s not efficient.  Too much waste.  Don’t you agree?”

Pharazôn nodded. “But this case is different. They are on the other side ready to block us in. We face the scenario you just described but coming at it from the other direction.  As I said, I could bring the bulk of the troops around here, circumventing the Pass and encircling them on the other side,” he thumped the map.  “But it’s about sixty miles out of the way and will take too long.”

“Ah yes,” Annatar smiled like a well-fed cat. “But I know some things that you do not. There are ancient tunnels within the Pass leading to either side, here and here.   We delved them out wider to hide our equipment.”  He voice grew even softer and sweeter. “We stored catapults under there and ammunition--a secret recipe that bursts into flame when it hits the ground.  The tunnels lead out to the plain – a short cut. You can move an entire force there in about a third of the time it would take to go around.”

“Ah!” Pharazôn, Azgarad, and Aphanuzîr all said at once, their faces lighting.

“We can move the engines through the tunnels and come out onto the plain, from either side,” Annatar continued. “In the meantime, we’ll post your archers all along the top of the Pass.  We’ll try to lure the Haradrim to the mouth of the pass and bring your forces around behind them. They will be surrounded and overwhelmed. You will be able to capture the ones that survive the assault. More slaves to work your gold mines and I’ll have my revenge for their failure to hold to their agreement. We both win. What do you say?”

“Hmmm,” Pharazôn stroked his chin, noting that he needed a shave. “But don’t the Haradrim know about these tunnels as well?”

“They may, but it will not avail them.  We’ll move tonight stealthily.  They will not be suspecting it.”

“What if you are tricking me, Annatar?” Pharazôn glared at him.

“You’ll have me surrounded by your guards.  If all is not as I have said, you can order them to kill me,” Mairon replied amiably. 

Pharazôn looked at Azgarad who looked at Aphanuzîr.  Slowly they all nodded. 
“So be it,” Pharazôn said. There was a heavy feeling in the air like the sweetness of snuffed candles.

“I suggest you begin moving your forces now so we can be ready at dawn,” Annatar said.

“Agreed,” Pharazôn replied.

“My Lord,” Sûla said softly from just behind his left shoulder. “What about Tigôn?  He’s coming back with a message and we don’t want the Haradrim to suspect anything while they still have him, or he may suffer the brunt of their displeasure. My lord.”

Pharazôn stroked his chin. “Of course, I had not forgotten about him.  I’ll send a small sortie out to escort him back safely before we begin the assault.” 

“Now then,” Azgarad said. “I’ll begin to mobilize the army.  It’s going to take a few hours to get them out of bed and ready to move.  In the meantime, Annatar, you will lead me and my company to scout out these tunnels. With your approval, my Lord, I suggest that Aphanuzîr follow behind me with his force.”

“Yes, that will work. Aphanuzîr, send your best archers to the top of the Pass to reinforce the ones there.  Rothîbal’s force should still be just within the Pass. Have one of your men tell him to hold his position. That should be sufficient punishment for him as the brunt of the fighting may fall there.  I will lead the force that comes around on the other side,” Pharazôn said. “If this goes well, Annatar, you will have helped us be rid of many of the Haradren fighters who have been a large thorn in our side.” 

“Happy to pluck out the thorns for you, Great King,” Annatar said with a bow.  Briefly, the sorcerer’s tongue flicked across his lips.

   
*****************
 -tbc-

---

Chapter End Notes

Because of a dearth of canon Southron, these words are all elfscribe inventions. Also, apparently there isn't a canon adjective for the Haradrim or name for the language the Haradrim speak.  After playing with lots of variations, Haradric, Haradaic, etc, I think I'll either use "Southron" or “Haradren” which is the Sindarin adjective for southern.  If anyone knows something different, let me know:

Aksan - Haradren name.  Adding the i at the end "Aksani" denotes respect
vâkis - Haradren word meaning genitals.
Skazung - Haradren swear word meaning excrement.  
Rhag ena! - more invented Haradren
orzini - another invented term for beer