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

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Chapter 14 - The Demons of War

Chapter summary: While helping the Númenóreans set up the catapults, Mairon (Sauron) encounters some challenges and Sûla finds himself on the front lines of battle where his friend Tigôn is held by the Haradrim.

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Upon entering the cave, Mairon felt an inexplicable terror, accompanied by a shortness of breath as if the darkness were smothering him. His horse sensed his fear, squealed and plunged, and refused to go a step further inside.  Mairon could not understand it. He had spent many days in these very caves and never had such a feeling before. He quite liked the enclosed, quiet dark within the bowels of the earth. Didn’t he?  Angrily, he shook it off and by the time the Númenórean lords, Azgarad and Aphanuzîr, appeared with the sortie, Mairon had managed to regain control, both of his horse and himself.  He led the company through the tunnels as if nothing were amiss.  But a worrying undercurrent seemed to radiate from the darkness. There had been a similar sensation in his dungeon at Barad-dûr when he’d gone to hide the Ring.  Was this some side effect of leaving it behind?  The Ring had warned him of this.

It had not helped his peace of mind to wonder if his servants had carried out his orders. When he saw the huge wooden engines sitting there, as out of place amongst the delicate cave formations as a troll in a glass-blower’s workshop, Mairon felt better. The catapults were precisely where they should be.  Scaring his servants witless had its uses.

Aphanuzîr and Azgarad stared at the engines, for once at a loss for words.  He knew they had both thought he was lying. Mairon’s lips quirked.  Judicious use of the truth was always disarming.  But their reactions were different.  Aphanuzîr seemed disappointed to find the engines there, while Azgarad’s eyes lit greedily. Mairon chuckled; his mood suddenly lightened.

“Very well, then,” Azgarad said, dismounting and rubbing his hands together as he walked around the engines. “You Kardômel, go back the way we came and find the King. He should be marching in this direction. Tell him to divide his forces and send half here and the other half to the south side of the pass.  Tell him I recommend that Captain Nadroth take charge of the engines on the other side. He has experience with them.”

“Aye, my Lord,” the man said and rode off.  They saw his torch glimmer and then disappear down the dark road.

“How can we move the engines outside?” asked one of the torchbearers, a man named Nanikîr, with a closely-cropped beard and seed-like eyes.

“I designed them to move fairly easily when pushed,” Mairon said. “My orcs backed them in here.  We can push them out.”

“Let’s get to it,” Azgarad ordered.  “Dismount and tie up the horses. You lot go to the back and push and you others, pull the ropes in front. The rest push the wheels on the sides.”

Moving the huge wooden platforms turned out to be easier said than done but under Mairon’s direction, amidst a terrible creaking and groaning, the two dozen men managed to push both catapults out into the foothills outside the tunnel. After the complete blackness of the caves, the moonlit sky seemed bright as noon and the feeling of oppression left Mairon completely. He felt exhilarated. Everything was going to plan. He directed the men to place the catapults side by side on the edge of a steep cliff where there would be a good trajectory out onto the dark plain beyond.  

“Where shall we point them?” one of the men called.  

Azgarad scanned the horizon.  He turned to Mairon. “Do you know where the Haradren encampment lies?”

“How should I know?” Mairon said. “As you may recall, I’ve been shackled in a tent for the past week without the opportunity to scout for the whereabouts of enemies.”

“Aren’t you able to scry for these things?” Aphanuzîr asked, focusing his intent gaze upon Mairon.

“How much power do you think I have?” Mairon asked mildly.

“Likely more than you are letting on,” Aphanuzîr replied.  He glanced at Azgarad.

“We may have to send out scouts then,” Azgarad said. “An unfortunate delay.”

Mairon chuckled. “It will be much quicker if I send out my own scouts.”  Their puzzled expressions amused him.  He climbed a small hillock, raised his shackled arms to the skies, and gave a high-pitched call, summoning the bats he’d spoken to earlier in the cave.  After a few minutes, one tiny bat appeared, lighting on his cloak, then another.  Then suddenly hundreds swooped down like a cloud of smoke, whirling and chattering all about him. He listened carefully to the hundreds of creaking voices and heard, “Master. Here we are. South, south, east, east, southeast, masked men, many, amassing, fight.” Sure enough, if he strained his eyes in that direction, he could make out the tiny flickering light of campfires.
 
