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

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Chapter 15 - The Uneasy Road to Umbar

Chapter summary: Ar-Pharazôn displays Annatar as a prisoner of war during the army’s march through Umbar. Sûla confesses to the King that he disobeyed orders and worries about what punishment he'll receive, and Tigôn feels angry and confused by his contradictory feelings for his friend.

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Tigôn ran, but the ground shifted and slipped like sand under his feet. Terrified, he looked back.  Behind him loomed the dragon, horned and immense, hurtling towards him in a strange swooping flight. Its breath roared into a swathe of flame that caught and blazed ahead of Tigôn like a bright road of horror.  Fire licked upward, becoming a tall Harad warrior, half naked with a muscular chest, tattoos squirming down the side of his face.  He laughed at Tigôn. “You are a poor excuse for a messenger,” he said, and drew a huge, bloody knife.  Tigôn fell at the Haradren man’s feet. “I’m the King’s sacrifice,” he said. “I offer myself.” 

A sudden sharp pain sliced into his neck. Tigôn reached up to it, feeling something wet and his fingers came away red with blood.  I’m done for, he thought. But, as he was despairing, he noticed another hand with long, clever fingers, open and friendly, extended towards him. Tigôn looked up into laughing eyes, wickedly ringed with kohl.  “Take it, Tigôn, you know you want to,” the voice said.  Sûla.  Heat blushed upwards from Tigôn’s loins.  But he couldn’t reach up, couldn’t move, not a muscle. He was frozen.  Tender lips explored his own, the beautiful hand crept downward, cupping him, squeezing. He wanted to gasp, but could not. He was rigid, hard. Did he want this?   He didn’t know, but he did know something bad would happen as a result. The dragon! He’d forgotten about it and suddenly, there it was, huge, inexorable, opening its red maw to engulf him. Tigôn screamed!

And awoke. Heart pounding, he lay rigidly in his soft furs, and then the events of last night gathered into sensibility.  It was all right.  He was safe. No dragon.  He patted the bandage around his throat, feeling the line of soreness, a reminder of mortality.  The dream swirled hazily in his head, still real at its feathered edges. It wasn’t the first time he’d had that dream or a variation of it. He felt . . . what did he feel?  Exhausted, like he wanted to sleep for days.  The wan light of early morning crept in through a gap at the doorway of the tent. The air felt warmer than it had in days past. Some birds quarreled in the distance, and faintly, he could smell smoke, probably from the battlefield.

He wondered what time it was and whether or not anyone wanted him to run a message somewhere. Well, to bloody Mandos with them if they did!  Right now he was sick of it.  He realized that he was angry but couldn’t put his finger on why. No, now that he thought about it, he knew. It was Sûla. Something in the dream. Sûla had done something to him, without his permission. Tigôn rubbed his scratchy chin, trying to puzzle out all the weird things that had happened yesterday. There was the strange immunity to the knives that he’d had at the Haradrim camp that seemed to wear off suddenly when Korizar grabbed him. His gut curdled at the memory of the pressure of the knife at his throat, the sick realization that he was about to die . . . and strangely, the tender sensation of Sûla’s mouth on his. As incongruous as those feelings seemed, being held tightly by the odious Korizar, and being kissed, softly, sensuously, they seemed to go together.  He ran a finger over his lips. Why did he have the distinct feeling Sûla had kissed him?  That had never really happened except in his dreams of the past sennight.   Had it? 

Gah! The idea disgusted him!  Why did that zirâmîki have to spoil their friendship with all his little comments, his suggestive innuendo?  For one thing, it was dangerous, given both their positions with the King.  And didn’t Sûla know that Tigôn was not like that?  Tigôn had certainly made it very clear that he had no interest in boys.  He’d kissed his cousin once, behind the stone wall on their estate at Eldalondë. She was pretty, petite, dark haired. He remembered the feeling of her small mouth following his so sweetly. He had liked kissing her, so that must mean he liked girls and not boys. Didn’t it? Somehow though, as much as he tried to bring her face into his minds’ eye, it kept shifting into Sûla’s face, with his curling ringlets the color of jet, his clear, golden skin, heavy-lidded eyes, and pouting mouth, as pretty as a girl, but definitely not a girl. Definitely.

His father would not approve of his association with a zirâmîki.  It wasn’t that relationships between men weren’t unheard of, but they were not engaged in openly. It was considered disgraceful behavior, even though many of the lords knew the King himself had that penchant. When his family heard that Tigôn had received the appointment as a page in the King’s court, his older brother Zoganir snickered and said, “Just don’t bend over anywhere near His Majesty,” for which he was sent to bed without supper. 

