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

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Chapter 13 - Arzog's Pass

Chapter summary: Although Amandil (Aphanuzîr) and the King’s Steward, Azgarad, are deeply suspicious of Annatar, they agree to look for the tunnel under Arzog’s Pass.  Meanwhile Sûla encounters the insanely bewitched Zôri and Tigôn finds himself in trouble with the Haradrim.

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The King stared greedily at Annatar as the sorcerer dipped his long finger into his wine cup and then lifted it, dripping red, to shapely lips. In consternation, Amandil watched them both. How far had the King already involved himself with this creature? Amandil had been observing the Maia while he told them about the convenient presence of the secret tunnels under the Pass. He had to admit the sorcerer was a skilled negotiator, his feelings well hidden behind the calculating mask. But in the Zigûr’s flickering yellow eyes Amandil saw the detached interest of a cat watching a sparrow hopping within striking range. Cod’s fins, why couldn’t the King see it?

The Council had known of Annatar’s alliance with the Haradrim before they embarked on this expedition and Annatar has just admitted it himself. It seemed plausible that he might want revenge if the Haradrim really had failed to come to his aid. But what if that was a lie? What if, instead, he intended to entrap a goodly portion of the Númenórean army in these tunnels to advantage the smaller Haradrim forces awaiting them beyond the Pass? Perhaps he still dreamed of coming out the winner in this contest? Or maybe, Amandil thought with sudden fear, this had been Annatar’s plan all along, and they were walking right into his net.

Lord Azgarad was intently poring over the map, pinching his lower lip between finger and thumb and occasionally casting a sidelong glance at the Zigûr. Seemingly, he was also wary of the sorcerer but knowing the practical Steward as he did, Amandil figured Azgarad was willing to deal with him as long as he thought it was to Númenor’s advantage.

“Pharazôn,” Amandil ventured and the King shifted his attention away from Annatar. “I think the strategy, as we have outlined it, is acceptable as a contingency plan, but first I should like to hear what the Haradrim propose. I suggest we put our men in place and then wait for young Tigôn’s report before making a move.”

Ar-Pharazôn shrugged. “I can’t imagine there is anything they could offer that would make any difference.”

Amandil glanced at Annatar. The King saw it and said, “Turning Annatar over to them is out of the question. He is of strategic importance.”

“Still, I believe it most prudent to wait,” Amandil insisted. “When all is in place, we will send you a signal by torch relay. Up and down if all is well; side to side if there is danger. If you make the decision to attack, return the all’s well signal.”

“I agree,” Azgarad said.

“Very well,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “At least we will present the appearance of having considered whatever they are proposing. Once you locate the entrance to the tunnels, set a watch there to guide us. I will await your torch message before entering.”

“I believe that is wise,” Amandil said. “Now, I’d best rouse my men from their beds. There is much to do.” He stood and held up his wine cup, “To victory,” he said, drained it and then handed the empty cup to Sûla. He shot a warning look at Annatar, who blinked once in return, the corners of his sumptuous mouth curling upward. Amandil seriously considered punching him.

Azgarad addressed the guards, “Take charge of the prisoner until we return. Get him a horse and meet us by the opening to the Pass. If he escapes, it’s on your heads.”

“Since we are going into battle,” Annatar said, “I should like to wear my armor, which you took from me.”

“Bring his armor,” the King said. “We leave within the hour.”

The guards bowed and ushered Annatar out of the tent. Azgarad rose. “My Lord King,” he said to Ar-Pharazôn. He turned to Amandil. “Come with me, Counselor.” Amandil bowed to the King and followed the Steward into the chilled air, feeling the ache in his bones.

* * * *
Sûla had become increasingly nervous as he stood behind the King listening to the discussion about the upcoming battle. He remembered Annatar’s words before they had performed the shielding spell to protect Tigôn. ‘This is only temporary, Sûla. It will fade away ‘ere the moon reaches its zenith.’ And now that time was a scant three hours hence. Tigôn might be in danger. As soon as the others departed, Sûla sank down before the King, clasping his knees. “Sire, I have a request.”

“What?” Ar-Pharazôn responded. “Be quick about it; I am in haste.”

“With your permission, I should like to go with the sortie to retrieve Tigôn.”

“Why would you wish to do that?” Ar-Pharazôn frowned, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Sûla could not think of a believable lie. “My Lord, I think Aphanuzîr is right, we should at least find out what the Haradrim want. I overheard the strategy you devised. I could ensure that nothing goes awry and that Tigôn returns safely.”