“My scouts say the Haradrim are encamped to the southeast,” Mairon said. “That way.” He pointed. 

Crouching and waving their hands against the hordes of bats, the men moved to readjust the catapult trajectory, rocking the machines forward and back. Moving them was made difficult by their proximity to the edge of the steep embankment.

“Argh, get them off,” one of the men shouted as a bat knocked him in the head.  

“Thank you my brothers,” Mairon trilled at the bats. “Be off with you, now.”  With shrill chirps and chitters, the mass arose, spiraling, dispersing into the night air. Slowly, all the men straightened up and eyed Mairon suspiciously.

“Quite a talent,” Aphanuzîr remarked dryly.  

“I told you, I am useful to have around,” Mairon replied, as he climbed back down the hillock.

“That remains to be seen,” Aphanuzîr said. “Bats! I hate bats.” He grimaced. 

“So little faith, Aphanuzîr,” Mairon mocked. The King’s counselor faced him, cloak billowing slightly in the breeze, the visor of his helm pushed up to reveal his bright, hooded eyes, silvered beard, and skeptical expression.  A very strong personality there. Not easily manipulated. “Come, let me show you the projectiles.”  Mairon gestured at several of the men standing idly by. “Bring out some of those clay balls that were piled up back there.  Do not drop them, not if you want to see tomorrow.”

One of the men returned, carrying a linen-covered ball about the size of a man’s head.  “This is my own design. Look,” Mairon said. Azgarad, Aphanuzîr and the others crowded around.  Mairon pulled aside part of the cloth. “These are hollow clay balls filled with a combustible mixture.  We light the cloth and then launch them, either one at a time or several together. When they hit, they explode with devastating effect. Boom!”  Mairon said and chuckled when the man holding the ball recoiled. “We’ll launch these from here and from the tunnel on the other side. Escaping from the onslaught will drive your enemies right into the men waiting at the pass.  Just like beating quail into the net.”

Azgarad nodded. “A good strategy.”

“I’m glad that these things are not aimed at us,” Aphanuzîr said.

Mairon suppressed the smile that wanted to rise to his lips. Wait until they saw the power of his invention. “Come, I’ll show you how to crank the launch arm back and lock it,” he said.  He told two of the brawniest men to begin cranking the winch that wound a rope around a drum, slowly pulling down the arm. Azgarad stood nearby, admiring the locking mechanism that Mairon had devised to keep the winch from slipping back.  Ah yes, let the King's Steward see the value of his inventions. Already, Mairon could see the cogs turning in Azgarad’s mind.

When they had winched the arm completely down, Mairon directed the men to slip the metal hook into an iron loop at the back of the bucket and unlatch the locking mechanism.  The arm was now kept in place solely by the hook attached to a rope that Mairon held in his hand. Mairon stood away to the side.  “It’s ready. One merely pulls this rope and it will release the arm. You must stand well clear because it can jump backwards.  Load it up.”  A nearby man picked up one of the clay missiles and loaded it into the wide spoon-like bucket on the end of the launch arm. The bomb slipped and he nearly dropped it.  There was a short gasp from several of the men.   

“Careful!” Lord Azgarad snapped.

“Indeed,” Mairon said, “if you drop it, this whole place goes up.”
 
“That is good to know,” called a woman’s voice from the mouth of the cave. 

The men’s heads all swiveled around. She stood in the moonlight, holding one of the clay bombs cradled in her arms like a baby.  Strands of hair like wisps of hay had escaped from the braid pinned across her head; her cheeks were streaked with dirt; and her eyes had the overly bright, staring look of madness. Mairon recognized her as the healer who’d tried to kill him.  He narrowed his eyes. “Zôri, isn’t it?” he said, pitching his voice for control. “What are you doing here?”