Tigôn had tried to avert his eyes from the King’s indiscretions, but it was so commonplace as to be impossible to ignore. He could see Sûla standing before him in the King’s bedroom, smiling suggestively, wearing crotchless trousers that required Tigôn’s eyes to go right there. How dare Sûla display himself like that!  Tigôn curled in on himself, holding his morning-thickened cock tightly as if to keep it in check.  

Sûla had always frightened him a little. Tigôn simply did not know how to handle such unashamed sexuality, and last night their involvement had deepened, whether for good or ill, he could not say. He had learned something he wished he did not know: Sûla practiced black magic, quite adeptly. He’d turned Korizar to stone simply by saying some words. Magic was something Tigôn had heard about before but never actually seen. He’d thought it was just stories people told, but the cold, merciless fact of it had come leaping out last night, in such a way that he had to be grateful for it.  Was Sûla telling the truth about learning it from the Haradrim, or was it something more sinister than that? At a gut level, Tigôn suspected Annatar, although he had no evidence for it.  He knew he should report what had happened to Lord Elendil as soon as the battle was over and there was time. There was only one problem.  He was indebted to Sûla for saving his life.  Not an easy burden to carry.  Sûla was right to be mad at him. He had not been courteous last night, had not thanked him, and he felt ashamed of himself.  Sûla had risked much for him and might still pay the penalty, but somehow Tigôn couldn’t say the words. He was too angry.  Was this the end of their friendship, of the companionable late nights playing bones? Why did everything need to be so complicated?
  
And then there was what had happened with the King last night. Tigôn remembered riding along the road in the dark, still dazed at what had happened among the Haradrim, when suddenly he came upon a large company of warriors who were taking a path off the road towards a dense copse of willow trees.  “Where is the King?” Tigôn called, “Is the King among you?” 

“Yes, over there,” one of the warriors said, pointing.  Tigôn recognized the King’s white horse and his winged helmet. A great sense of relief washed over him.  He hastened up.  “My Lord,” he called and bowed as best he could while sitting his horse.  The King turned and his eyebrows rose.  

“Ah Tigôn,” he said.  “Good, you’ve returned.”

“I bring a message from the Haradrim encampment,” Tigôn said. 

“Yes,” Ar-Pharazôn replied, but he was watching the lines of marching men.

“Sire, they demand that you deliver the Zigûr to them. That is all they want. If you do that, they will not attack.”

Ar-Pharazôn chuckled.  “It is just as Annatar said, then. I’m afraid their demand is unacceptable. We will reply with our swords.  Thank you, Tigôn. Your service has been noted.”  He waved his hand dismissively, then turned back towards directing the troops.  For a few moments Tigôn sat on his horse, exhausted and at a loss now that his duty was over, while the army poured around him as if he were a rock in the middle of a stream. He felt incensed that his dangerous mission, which had nearly killed him, did not seem to matter. If he had died out there, it would have been for nothing. 

And so, Tigôn lay warm in his bed, while all these bits of memory and unsettled emotions swirled within.  Finally he sighed and turned over.  It was beyond his ability to reconcile any of it. At least he was alive. He listened for a moment. There was no commotion outside.  If no one was coming to demand his service, he figured he’d just sleep some more and avoid thinking--about anything.  By Aman, he’d earned it! The rest of the world could go piss themselves.

* * * *
Peering this way and that, a bleary-eyed Sûla emerged from his hiding place in the canyon, mounted his borrowed horse, and made his way back to the encampment.  There was some activity, people moving here and there. The surgeon’s quarter was still abandoned.  No doubt they were all sitting up in the hills, miserable, wondering if it was safe to come down. What in Arda had happened to Zôri and his own horse, Cloud?  It had seemed as if they had simply disappeared, like smoke.

Sûla hobbled Yanak’s horse near the tent where he could eat some dried grass, gave the rough, muscular shoulder a pat, and considered his options.  He could take the horse and leave and try to make his way across the battlefield back to Brûni, his village. But why? To face his step-father again?  He would rather die first. Even a lashing would be preferable. But perhaps Ar-Pharazôn would not punish him too harshly. Sûla had saved the King’s page after all. He felt better at that idea. Maybe he should go back to Ar-Pharazôn’s tent and make himself exceptionally useful so that when the King came back weary from battle, Sûla could be seen in the best light.  Once the King was relaxed, Sûla could say that he’d become lost and ended up at the pass.  It wasn’t a very good lie but he’d thought of all the variations and none of them were particularly good.  A straight-forward confession usually worked better with Ar-Pharazôn.  Then again, it might be best not to mention anything at all and hope that in the midst of the King’s concerns with the battle, it would go unnoticed. That was another possibility.  He’d have to play it by ear.  Right. So in any event, it was back to the King’s tent.