“I admire your courage, Sûla, but I believe it’s misguided. What would you do if the Haradrim caught you? You are no warrior. They would sell you to some corsair’s brothel, or worse. I’d rather keep your lovely skin intact.” Ar-Pharazôn brushed the backs of his knuckles against Sûla’s cheek. Sûla looked up, pleadingly.

“No,” the King growled. “I have other tasks for you. You must find my chancellor, Nibanuzîr, and tell him to take charge of gathering my household and leading them to a protected area on higher ground. I have no desire to see you all slaughtered if our plans do not work and the enemy breaks through. Hear me?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Good boy. Give me a kiss for luck.” Sûla offered his mouth and Ar-Pharazôn roughly kissed it, leaving a taste of bitter wine. “Now then,” the King said, “call my armorer. Quickly. We have a battle ahead of us.”

Ar-Pharazôn rose and went back toward his bedroom. For a moment, Sûla stood there bemused. It seemed that the King did care about him and the rest of his household. Sûla’s former master would not have given a black fig whether he lived or died. Still, he felt uneasy. He alone of all the King’s men was familiar with the Haradrim and knew that they could change strategies at any time, especially if they sensed the King was not dealing fairly with them. Sûla stretched out his energies as Annatar had taught him, but could not get a sense of his friend. He sighed. The King had given him an order that he dared not disobey, so Tigôn’s fate must be consigned to Zizzûn for now. Sûla hastened off to call into service the King’s armorer and his chancellor.

* * * *
The rising moon seemed to be swimming up through wisps of cloud, casting its eerie glow on the two dozen men making their way along the narrow road through Arzog’s Pass. Off to his left, Amandil could hear the river murmuring far below them. He and Azgarad led the sortie, riding on either side of the Zigûr. The chains about the sorcerer’s wrists chinked as his horse moved forward in its fast, pacing walk. Two men rode just behind them carrying torches. Amandil was feeling irritated and apprehensive. He did not fool himself into believing this battle would be easily won, even if it all went according to plan. They rounded a bend and the Pass opened up, with high walls on either side, black in the pale light.

Annatar swept his head from side to side, his eyes visible as twin gleams through the visor in his spiked iron helm. His dense black armor seemed to absorb the torchlight. “This looks familiar. I think it’s near here,” he purred.

“You think? You don’t know?” Amandil growled.

“It’s been an age since I was last here,” Annatar said. “Surely you don’t imagine I accompany my forces myself?”

“The mark of a coward,” Azgarad said.

Annatar’s smile was visible as a flash of pointed teeth. “Mark of an effective strategist,” he said. “Do you lead your forces into battle, Lord Azgarad?”

“If the situation calls for it,” Azgarad replied.

“It would be foolhardy under almost any circumstance,” Annatar said smoothly. “As commander, you are much too valuable to make a target of yourself. Better to drive your forces from behind.”

“Men fight better if they trust and admire their leader,” Amandil rejoined. “Sometimes that means you must stick your neck out and use your own bravery to inspire theirs.”

“You Númenóreans think you are so superior,” Annatar said. “Fear is a better prod than loyalty and cleverness trumps bravery. My methods have been remarkably successful so far.”

“If they were so successful, why are you the one in chains?”Amandil retorted.

“Fah!” Annatar said, displeased. He lifted his hands. “I’m in chains because you do not trust me. But this night’s work will change that. Care to make a wager, either of you, on the success of our venture guided by my knowledge and foresight?”

“I’m not a gambling man,” Amandil said.

“Ah, but you are,” Annatar replied. “Anyone who makes a living as a sea captain gambles every time he sets foot on the deck. My brother Ossë is remarkably fickle. I’ve watched him capsize a ship merely because he felt queasy from eating a bad oyster.”

Amandil scratched his nose thoughtfully. Of course Annatar was a Maia, as powerful as Ossë, the being that ruled so much of his life, the one he attempted to appease with an oiolairë branch tied to the prow of his boat and with gifts left in rocky caves by the shore. He prided himself on logical thinking and yet when it came to the capriciousness of Ossë, he was as superstitious as the Haradrim. Annatar was just as powerful, perhaps more so, than Ossë. Amandil could sense the veiled power beside him as clearly as one could feel the heat of a bonfire. He must never forget what Annatar was. Never. “I did not know that Ossë was your brother,” Amandil said.