* * * *

Heart pounding, Sûla rode through the canyon, wondering what madness had possessed him.  The King had given him express orders to go with the household away from the battle and here he was heading right towards it, chasing an insane woman.  The horse he’d borrowed was a heavy draft animal that lumbered along despite Sûla’s best efforts to beat him into greater enthusiasm. His own horse, Cloud, which Zôri had stolen, was much faster. So, it was no wonder Sûla could neither see, nor hear her up ahead. What was she going to do?  Would she reveal his association with the Zigûr?  He had not known that Annatar’s magic would leave a mark on him that someone sensitive to it could detect.  It frightened the wits out of him.  He meant what he’d said to her.  If she betrayed him, he would make sure she burned too.

The moon was nearly at its zenith.  Another source of worry. Was Tigôn safe?  Sûla passed a stone bridge that led over the river. He pulled the horse to a halt and looked around. By Zizzûn’s pisspot! Had Zôri taken the route over the bridge or had she gone on straight ahead? He squinted.  There was a faint path to the north as well. Maybe he had the ability to sense her in the way that he could sense Tigôn. He stretched out his energies as Annatar had taught him and felt nothing, but when he faced the main road again, he caught something distant, a flash of panic. He had a brief image of a knife being sliced along an arm. Was that Tigôn’s arm? It looked like the green cloth of his sleeve.  He wavered. Maybe he should go after him.  Oh, but what would he say to the King?  Would he be beaten for his disobedience? Cast out of the King’s household to fend for himself?  He didn’t think the King would get rid of him for such an offense, but it was a risk. Well, he was already in trouble.  As they said in his village, if you’re cutting bait, you may as well fish for shark as sardines.

Sûla kicked the horse into a canter.  Shortly, the canyon widened and he rode smack into a group of riders sitting quietly on their horses.

“Halt,” one shouted. “Who are you?”

“A messenger from the King,” Sûla replied, thinking quickly. “The other messenger is overdue.  He sent me to find out why.”

“Come closer, let me see your face,” the man called. 
Sûla approached the small group of warriors and recognized Hazûn, who had been the first to encounter Lord Annatar and had narrowly escaped becoming his second victim. “Hail Hazûn,” Sûla said.  “Have you heard aught of the messenger’s fate?”
                                   
“Nay, we are wondering ourselves if something has gone amiss,” Hazûn said. 

“I can’t return to the King with no news,” Sûla replied.  “He needs information to decide his next course of action.”

“I’ll escort you to the mouth of the pass,” Hazûn said. “Perhaps we’ll hear something there. I have it, lads,” he addressed the others.  

A league further down the road, they found themselves threading through dozens of warriors, some on horseback, some afoot with their great yew bows.   Men were shouting directions.  Sûla saw tall Lord Nimruzîr, wearing a silver helm, waving men past him to swarm up paths into the hills on either side of the road. Ah yes, he remembered that Lord Aphanuzîr had tasked his son with placing the archers at the top of the pass. Quietly Sûla rode by with Hazûn at his side. He would prefer that Nimruzîr didn’t notice him. There would be questions.  They reached an area where the canyon walls of the pass gave way, revealing the wide plains beyond.  “Here we are,” Hazûn said.  “I cannot see anything, can you?”

“No,” Sûla said.  “We should wait.”

Then high above them someone called, “Lord Nimruzîr, there is a small group approaching in the distance.”

“Get in position,” Nimruzîr barked in his sea captain’s voice. “You there, you six, go hide in the tall grass on the plain so you can take them down if necessary. Go!”

Sûla and Hazûn slid off their horses, handing them to some men.  They followed four bowmen out along the road, hearing the river purling in the distance, and sank down into the long grass along the high banks. What am I doing here? Sûla thought.  I don’t even have a weapon. For what seemed like a long time, he lay still, barely breathing, the dry grass tickling underneath him.  Distantly, through the ground, he felt the rumble of approaching hooves. Four riders thundered out of the darkness of the night, drawing close. Sûla  could descry Haradren warriors, their faces nearly covered by scarves.