Sûla went to the King’s provisioners where the cooks were busily working, and got meat pies and a cask of wine. “Hail Bildûn,” he said to the guard, who was slouching against the poles of the King’s massive tent.  The guard shifted, coming to attention for a moment and then relaxing again when he saw who it was.

“Sûla.  Is the household coming back?” Bildûn asked.

“Soon, I expect.  Have you heard ought about the fortunes of the battle?”

“Nay,” Bidûn said.  He yawned.  “I’ve been here all night and would really like to see my replacements.  Are those meatpies I smell?”

“Yes, fresh this morning.  Would you like one?”  Sûla lifted the cloth on the basket and the guard helped himself, stuffing the pie hungrily into his mouth.  

“What are you doing back here?” Bildûn mumbled around a mouthful.

“I’m here to get things ready for the King’s return,” Sûla said brightly. “Let me pass, it’s been a long night.”  Bildûn grunted and waved him in.  Once inside, Sûla got the fire going in the brazier, poured the cask of wine into the brass cauldron, added honey, fragrant cinnamon, nutmeg, and dried lemon rind, and hung it from the hook to mull.  

While he worked, he thought about the events of the night, which naturally led him to Tigôn. The ungrateful wretch!  He was so angry, he wanted to spit at him. Or something. Would Tigôn tell anyone what he’d done?  Would he get in trouble because of it?  He’d tried to stay clear of any trouble, to stay true to the King.  Yet there was some part of him that simply longed . . . he couldn’t say for what exactly, but he knew it was bound up in Tigôn’s shy smile.  He sagged down on the cushions near the wine cauldron and ate a meatpie, which tasted wonderful. He realized it had been many hours since he’d eaten.  He relished another, then closed his eyes.

********
There was a commotion outside and Sûla jerked up from a nap he had not meant to take. He rubbed his eyes and stood up in time to greet a score of men entering the tent: soldiers, servants, pages, and then several of the King’s counselors, including Izindor, resplendent in silver-inlaid armor. 

Izindor’s pale eyes met Sûla’s. “Ah good, there’s wine,” Izindor said, and undulated over to him. When he drew close, his demeanor became vaguely threatening. “Still in the King’s good graces, I see,” he murmured, tapping Sûla’s dragon arm cuff. “Or did you spend my gold on that?”  Sûla said nothing, trying his best to veil his hatred.  “No voice today?” Izindor continued. “I remember well the sound of your whimpers.” He smirked at Sûla, then looked up quickly as the King entered. “I’ll take some wine, Cupbearer,” he said. 

“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla replied, inwardly seething.  He wished they were alone so he could freeze the Lord from Arandor and do something vile to key pieces of his anatomy.  But he presented the cup with decorum, if not the proper deference.

The King was laughing, seemingly in a good mood.  Sûla felt a surge of relief.  Maybe he would escape the beating after all.  Ar-Pharazôn drew off his winged helm and handed it to one of the servants.  He came toward them, and clapped Izindor on the shoulder, the force of which made Izindor take a step forward and grimace before schooling his expression.  “Not a bad night’s work,” Ar-Pharazôn was saying.  “It appears we’ve utterly annihilated them.”

“Very successful, my Lord, a tribute to your leadership,” Izindor said, bowing with his strange, eel-like writhe.

Ar-Pharazôn viewed him with distaste for a moment, then his glance landed on Sûla and he smiled.  “Sûla! Back already!”

“I’ve been here all morning awaiting your return, my Lord,” Sûla said, dipping up some wine and handing it to the King.  

“And you prepared a draught. Well done,” Ar-Pharazôn said and took a gulp. “By Manwë, that tastes good. What a night!” 

“Allow me, my Lord,” Sûla said, reaching up to unfasten the pin holding together the King fur-lined cloak.  As Sûla drew it off the King’s shoulders, he noticed blood on his sleeves. 

“Have the sword cleaned,” Ar-Pharazôn said, unbuckling it and handing it to Sûla.  Then, with a sigh, he sat heavily on his throne. 

“Yes, my Lord.”  Sûla set the sword aside for the moment,  picked up the basket and presented the meatpies to the King.  “I fear they are no longer hot. I did not know when you would be returning.”

“No matter.” Ar-Pharazôn selected one and bit into it. “Mmm, this is just the thing.” He waved at the gathered men.  “Sit, all of you. We have planning to do.”

“Is there news, your Majesty?” Izindor said in his unctuous voice, bowing again. “When I left the battlefield, they were rounding up the remaining Haradrim.”