“All of us Maiar are kin, born in the Song,” Annatar said. “You trust in what you think you know, that I am your enemy because I allied myself with Melkor and that the Lord Ossë is your friend because he chose to forsake that same allegiance. But know, o men of Númenor, Ossë and I are more alike than you might suppose. Would you be surprised to learn that in the end I also renounced Melkor?”

“So, I have heard,” Amandil replied, “but if you truly repented it is strange that you continue to ape his ways. I never believed you were sincere in renouncing him.”

“Didn’t you? But you trust my brother? Is it Ossë the Repentant who conjures a storm that ravages your vessel? Or Ossë, the Fickle? Do you not gamble on his good will? And yet whether or not he destroys your livelihood may well turn upon a spoiled oyster.”

Amandil could feel his ire rising. “So all you have proven is that the Maiar are capricious and not to be trusted.”

“Oh, are the Valar any better?” Annatar said contemptuously. “What about Lord Manwë’s penchant for blowing up a storm that can destroy your whole fleet? I daresay all the prayers and gyrations of your Bawîba Manô priests have done little to placate his whims.”

“It is not for us to understand what drives Lord Manwë’s moods,” Amandil sniffed. “Perhaps such storms have a greater purpose than we can know.”

“Just keep telling yourself that as you float about amidst the wreckage,” Annatar said.

“Is there anyone here who can shut him up?” Amandil said to the air.

“My Lord Aphanuzîr, did you have need of us?” one of the guardsmen behind them called.

Annatar chuckled. “The resort of one who hears an unwanted truth, stuffing his fingers in his ears. I am simply trying to explain that your perception of the truth might be flawed. I may not be your enemy. In fact, I could be your friend at need.”

Azgarad moved his horse closer. “If you want us to think better of you, Annatar, you’ll have to prove yourself,” he growled. “So, this little scheme of yours had better work. I warn you that if you are dealing double with my King, I’ll slice you up and feed you to the dogs.”

“You’d like to see me become dogmeat, wouldn’t you both?”Annatar said. “You are secure in your knowledge that your ways are right and mine are wrong. In time, you will find that sentiment misguided. Any powerful nation is beset by enemies, the Haradrim are merely one case in point. You want Númenor to be the most powerful force in Endórë? I have the knowledge to help achieve that goal that could benefit you both. I am at your service, for now. Use me.”

Azgarad was quiet. Amandil could almost hear the wheels turning in the Steward’s head. Cool and calculating, Azgarad was a lord of vast amounts of land in his own right, loyal to the King, and fierce in dealing with any threat to his beloved country. And whereas Amandil wished to return to the splendor that Númenor had been, a center of learning and wisdom, Azgarad had his eyes on a grander future. In council meetings, he often pointed out that their island was finite with a growing population, particularly of immigrant Umbarians, and that they had mined out the iron and copper as well as much of the timber. ‘These weaknesses threaten our security,’ he’d said. Consequently, he had supported the King’s offensive against the Haradrim last year, which Amandil had opposed. Azgarad wasn’t interested in revenge against the Haradrim for capturing Umbarian citizens. He wanted control over their lands.

“Enough of this,” Amandil said. “We must focus on the task at hand. Where is this tunnel you spoke of? I see nothing.”

“Near. Very near. In fact . . .” Abruptly, Annatar halted his horse, leaning forward and peering ahead into the darkness. “Bring up a torch,” he commanded. One of the torch bearers rode up. His flaming brand delineated the walls of a stone bridge arching over the river. “Perfect,” Annatar said in a pleased tone. “That’s the way to one of the tunnels that comes out on the south side of the pass and over here to the right is the other one towards the north. That’s the way we need to go.” He touched his heels to his horse’s sides and sped off towards a thick grove of willow trees, disappearing into the thicket as if he’d been swallowed up.

“By Angband’s pits! Don’t lose him!” Azgarad cried. They all pelted into the grove. Nearly blinded by snapping twigs, they emerged suddenly into a clearing and stopped short as they saw a large black opening in the side of the cliff that had been completely screened from the main road by the willows.

“Did he go in there?” Amandil asked.

“Must have,” Azgarad snarled. “I fear trickery. Hurry! We must catch the conniving little beast.” They surged down the long slope towards the yawning entrance.