From the hill above, a strident voice called, “Halt, men of the Harad!”

The Haradrim reined their horses in abruptly, leaning back, and skidding to a halt.  One of the riders was smaller, wearing Númenórean dress, curly hair. Yes, that must be Tigôn. Sûla’s heart began to thud. He rose up on his forearms straining to see and hear.

“State your errand!” the herald called from above them. 

“I am the King’s messenger, bringing news,” Tigôn called out in a raspy voice. 

“Something isn’t right here,” Hazûn whispered to the men around them, “The messenger should be riding away from the others. Yet they appear to be crowding him. Let’s move in closer.”  They began crawling though the grass. 

The Haradren rider closest to Tigôn growled something and a knife flashed in the moonlight as he leaned over, swiftly bringing it to Tigôn’s throat. The other warriors lowered their spears. Tigôn cried out, “Stop, come no further!  They’ll kill me!”

Sûla and the others stopped crawling.  Suddenly, the huge warrior sitting on the horse nearest Tigôn, dragged him off his horse onto his own.  Sûla gasped.  Not good. What could he do against four trained Haradren warriors?  An arrow zipped down from high above them, then another shot by Hazûn in an attempt to keep the Haradrim from fleeing. Their horses danced as if they might charge off at any moment.  Sûla could feel his heart hammering. Then it came to him what he should do.  “Hazûn,” he whispered, “Let me talk to them, I can speak Haradren.”

“They will skewer you,” Hazûn whispered.

“I’ll find out what they want,” Sûla said, and without waiting for permission, slowly he stood.  It was probably the bravest thing he’d ever done in his life.

* * * *
“Where did she come from?” Azgarad said, as he warily eyed the woman standing several yards away, clutching a deadly weapon in her arms.

“I don’t know,” said one of the men.  “I turned around and there she was.”

“I come from the coast where my family has been eaten by crows,” Zôri said.  She slowly advanced, her eyes locked on Mairon. “You men do not have eyes in your hearts.  If you did, you would know that there is a snake in your midst.  You are allowing him to wriggle and squirm his way into your souls. I am a healer and this is the cure.”  She lifted the bomb in her hands.

“Zôri, you are not well. You must go back to the camp,” Mairon said with soft menace.  Still holding the catapult’s release string, he took a step backwards, feeling trapped between the side of the great engine and the dark ravine behind him. Inwardly he seethed.  Why was she resisting his spell?  She must have a stronger will than he'd thought.  He did not want to reveal any more of his power to the King’s men, not if he could help it, but a firebomb could put a serious dent in his plans.  Well, he was done playing with this one.

“Banâth,” Azgarad said, “put the thing down and we’ll take you back to your husband.”  Two of the men moved towards her.

“Nay!” she cried.  “You will not take my revenge away from me.  Do you all know what the Black One did?  What he will do? Oh, but you dinna take a woman seriously, do you?  You only see your engines of death and your schemes and your dreams of conquest! Here,” she raised the bomb slightly, “now you will get a taste of your own medicine.” 

“All of you, into the cave!” Aphanuzîr cried. The men hastened to obey him. Azgarad hesitated.

“Do as he says.  I’ll deal with her,” Mairon snapped, using a tone of Command.  The men ran like conies, disappearing within the mouth of the cave. Aphanuzîr hung back at the entrance, as if weighing what to do.

“Very well, you wish to challenge me,” Mairon said, turning his full gaze on the annoying creature.  “Come closer and see if you have the strength of mind to do it. You do know that if you drop that, you’ll only succeed in killing yourself.  I am immortal.”

“Aye. But I daresay, you’ll miss that pretty face,” Zôri smirked.

“Come closer, then,” Mairon said. “I dare you.” She stared at him with those glazed eyes. Now she seemed unsure but was complying anyway. A step, then another one.  Closer. She was almost there, clutching the bomb to her chest, and now she looked down at it.  Another step.  Bull's eye.

And Mairon yanked the rope.