“Yes. Where is Annatar?”

“He’s coming, my Lord,” said one of the guards, standing at the vestibule doorflap.

Indeed, Sûla could feel Annatar’s presence before he even came into the tent.  It was as if a cloud of power preceded him. Sûla watched him enter, wearing his black armor and high spiked helm, surrounded by guards standing a wary distance away. Something was different; it was as if the veil covering Annatar’s power had thinned. The King’s gaze leapt eagerly toward him as all turned. Annatar lifted off his helmet, and the chains about his wrists clinked ominously, just before the burnished fall of fiery hair descended. 

“Ar-Pharazôn,” Annatar acknowledged the King with a quick, lizard-like dip of his head. He was followed by Councilor Aphanuzîr who looked tired and strained about the eyes. Sûla hastened to bring them both cups of wine.  When Annatar took the cup, he pressed Sûla’s fingers briefly and Sûla suppressed a gasp at the intensity of the magic he could feel crackling from him.  Something had ramped him up. 
 
Aphanuzîr bowed to the King and they all sat down.

“Report, Aphanuzîr,” the King said.

“The Steward has taken charge of the prisoners,” Aphanuzîr said. “They are being shackled in preparation for the march. What do you wish done with them?

“They will go to slave pens in Umbar and be sorted into best use,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “Most will go to the gold mines in the White Mountains.”

“An excellent way to augment your gold holdings,” Izindor said. “I could help Azgarad with that. After all, I have disposed of Haradrim slaves in the past.”

“I know,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “No.  I need you to move your troops towards Umbar.”

“When do you wish to start?” Aphanuzîr asked.

“We’ll rest here for the night and then continue on to Umbar tomorrow,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “We should reach there by nightfall.  How many casualties?”

“Unknown at present.  I suspect they are minimal,” Aphanuzîr said.  “The wounded should be moved in wains since the healing houses are better equipped in Umbar.”

“See to it,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“Yes,” Aphanuzîr said. “I should let you know about a particular casualty since it was a woman, a healer named Zôri. She was Yanak the surgeon’s wife.”   

Zôri! Sûla thought. So, she had shown up somewhere. He listened hard.          

“What happened?” Ar-Pharazôn asked.

Annatar tossed his head, and the fiery locks almost seemed to hiss. “She got in the way of the catapult. Most unfortunate.” 

What? Sûla thought. Could this be true? Was she dead?

Aphanuzîr eyed Annatar with distaste.  “Yes it is unfortunate.  Someone should inform her husband.”

“Strange,” Ar-Pharazôn replied. “Clearly there is more to this, but it can wait.” He hid a yawn. “Well done, all of you.  For certain, a good night’s work.  The Haradrim were utterly subdued by the engines.”  He turned to Annatar.  “I’m impressed with the power of your inventions, Annatar.  Your service to the realm has been noted.  I should like to employ your talents in creating more war engines as I doubt the Haradrim have been completely crushed.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Annatar said, inclining his head.  He held up his hands. “Honor your promise to strike the chains free.  I have cramps in my arms.”

“When we reach Umbar, I will do all that I promised,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “But trust is not won in one night.  You will ride in the wain through the streets of Umbar as a demonstration of the superior might of Númenor.”  He locked eyes with Annatar as if daring him to object.

Annatar’s lips curled. “I see. You wish to impress your subjects with my capture.  Beware. My patience is not infinite.”  His voice held a veiled menace.

“Do not threaten me,” Ar-Pharazôn growled. “If you wish to escape further pain at my hands.” He took a swallow of wine.  “That is all. You, Darîkil,” he indicated one of his pages with sable hair and a dimple in one cheek. “Go pass the word that we’ll be on the march at dawn tomorrow and I need Tigôn to inform Yanak about his wife. Where is he?”  The King looked around.

“No one has seen him yet, Your Majesty,” Darîkil said.  “I’ll look for him in his tent.”

“Do that,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “Annatar, the guards will take you back to your quarters.”  The King waved his hand in dismissal and all but a few servants departed.

Ar-Pharazôn yawned, more widely this time. “Prepare me for bed, Sûla,” he said.  “It’s been a cursedly long night.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla said. 

After he’d undressed and washed the King, Sûla knelt before him.  “Do you wish some ease?” he asked, thinking that might render the King sufficiently relaxed for him to make his confession. 

Ar-Pharazôn slid his thick fingers through Sûla’s hair, lifting it away from the scalp in a way that felt good. “Yes,” he said.

Once Sûla had succeeded in bringing him off, Ar-Pharazôn heaved a great sigh. “That was good. Come,” he said, lying back against the pillows. 