* * * *

Nibanuzîr, the King’s head of household was not at all pleased to be awakened. He rubbed his eyes with pudgy fingers and blinked at Sûla. “What a time for the Haradrim to attack,” he moaned.

“We have little control over their timing,” Sûla said. “The King bids us make haste.”

“Ah yes, well Sûla, this is a lot to do in little time. Would you go down to the healers’ area and alert them? We’ll get it done more quickly that way. I’ll take charge of moving the rest of the household.”

“As you command.” Sûla bowed. He mounted his black courser, a gift of the King, and headed towards the healers’ encampment. With some trepidation, he passed by Yanak’s tent, wondering what had become of his wife, Zôri. Just as he thought of her, he noticed a figure huddled by the fire in the clearing. As he approached, she looked up, frowning, and tugged on her ear as if it bothered her. “King’s whore,” she hissed.

Sûla stiffened at the insult. There was something strange about her. “Zôri, we’re being attacked. You must go up there.” He pointed at the high ridge in the distance.

“He has touched you,” Zôri cackled. “I can see it glowing like a wheel of fire in your breast. We are alike in that way, you and I.”

“What?” Sûla halted completely and dismounted. “What?” he said again. “Banâth, get up off your arse. We’re being attacked!”

“Attacked from within and without,” Zôri said. “We are doomed, mîki.” She made the sign against evil.

Yanak, his mustache drooping sadly, staggered from the tent and took her by the arm. “Forgive her,” he said, his words slurring. “She hash taken a bad turn and dush not know what she’s shaying.”

“Well, keep her quiet,” Sûla snapped. He turned to the gathering crowd and cried, “By order of the King, everyone here must store their belongings in their wains, take sufficient blankets and food and retreat to the top of that hill for safety.”

“What? We mush leave ina middle o’ night?” Yanak asked, his words echoed by a chorus of questions all around.

“We’re being attacked by the Haradrim,” Sûla said. “These are the King’s orders. It is worth anyone’s life to disobey. Hurry.”

The crowd scattered.

“Come along, Zôri,” Yanak called over his shoulder as he headed towards the picket lines to get their horse.

“You are ensnared, King’s whore,” Zôri cackled.

“Are you mad? How dare you insult me!” Sûla cried. “Go along with you.” He shoved her in the direction her husband had gone.

She shook her head vigorously. “I cannot. Your master has destroyed my peace of mind.”

“The King? What has he done?” Sûla asked.

“Not that master,” Zôri said and grinned. In the silvered moonlight, her face looked drawn, almost skeletal.

Fear shivered Sûla’s bowels. He grabbed Zôri’s arm. “Shut your mouth, banâth,” he hissed, “or by Zizzûn, something bad will happen to you.”

“Something bad already has,” she moaned, frantically tugging her ear. “It’s him, his voice. Make it stop.”

“Zôri!” Yanak called as he unclipped the picket line. “Come help me!”

“I swear to you,” Sûla hissed under his breath to Zôri, “if you betray me, you’ll be burned alive. I’ll see to it.”

“You think your Master will protect you, but he will not,” Zôri said. “I’m going to find him now and finish the task I started. You’ll thank me later.”

Suddenly she jerked the reins from Sûla’s hands, and before he could react, she hauled herself up onto his horse. “No, stop!” Sûla cried, making a grab for her legs. But with a flurry of skirts, she settled onto the horse’s back, jerking the beast’s head around and kicking him so hard, he squealed and half-reared, causing Sûla to leap back. Zôri galloped off into the night.

“Hai, she’s taken my horse!” Sûla yelled.

“Where’s she going?” Yanak called, as he lifted a bridle hanging from a tree and dropped it with a clink of metal. His chestnut snorted, tossing his head.

Sûla ran over to him, setting his hand on the horse’s smooth muscular neck. “I don’t know,” he said, “but she’s like to do some mischief. Give me your horse.”

“No need. I’ll go after my wife,” Yanak said. He picked up the bridle and began fumbling with it, trying to straighten it out.

“You’re drunk!” Sûla declared. He wrenched the bridle away from the surgeon, and holding it by the headstall, pressed the bit into the horse’s mouth, buckled the cheek strap, then threw the reins over its head. “Give me a leg up,” he called and Yanak bent, cupping his hands to allow Sûla to step into them and vault onto the horse’s broad back.

The force of Sûla’s leap caused Yanak to fall over onto his backside, where he wallowed ineffectively. “Wait, I’m coming too,” he said as he attempted to stagger to his feet.