With tremendous force, the catapult arm snapped forward and the whole platform recoiled backward on its wheels, striking Zôri hard and sending her flying off the cliff.  A tremendous explosion rocked the ground and a ball of flame roared upwards from the darkness below.  

Mairon felt a cold satisfaction.  Not since Lúthien had bested Morgoth had a woman attempted to challenge him.  So much for that.  He brushed off his hands.

Aphanuzîr came pounding over, carrying a torch in his hands, followed closely by Azgarad and several of the other men.  They paused at the edge of the embankment and looked down in horror at the flames crackling below them.

“Valar!” Aphanuzîr cried. “Quick, grab the torch, Nanikîr, and we’ll lower you down there to see if she survived.”

“Unlikely,” Mairon said. “If the fall didn’t kill her, the explosion surely did.  I told you the machine had a kick.”

“Shut up!” Aphanuzîr snarled. “You and you! Hurry!”  Several men grabbed a length of rope and lowered the man down off the side of the cliff face.  He panned a torch back and forth. “I see nothing,” he called up, “just the fire.”

“We’re bringing you back up,” Aphanuzîr called.  He turned and directed a glare at Mairon.

“Why are you angry?” Mairon challenged, striding forward and standing toe to toe with the King’s counselor.  “She nearly destroyed the whole operation.  Many Númenórean lives depend on this. You should be thanking me for dealing with the problem so neatly.”

“You might at least show some remorse.  But then, look who I’m talking to,” Aphanuzîr said.

Mairon snorted.  “Casualties are expected in war, Captain Aphanuzîr.  We have no time for sentiment. If you like, I’ll cry about it later.  Now, we need to continue the operation, don’t you think? Lord Azgarad?”

Azgarad nodded.  “Bring out some more of the bombs,” he ordered. “And have a care with them!  We’ve seen what they can do.”

Shaken and subdued, the men went about their tasks.  Why should the loss of one madwoman trouble them? Mairon mused. They were about to unleash the demons of war upon thousands of Haradrim. 
 
* * * *

“Hold,” Sûla called out in Haradren. “We mean you no harm. What is the message for the Númenórean King?”

The Haradren warrior, intimidating with his huge size and facial tattoos, towering above him on his great horse, turned to face Sûla, “Who are you?”

“My name is Sûla.  I was raised near your country. We have been awaiting the news from your leader.”

“Why have you ambushed us?” the warrior growled.  “Tell them to back away!”

“No, not an ambush,” Sûla said with as much scorn as he could muster. “A greeting party. Have you forgotten that the law holds a messenger sacred? Release him now and no harm shall come to you.”  There was a poignant silence.  Then Sûla spat on the ground.  “Have you no honor?  What is your name?”

“Korizar of the Black Serpent People,” came the deep voice. “And it is the Númenóreans who have no honor.” 

That was the key, the man’s name!  In the blue moonlight, he could discern the warrior gripping Tigôn about the chest, holding the knife to his throat.  The other warriors’ spears were lowered, pointed directly at him. Sûla swallowed hard.  He had a plan, if only Tigôn had enough wits to cooperate.  “Tigôn, rats in the hole, all gone to ground,” he said in Adûnaic. “Be ready.”

“What?” he heard Tigôn gasp.    

“Come no closer,” Korizar rumbled. “I will kill him and then all of you!”
 
Sûla heard a strange roaring sound and looked up in time to see a ball of flame with a long tail arching high overhead. It appeared to fall almost straight down, crashing in the distance with an explosion of fire.

“Ai! Númenórean dogs!” Korizar yelled and wheeled his horse about.    

At the same moment Sûla cried out, “Korizar!” Then, standing tall with fists raised, he spoke the words of power that Annatar had taught him. The magic howled through him, and roaring like a serpent, poured out as a sudden blast of wind. With a scream, Korizar’s horse reared, dumping both its riders, and galloped off. Korizar landed on the ground and lay unmoving as if turned to stone.  Tigôn rolled away and then leapt up and ran towards Sûla as if a warg was on his tail. The other Haradren warriors yelled and charged. “Run Tigôn!” Sûla called over his shoulder as he pelted back towards the pass. He heard Hazûn shout, “Shoot the enemy!  Shoot them!”  