Heart pounding, Sûla climbed into the wide bed and laid his cheek against Ar-Pharazôn’s chest.  “My Lord,” he said, “before you sleep, I have a . . . something to tell you.”

“Mmm,” Ar-Pharazôn replied, shifting about, much like a dog squirming to make his bed.

“Last night, the woman named Zôri, the one who was killed, she would not go with the rest of the servants, and instead stole the horse you gave me and rode off. I don’t know why. I followed her to get my horse back and became lost.”

“What now?” Ar-Pharazôn roused himself, raising his head. “You left camp?”

“I did not intend to, my Lord,” Sûla said, keeping his eyes downcast. “I ended up at the front of the Pass and became involved in the defense that met the Haradrim.  I witnessed Tigôn’s bravery.  He was nearly killed by a Haradren warrior.”

“Indeed?”

Sûla risked looking up at the King’s face and discovered him scowling and rubbing an eye with two fingers. 

“I came back as swiftly as I could,” Sûla continued.  “Please forgive me.  I was only trying to make sure all the household did as you ordered.”

“You disobeyed me,” the King said. “Even if you had a good reason, I cannot allow something like this to go unpunished.  And I am suspicious because you asked to go to Tigôn’s defense earlier and I refused.” 

“It is as I said, my Lord. No more. No doubt Aphanuzîr and Annatar can vouch for the woman’s sudden appearance on the battlefield since they said she was killed by the catapult.”

There was a long silence.  Sûla inwardly trembled, wondering what would happen, but the King did not seem particularly angry.  Finally he said, “It is good that you told me yourself rather than allowing me to hear about it from others. You have given me good service in the past, which I will consider when I decide your punishment. It will wait until we reach Umbar.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla said meekly. 

“Sleep now.  We have a long march tomorrow.”

Sûla felt the King relax and soon heard soft snoring.  So, punishment was to be put off for a while.  Not knowing what would happen was almost worse than getting it over with at once. Still, the King hadn’t clapped him in chains or ordered a whipping on the spot. He had not even put him out of his bed. And that, more than anything, seemed hopeful. Sûla sighed and soon drifted off himself.

* * * *  

After a long day’s march across the plains, Mairon stood in a cold breeze, sucking his teeth, while the guards prepared to chain him to an x-shaped wooden cross placed upright in the back of the wain for the long crawl through Umbar’s streets.  He was to be a public display of the King’s power. Mairon could understand the King’s reasoning, as it was exactly what he would do, but that didn’t make him any happier about it.

“This was not part of the bargain, Ar-Pharazôn,” Mairon growled, struggling slightly against one of the guards, as the man raised one of his arms to chain it.

The King regarded him sternly from his perch atop his white horse. “I’m still deciding whether or not to strip you naked, the usual fate for prisoners of war.”

“I think you just want to see my bare arse,” Mairon said. 

Ar-Pharazôn frowned, looking at the guards who were pretending not to notice.  “I liked the look of it decorated with red stripes,” he replied.

“If your goal is to impress your subjects, don’t you think I present a more formidable appearance in my armor?” Mairon asked, hopefully.  

“Yes, that’s the reason I’m letting you keep your clothes on. You are lucky I’m in a good mood and that I’m pleased with your service,” the King said.

“Not pleased enough to allow me to forgo humiliation,” Mairon said.

The King eyed him narrowly. “Can you honestly tell me you haven’t earned this at some point in your nefarious career? This is the price of surrender, Annatar. Be grateful I don’t think of something worse.”

“You will live to regret it,” Mairon said under his breath. But in the end, he was forced to accept the situation or show powers he did not wish anyone to know he had. The guards chained him to the splintery wood by his arms and feet and they wrapped one of the chains about his waist. Grinding his teeth, he reminded himself that it was not nearly as bad as Melkor’s tortures. He must endure this humiliation in the name of the Plan. 

While hammering the links of one of the chains shut, one of the guards missed and struck Mairon’s wrist. Momentarily losing control, the sorcerer silently flung out a curse that caused the guard to fly backwards off the wain into the mud.

The other guards laughed. “You clumsy oaf, get back up here!”one of them said. The fallen guard eyed Mairon suspiciously and Mairon had a momentary sense of satisfaction. But it did not last.

The King rode his restive white horse at the head of his troops, resplendent in his golden armor and flowing crimson cape. Drawn by the spectacle, nearly all the inhabitants appeared, leaning from windows and rooftops, amassing in the streets waving colored scarves and making that strange ululation that Umbarians used. A crier rode before the King calling to make way for Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor, the greatest King of Arda.  “He has captured the dreaded Enemy, the Dark One, Sauron the Abhorrent.  See how he has been chained and rendered harmless,” the crier called. 