Cursing every moment of delay, Sûla called, “No! Go with the others. I’ll find her.” He drummed his heels against the chestnut’s side and they galloped past a confused mass of people and wains, who looked up as he thundered by, heading towards the Pass.

* * * *

As they neared the entrance to the cave, Amandil could see movement, and then he heard a sudden squeal from a horse. Horse and rider, barely visible as black against blackness, emerged from the cave. They wheeled about as if the rider were fighting the horse, facing the entrance again. The horse shook his head with a low grunt, moved forward, then stopped short again.

“That’s Annatar,” Azgarad said. “By Mandos, what is he doing?”

“Frankly, I’m at a loss,” Amandil said. “It looks like his horse won’t enter the cave. We should approach cautiously.”

The tall spiked helmet turned toward them and Amandil could see the gleam of the eyes. The company drew near enough to see that the horse’s nostrils were flared and his ears laid back.

“It took you long enough to get here,” Annatar said smoothly, but Amandil detected a strange wavering note in his voice as if he were as frightened as his horse. He was breathing heavily. Amandil’s horse seemed to have picked up on it, dancing sideways.

“What do you mean by charging off like that?” Azgarad roared. “By the Valar, I should have your head.”

“But you will not,” Annatar said, seemingly recovering his composure. “I’ve led you here as promised and was awaiting the torchbearers. It’s quite dark in there, even for my eyes.” He took a deep breath and then urged his horse forward again. “Well, are you coming?”

Amandil and Azgarad looked at each other. “Light the rest of the torches,” Azgarad directed, holding out his own torch to be lit. You and you, stay here. If all is clear, we’ll send a messenger back out here to go to the King. It will be your task to go back to the path and direct his force to the entrance here. The rest of you, follow me.”

Led by two warriors carrying flickering torches, Azgarad and Amandil flanked Annatar, followed by the rest of the sortie. They reached the cave entrance. Annatar stopped and clenched his teeth.

“What is wrong with you?” Azgarad demanded.

“Nothing. At all,” Annatar hissed. Biting his lip, he kicked his horse forward and they plunged into the cave. For a time they descended an incline. High above them they heard the twittering of bats. A cloud of them appeared, wheeling around the Zigûr. Several perched on his shoulders, crawling with little claws. He made a high pitched chirping noise and they took off again.

Amandil ducked. “I hate bats,” he said. “But they seem to like you.”

“Yes,” Annatar said. “I was one of them once.”

Amandil shivered at the idea. The air felt heavy, cold and clammy with the smell of clay. The path seemed to have been planed smooth and their horses had little trouble descending. Nevertheless, Amandil could feel his horse’s nervousness. Soon the tunnel leveled out. They emerged into a vast room and Amandil’s breath caught at the sight. It was filled with immense columns of stone twisted in strange bestial forms. From the ceiling hung stone daggers and more erupted from the floor. It was as if the gods had been building castles by dribbling bits of wet sand. The path headed straight through this mineral wilderness.

“It’s like a city,” Amandil marveled, waving his torch about.

“Look up,” Annatar said.

Heads craned upward and all around him Amandil heard the men gasping in wonder. The ceiling glittered with crystals that danced in the torchlight like morning sunlight on a field of new-fallen snow. He could see more of them coating the stone columns, and here and there were sheets of nearly transparent stone, falling like curtains. “It’s magnificent,” he heard one of the warriors say.

“You never told us the caves were filled with marvels,” Amandil said. “What causes this?”

“Little motions that add up with time,” Annatar said, “Rainwater seeps down from the surface, passing through soil and rock. I believe the water must carry with it minerals, which it leaves behind as it travels. Here, you see the results of that steady drip, drip, drip where it descends from the roof of the cave, splashing upon the floor.” He waved at what appeared to be a field of needles emerging from the ground. “Slowly, ever so slowly, the drips build one upon another, until they join together to form these immense structures. There are other wonders in here: chambers in which bundles of delicate stone straws descend from the ceiling, waving at the lightest touch, and deep pools filled with fish and other strange creatures that have lost their eyes from living in perpetual darkness. It’s extraordinary! Long did I study here.”