Arrows began whistling down. Sûla heard a scream. Turning, he saw Tigôn go down.  No! Sûla ran back, grabbed Tigôn’s arm, and hauled him up.  No arrows protruded from his back. “You’re fine,” Sûla gasped. “Fool! Get up and run!”

Arrows nipping at their heels, they gained the safety of the pass where they halted, panting heavily. Mounted warriors rushed past them, spears lowered. They could hear the clash of weapons in the distance. Another fireball screamed by, landing with a boom somewhere in the dark.

Hazûn said, “By the Valar! Where are they coming from?”

Tigôn whirled on Sûla. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you, you pinhead,” Sûla said.

Tigôn’s eyes were round, haunted.  “How? What did you . . .” 

Sûla cried, “Tigôn, you’re bleeding! There on your neck!”  Pulling a cotton scarf from his own neck, he pressed it to Tigôn’s wound.  The page’s skin felt hot and the pulse in his neck throbbed against Sûla’s hand.

“I am?” Tigôn said, sounding dazed. He pushed Sûla away, looked at the blood on the scarf in his hand, and then doubled over and was sick on the ground. 

Sûla held his shoulders.  “Gah, what were you drinking? It looks black.”

“Beer,” Tigôn choked.  “Some kind of drug . . . .” He coughed violently.
 
“Here, let me.  Don’t worry, it’s not deep,” Sûla said, pressing the scarf back to Tigôn’s neck. He helped Tigôn stand, wrapped the scarf once around and tied it loosely enough that he could still talk.

“I can’t feel the wound at all,” Tigôn said helplessly, patting at the bandage. “Ach!” He made a face and spat on the ground.    

“Orzini has that effect. Get him some water,” Sûla called to Hazûn who stood nearby. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Tigôn reached for the proffered canteen. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Forgive me.  I drank too much of the stuff.”

“Ah, so you were enjoying yourself at a party all this time.” Sûla laughed. “I might have known.”  He patted Tigôn’s arm in a friendly manner.  By Zizzûn, it was good to see him alive.  But Tigôn gave him a hard look and shrank away.  Tilting back his head, he drank thirstily.

The burly Lord Rothîbal pushed through the crowd. “Well done, messenger,” he said in his comically high voice.  “We need to send you on to the King.” He gestured. “Get him his horse.”  He paused, looking at Tigôn’s pale face. “Are you fit to travel?”

“Yes,” Tigôn grimaced. He took another gulp of water.  A man led up his horse. Tigôn made an attempt to mount and fell back. “Someone, help me up,” he said in a defeated tone.

Sûla gave Tigôn a leg up. “I’ll accompany him,” Sûla said to Rothîbal, “to make certain he doesn’t get lost. Zizz! Look at that!”

They all looked up as another fireball arched overhead. 

Awestruck, Sûla said, “It looks as if the Zigûr found his catapults.”

“Ha, excellent,” Lord Rothîbal chuckled.  “A secret weapon.  That will put the fear of Númenor in these Haradren rats.”  

Tigôn shook his head tiredly.  “I fear my message will come too late. Nevertheless, I intend to finish my task.”  Without even a backward look at Sûla, he set off at a trot and swiftly moved into a gallop.  Sûla barely had the time to mount the healer’s borrowed horse and follow.   

“Hai, slow down,” Sûla called when they had cleared the knots of warriors and were alone on the road.  “Tigôn!”

Tigôn slowed his horse to a walk, allowing Sûla to catch up and ride alongside.  Tigôn’s face was tense, his mouth pressed into an unhappy line.  “What do you want?”

Sûla lost his temper.  “Curse you Tigôn! I saved your wretched skin back there.  Isn’t that worth a little courtesy?  How about ‘thank you, Sûla?’”

“That’s the problem, Sûla,” Tigôn cried, looking him in the eyes for the first time. “I don’t know what you did back there.  What was that?”