Hmmm, not so harmless, Mairon thought. Many of the Umbarians made hissing noises at him. There were some, wearing their hair in multiple skinny braids, recognizable as Black Serpent followers, who stared silently at him.  He sent out a call and not a few bowed their heads slightly as he passed. It was a momentary balm to his sore pride.
   
It had been a long time since Mairon had been in Umbar and it was not quite as provincial as he remembered, as it had grown beyond the confines of the city walls made of mud brick, and there were more multi-storied structures.  The plastered walls were white-washed so that they gleamed golden in the late afternoon sun.  The houses rose tier upon tier along a hill that overlooked the deep harbor with its sparkling purple-blue water. The complex of wooden docks built to service the ships groaned with make-shift shops from which vendors plied their wares. The King’s caravan traversed a road that wound serpentine around the hill, through narrows streets overshadowed by more of the white-washed houses with thatched roofs. Mairon’s wolf-sensitive nose was assailed by urban smells: ordure in the streets, human sweat, wood-smoke, and the smell of rotting seaweed brought in by the breeze.  The wooden structure on which he hung rocked slightly when they rounded a curve. Each time it did, he found himself counting . . . three, four, five. Overhead, seagulls wheeled and screeched.

The ride seemed interminable, and Mairon retreated into his past, remembering the thrill of holding up that perfect golden band in his tongs, hot from the forge.  His finger throbbed slightly where the Ring had encircled it. 

By the time they reached the crest of the great hill, Mairon was in a bad enough mood to eviscerate the first guard who came near him. At first it had felt good to have his arms extended but now his shoulders ached deeply from carrying much of his weight. A sudden lurch when the wagon stopped nearly toppled the rickety cross, momentarily crushing Mairon’s foot against the bed of the wain.  He let out an oath that caused dozens of people in the crowd to fall on their bellies, covering their ears. 

He heard Ar-Pharazôn shout, “By the dog, get him down!” 

Mairon suffered for the length of time it took two guards to clamber up in the wain, shift the scaffold, and unlock the chains that bound him.  They helped him down, reshackled his hands together, removed his helm, and affixed two chains to a collar about his neck. With one guard holding a chain on each side, they led him, limping slightly, past the great gates.

The King’s entire household seemed to be crawling like ants about the gardens in front of the palace. Awkwardly, Mairon rubbed the blood back into his arms as he watched the well-fed figure of Rabêlozar, the Númenórean Regent appear.  Surrounded by his fawning courtiers, the Regent bowed deeply before Ar-Pharazôn. From what Mairon knew of the Regent, the man could be little pleased to have the whole Númenórean army encamped outside the walls and invading his streets, or to have the King reappearing so soon to check up on his cozy little kingdom.  The banquet tonight was likely to be an interesting political affair.  It was an environment in which Mairon thrived. 

The King approached with Rabêlozar waddling along at his side.  The Regent was even more odious up close, with triple chins, a large, fleshy noise and narrow eyes.  He reminded Mairon of an orc dressed in velvet finery.

“Ah, I see the news is not exaggerated for once,” Rabêlozar said, standing in front of Mairon and cocking his head as he looked the sorcerer over. “So, you did capture him, my Lord.  How clever of you.  I wouldn’t have conceived it possible.”

Mairon leveled his gaze at the Regent. “For verity’s sake, I was not captured, I surrendered.”  

Rabêlozar quailed under Mairon’s eyes, jerking up a hand protectively.  “Is this true, my Lord?” he asked the King.

“In a manner of speaking,” Ar-Pharazôn said. 

“He is not what I imagined,” Rabêlozar replied.

“No, he’s not,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “But do not be deceived by a handsome countenance.  This is the Dark Lord. I am entrusting you to take stringent security precautions while he is housed here.  He must not be allowed to escape.”

“I have a dungeon,” Rabêlozar offered.

Mairon’s gut rolled.  He darted a poisonous glance at Ar-Pharazôn.  He wouldn’t dare. 

“No, he is to be treated like a guest,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “just a well-watched one. We will have a Council meeting shortly.  I need you to provide some smiths to remove the chains. He will attend the banquet tonight and sit at my side.”

“As you wish,” Rabêlozar said.  He looked doubtfully at Mairon.  “Is he a prisoner or an ally, my Lord?”

“You may speak directly to me,” Mairon said with a low growl. “I do understand your tongue, as crude as it is, and I do not bite–at least not hard enough to break the flesh.” He pulled his lips back from his pointed incisors. The Regent took a step backward.

“Are you sure about this, Sire?” Rabêlozar said. “The dungeon is an option.”