His voice resounded with a childlike wonder that caused Amandil to look at him. Annatar had his head tilted back as he stared up at the crystalline cave overhead. By Mandos, he was a study in contrasts. The spiked helm and black armor made him appear like a vicious orc, except for that youthfully smooth chin and almost feminine lips. His slender body moved fluidly with the horse’s stride. Amandil reminded himself that this was a fiend, allied with the Great Enemy, responsible for countless deaths, but yet he seemed genuinely enthralled by the cave’s eerie beauty. Suddenly Amandil realized that he was feeling some grudging respect for the Maia. His uneasiness grew.

“I had no idea you had made a study of this,” Amandil said.

“I like to know how things work,” Annatar replied. “I’m convinced that it must have taken many millennia to create this effect.  Middle-earth is older than the stories say.”

“Don’t let the Bawîba Manô priests hear you talk like that,” Azgarad grunted. “I see you cleared a path through here.” He indicated places where the stone had been hacked and leveled.

“Sadly, my appreciation for the beauty was tempered by necessity,” Annatar said. “I ordered them to disturb it as little as possible but orcs are not known for their sensitivity.”

Amandil chuckled.

“Time grows short. When do we reach the other side?” Azgarad said.

“Soon. We are almost there,” Annatar replied.

They left the glittering chamber and entered a long twisty passage that eventually opened up into another large room. Several hundred yards distant, Amandil discerned the top of an opening through which he saw the deep blue of the moonlit sky. And there in the shadows, half-hidden by a tremendous stone column, sat two hulking platforms of wood on wheels. At their feet were piled many large rounded objects.

“Oh, look at that!” one of the warriors exclaimed.

“Cod’s fins!” Amandil said softly.

“And you did not believe me,” Annatar crowed. “If you had made that bet, Aphanuzîr, you would have lost.”

* * * *

Tigôn knew the orzini beer had gone to his head. Although still wary, his nervousness seemed to have fallen away. In fact, he felt unnaturally relaxed. The sound of the drums thrummed throughout his body, making his hands and feet move with the beat. He wanted to dance like the Haradrim warriors cavorting bare-chested in front of him, yipping, whirling, and leaping in a savage but strangely alluring fashion, but he didn’t trust the steadiness of his limbs. He tried to get up, staggered, and fell against Aksan, much to the laughter of some of the men nearby.

“Númenórean men are weak,” Aksan asserted to all those present. “They can’t handle the power of orzini. You want to see, young messenger, why we are so fearless in war?”

“Whah?” Tigôn said, sitting back down abruptly against the blanket. The remaining beer sloshed in the mug in his hand.

“Korizar,” Aksan called, and the huge tattooed warrior separated from the group and stood before him. “Give me your knife,” Aksan commanded. Korizar pulled one of his knives from his belt and handed it to Aksan. “Watch.” Aksan took the knife and drew the point along one of Korizar’s mounded pectorals, leaving a thin bloody line that slowly began to drip. With a sudden motion, he shoved the knife through the top layer of skin and muscle, leaving it embedded in the warrior’s flesh. Tigôn swallowed hard to keep from screaming.

Korizar didn’t even flinch; instead he laughed. “Look at the little messenger’s face, Aksan. He’s terrified.”

Aksan grinned at Tigôn. “It doesn’t hurt,” Aksan said. He stroked along Korizar’s chest with one hand, painting lines with the dribbling blood. Then he grabbed the handle of the knife and jerked it free. Blood gushed and then slowed to a trickle that finally stopped as if sealed with pitch. “The orzini numbs the pain and makes the blood quickly stop flowing. Here, I’ll show you.” Aksan nodded at Korizar, who reached down, grasped Tigôn’s arm, and hauled him to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Tigôn cried. He began to struggle.

“Hold still,” Aksan said, pulling Tigôn’s arm straight and pushing up the sleeve. He placed the point of the knife on his forearm.

Tigôn braced himself for the sting. But curiously, the knife wouldn’t bite into his flesh. Aksan swore and tried to press harder. Instead the knife seemed to glance off as if Tigôn’s arm were made of mithril. Both Korizar and Aksan’s eyes widened.

“That happened before when I tried to cut him,” Korizar said. “I thought my hand had slipped.”

“The Black Arts!” Aksan declared. He grasped Tigôn by the back of the neck and stared hard into his eyes. “You’ve been touched by the Zigûr!” he cried. Tigôn could smell the orzini on his breath.
“No, I swear, he’s never touched me,” Tigôn choked. “I’ve never been close enough.”