“I distracted that warrior who, as you may recall, was about to cut your throat. Then the fireball spooked the horse and he threw you.”

“No, that’s not what happened.” Tigôn passed a hand over his mouth. “It’s been a terrible night but I haven’t completely lost my wits.  You called out something. There was a sudden wind and fell voices in the air.  Just before we were thrown, I felt Korizar go rigid, like a marble statue. Explain it or I swear I’ll never speak to you again!”

“I was captured by the Haradrim when I was young and learned some black magic from a serpent priest,” Sûla lied. 

Tigôn’s eyes narrowed.  “You never told me this before.”

“I expect there is much you don’t know about me,” Sûla said.

“Some very strange things happened to me tonight,” Tigôn said. “I am very much wondering . . .”

Sûla shifted, looking about to see if they were alone. “You won’t tell anyone what happened, will you? People at court hate me enough as it is.”

“You appeared very adept at this ‘magic.’  Much more than I’d expect from a . . .”

“From a what?” Sûla challenged. “From a whore?”

“I didn’t say that,” Tigôn replied, looking uncomfortable. 

“No, but you were about to.” 

“We can talk about this later.  I am in haste,” Tigôn said, nudging his horse, but Sûla leaned over and grabbed a rein, bringing him up short. 

“You arsehole, you listen to me!” Sûla said. “I risked everything tonight because I suspected you might be in danger.  Most likely the King will punish me for disobeying his orders.  I’m supposed to be with the rest of his household way over there.”  He waved vaguely in the direction of their camp. “Who knows what will happen to me when he finds out.”

“Maybe he won’t find out,” Tigôn said. “I won’t tell him, that’s for sure–as if anyone would believe me if I tried.”

“Enough people saw me tonight who would recognize me,” Sûla said.

“Then perhaps you had better hide until the army passes and you can sneak back to the camp,” Tigôn said.  “There’s going to be a terrible battle soon. You should not be in the way.”

“That’s your answer, is it? Well, piss on you then!” Sûla cried. “I swear, I’m sorry I got you out of the mess you were in. Your hide would now be curing to become Korizar’s new cape if it hadn’t been for me!”

“I don’t know how you helped me and I don’t want to know,” Tigôn said.  “And now I’m late to deliver my message. I could be in trouble myself if I don’t move along. Leave me alone.” 

Tigôn wrested the rein back from Sûla’s hand and urged his horse into a canter. Seething, Sûla  restrained his own horse until he was out of sight.  Of all the reactions he’d thought Tigôn might have to being rescued, ingratitude wasn’t one of them. He'd thought they were friends. I should have known better, he said bitterly to himself. When has caring about someone ever served me?  Then with a start he remembered Zôri and the reason he was out here in the first place. Sweat pricked under his arms. Where in Ennor was she?  Had she betrayed him?  What if his association with the Zigûr became known?  He considered his situation.  Perhaps he should try to quietly slip back to camp and, hopefully, in the heat of battle, no one would notice.  Then he could think about his options.  Perhaps the answer lay with Annatar.  Yes, surely he would know what to do.  Another fireball flew along the horizon, looking like a falling star in the distance.  It was beautiful, but Sûla could imagine what it was doing among the Haradrim.  He could almost hear the screams.

---

Chapter End Notes

Aphanuzîr is Amandil's canon Adûnaic name. Nimruzîr is Elendil.

Banâth - means wife or woman. 

Kardômel,  Nanikîr - more elfscribe invented Adûnaic names.
                    
A 13th century description of Greek fire like Mairon used:     
“This was the fashion of the Greek fire: it came on as broad in front as a vinegar cask, and the tail of fire that trailed behind it was as big as a great spear; and it made such a noise as it came, that it sounded like the thunder of heaven. It looked like a dragon flying through the air. Such a bright light did it cast, that one could see all over the camp as though it were day, by reason of the great mass of fire, and the brilliance of the light that it shed.”
-from the Memoirs of Jean de Joinville, a 13th century nobleman.