“Do not question me,” Ar-Pharazôn said, bluntly. 

Rabêlozar dipped his head.  “All will be as you wish, Great King.”  He gestured to some of his own servants.  “Very well, then. Put him in the Bronze room. When I call for him, bring him to the Council chambers.”

Ar-Pharazôn stepped close.  Mairon could smell the perfumed musk of him.  “See that, Annatar. I keep my promises. Make sure you keep yours.”
 
“Assuredly,” Mairon said. And his mouth curled into the semblance of a smile.     
 
* * * *
The setting sun brightened the raft of clouds into gold and purple splendor mirrored in the bay below. Over Sûla’s shoulder, Eärendil shone bright in the east against the deepening sky. In the midst of the bustle, he stood for a moment, contemplating the beauty of the heavens. “Beautiful mariner, wanderer afar, your doom revealed in the bright flight of a star,” Sûla remembered his mother used to chant when Eärendil first appeared in the evening. That was when he was young, before . . . .  And now he was sleeping with Eärendil’s descendent, Ar-Pharazôn, the golden. He reflected that the King did not shine nearly as brightly as his ancestor.

Sûla turned and passed through the wrought-iron gates of the palace, delighted at the prospect of sleeping indoors in a warm room and eating sumptuous meals. The palace was light and airy with high roofs and interior walls decorated with mosaic murals of seascapes--gulls and dolphins cavorting in the waves.  Sûla didn’t understand why the Umbarians would decorate their walls with creatures that they could see everyday. If it were up to him, he’d commission something more exotic.  The architecture was attractive, but after living in the magnificent city of Armenelos, Sûla found that nothing impressed him.
 
He didn’t have much time to contemplate his surroundings. Nibanuzîr, Ar-Pharazôn’s head of household, kept him busy unpacking and airing out the King’s clothes.  The King had spent several hours closeted with the Regent. When he returned, he seemed in a good mood. Sûla helped him bathe and dress before the evening’s events: a Council meeting and a banquet the Regent was holding in the King’s honor.

Ar-Pharazôn doffed his field clothes in favor of dress similar to what he usually wore when at the palace in Armenelos: a short overtunic of crimson damask silk with long sleeves, laced loosely in front over his massive chest; a wide jewel-encrusted belt; and black leggings with a pouch that showed the bulge at his crotch to good advantage through the skirt of the tunic.  Sûla knew the pouch was padded.  He helped the King pick out a diadem and necklace of matching rubies and jet and arrayed him in them, while the King sat in a wide chair, nursing a silver goblet of wine. So far he had said nothing about punishing Sûla for his disobedience, so Sûla entertained the notion that he might have forgotten.

“Sûla,” Ar-Pharazôn said, winding an arm about Sûla’s waist. “I wish you to attend me at the banquet tonight.”

“A pleasure, my Lord,” Sûla murmured.

“I want you to wear a dance costume.  One that shows off your lovely body.”  At this, Ar-Pharazôn squeezed Sûla’s arse.  “You will perform for the Regent and his court tonight.”

Sûla looked down at himself still wearing his leather breeches and woolen tunic. “I’m flattered, my Lord,” Sûla said, “But I did not bring anything suitable since I did not see a call for dancing while on campaign.”

“No matter. Go to the Regent’s musicians.  No doubt one of them can provide something attractive.” 

Sûla bit his lip. “If you please, my Lord, I should like to practice before performing.  It’s been a while since I danced for you.”

“Very well.”  Ar-Pharazôn got up heavily. “Go on with you. For the next several hours I will be in the Council chambers.  We have some business to conduct and I have a promise to keep to Annatar.”

“Yes, my Lord.”  Sûla bowed and started to leave.

“Don’t forget, Sûla, I still need to devise some punishment for your disobedience.”

Sûla’s mouth dropped and the King chuckled.  “Did you think I had forgotten?”

“No, my Lord, of course not.” Sûla bowed and left the room with a tightness in his throat.  He figured that his dance had better be a good one.

* * * *

Tigôn stood near the door with the other pages in case the King needed them to run a message somewhere.  Seated at a long, oaken table within the room were most of the King’s Counselors, the King’s Steward, Lord Azgarad, and the Umbarian Regent. Tigôn did not like the look of him. They had brought braziers of coals into the room to chase the chill from the air. Tigôn inched closer to one and held out his hands.

Darîkil leaned over and whispered, “I heard the King is sore at Rothîbal.  Do you think he’ll be whipped?”  His dark eyes glowed at the idea.

“Doubtful,” Tigôn replied. “It's unlikely he'd whip a member of the Council of the Sceptre. It’ll be something else creative.”