“Fool! It’s magic. He doesn’t need to touch your flesh for that.” Aksan flung Tigôn away from him. Then he spoke in Haradren. Korizar answered back angrily, gesturing at Tigôn. But Aksan took a step forward, speaking forcefully right in Korizar’s face, causing him to lower his eyes and then sink to his knees, head bowed. Aksan shouted an order to one of the nearby warriors.

Tigôn’s head was swimming. Why hadn’t the knife cut him? Had he truly been ensorcelled? The dancers moved against the backdrop of firelight, like wild animals. The drums throbbed in his blood. He felt strangely numb amidst the tumult. One of the warriors appeared leading several horses, including his own.

“You, Tigôn, son of Eärdur,” Aksan said. “It’s time. Take my message to the King. Tell him not to delay in delivering the Zigûr to us or we will fight to our last breath and a great many of your Númen King’s warriors will not return to your island in the sea.”

Tigôn bowed slightly. “I will deliver your message. But if I were you, I’d give up the idea of freeing the Zigûr. It will only bring you trouble.”

“Then, perhaps it would be wise on your King’s part to get rid of him,” Aksan smiled cruelly. He reached out and caressed Tigôn’s cheek. “Such a lovely skin you have, messenger,” he said. “It’s a shame it is impervious to the knife’s kiss. But lucky for you, you have the Zigûr’s protection. Go swiftly now. Korizar will guide you.”

Tigôn resisted rubbing his cheek to remove the feeling of Aksan’s touch, which seemed to itch. Instead, he gathered his fluid limbs together as best he could, mounted his horse, and galloped after Korizar and two other Haradrim into the blackness of the night.

The moon, nearly full, was floating high above them, nearly at its zenith, so bright that it cast vague shadows on the ground. Tigôn realized he had been at the Haradrim camp longer than he’d anticipated. There, time had seemed blurred. Now, as they approached the high cliffs that bordered either side of the pass, he heard the roar of the river in the distance. Relief surged through him. He had made it.

At the mouth of the Pass, he spied the reflection of moonlight off metal and shadowy figures on horseback. A clear voice called, “Who goes there?”

“Answer him,” Korizar growled. He moved his horse right against Tigôn’s so that their legs crushed together.

Tigôn shouted, “The King’s messenger. Bearing news.”

“Who rides with you?”

“Don’t answer,” Korizar said suddenly. He set a heavy hand on Tigôn’s shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Tigôn could see figures crawling through the grass that bordered the river bank.

“Mas crag dun! It’s a trick!” Korizar growled at the other warriors, who lowered their spears. He brought a knife up to Tigôn’s neck. Tigôn felt the pressure but no pain and did not realize he’d been cut until a warm trickle slid down into his shirt collar.

“Ah, seems your magic has run out,” Korizar gloated. “Tell them to back off or I’ll cut your sweet little throat.”

Tigôn’s heart thudded in his chest. Trying not to move, he cried out, “Stop! Come no further. He’ll kill me!” High above them on the ridge, he saw line after line of shadowy shapes rise, drawing their bows. “Impasse, Korizar,” he choked against the pressure of the knife. “Let me go, and by my honor, I’ll prevent them from harming you.”

“What honor do the Númenóreans have?” Korizar said. “You are my safeguard now. You’re coming with me. I never believed Aksan’s tactics would work.” He lowered his knife and then, with a quick jerk, he dragged Tigôn from his horse onto his own. Wrapping a powerful arm about Tigôn’s chest, he whirled his horse about. Tigôn heard the quick whizz-snick of an arrow that struck the ground behind them. Then another. Korizar’s horse squealed and he yanked its mouth to keep it still. The horses of other two warriors pivoted about.

“Back off or I’ll kill your messenger,” Korizar shouted, bringing the knife up to Tigôn’s throat. His words echoed back from the cliffs. Tigôn couldn’t even swallow because of the pressure of the knife. This is it, then, he thought. I’m finished. For some reason he couldn’t begin to fathom, he vividly imagined Sûla’s soft lips on his, while he felt helpless, unable to move.

-tbc-

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Chapter End Notes

Aphanuzîr - Amandil’s canon Adûnaic name
Nibanuzîr - an elfscribe invented Adûnaic name
Zizzûn -  Master of Fate, a god of the peasants around Umbar and an elfscribe invention
banâth - Adûnaic meaning wife. Sûla uses it here in the same way one might say Woman!
orzini - elfscribe invented Haradren name for a drugged beer