“Shush!” A Bawîba Manô priest standing nearby put a finger to his lips. To Tigôn, the priests always looked threatening and bizarre in their feathered cloaks and helmets resembling an open eagle’s beak. 

There were reports from various lords including a lengthy one from Lord Azgarad on the disposition of the captured Haradrim.  “I would like to commission some healers from Umbar,” Azgarad said. “Many of the captives sustained burns from Annatar’s missiles, some severe.”

“I can send for some,” Rabêlozar said.  “They will want to be paid.”  He raised an eyebrow at Ar-Pharazôn. 

“That is well.  In fact, Azgarad, I wish you to pay our warriors a portion of their fee here in Umbar.”  Turning to Rabêlozar, the King said, “No doubt they will spend it here on food, lodging, and presents.  That should please your citizens as well as your own coffers.”

“Very good, my Lord.” Rabêlozar’s face lifted into a greedy smile.
 
“Aphanuzîr, how long to get supplies and all the men loaded for the voyage home?”

“We should be ready within a sennight,” the Lord from Andúnië said briskly, although he looked tired. Tigôn knew that the next days would be busy running messages to facilitate this major transfer of the army from land to sea.  At least he would not have much time for reflection. 

“That is excellent,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “I too long for the sight of Númenor’s fair shores, don’t you?”  There was a general heartfelt murmur of assent.  The King sat up tall and looked steadily at each of them in turn. “I have this to say to all of you.  I am pleased with this campaign. We have fought a great victory and suffered little loss of life or equipment. I am prepared to be generous to those who have aided the empire. However, you must also know that I cannot tolerate incompetence.” His glance lit on Lord Rothîbal, who visibly quailed.  “Lord Rothîbal, you failed to send advance scouts through the pass.”

Rothîbal struggled to his feet. “My Lord, a regrettable error,” he said in his comically high voice. “Only caused by your success in capturing the Zigûr.  I did not anticipate . . .”

“Yes, and your thoughtlessness caused scores of needless deaths.  In punishment, I am confiscating your property in the Valley of Curunórë.”

Rothîbal’s mouth dropped open.  “But my Lord . . .”

The King leaned forward, thumping both hands palms down on the table.  His eyes narrowed.  “Do you wish to make a complaint?”  He turned and eyed others.  “Do you feel this unfair?”

There was a general murmuring of, “No, my Lord.”

“Good. Rothîbal you may sit.”   Sheepishly, the bulky lord sank down into his chair.

It seemed drastic, Tigôn thought, but not excessive. He knew it to be a choice bit of property, but not large compared to the rest of Rothîbal’s holdings. Others had fared worse for crossing the King. Tigôn glanced at Darîkil noting that the dimple in the page’s cheek had deepened. Rothîbal was not well liked by the pages, often arguing with them when they brought a message from the King.   

Ar-Pharazôn sat back and his face relaxed. “While transgressions are punished, good service is rewarded. Azgarad, Aphanuzîr, and Izindor, you are all commended.  I will grant you all a favor.  You may decide what to ask for over the next several days.  Izindor, I understand your son, Dulginzin, single-handedly took out an entire company of our Haradren foes.”

Izindor rose and bowed with a delighted wriggle. “Yes, my Lord.  He is quite skilled in battle.”

A perfect brute, Tigôn thought.  He’d heard tales of Izindor’s son.  He’d killed men who had surrendered by slicing their bellies open. Apparently word of that had not reached the King.

“Commendable, I will grant him a boon as well,” said the King.  He nodded at Amandil’s son. “Nimruzîr, I hear you did an admirable job commanding the archers at the pass.”  

“Thank you, my Lord,” Elendil said. Gracefully, he unfolded that tall body, rose, and bowed.  Tigôn was as pleased as if his own father had been praised.  Elendil was like an uncle to him.  As a boy, he had been a guest in their house at Andúnië and always thought of him as Elendil since that is what he was called in his household.  His sons, Anárion and Isildur, had been summertime friends in years past.  It had been a long time since the halcyon days of their youth. He suddenly realized how deeply he missed their companionship, especially that of Anárion who was his own age.  In many ways his duty as the King’s messenger was lonely.

Then Elendil turned and looked directly at him standing by the doorway.  “I would like to add a commendation of my own, my King. Your messenger, Tigôn, stood up bravely against the Haradrim, nearly giving his life in the process.”

Startled, Tigôn stood up straight as all eyes turned toward him. 

“Ah yes, that fact is known to me,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  He nodded towards Tigôn.  “Well done, my lad,” he said. “You also may ask a favor.  Think on it and come to me later.”

Blushing, Tigôn bowed low, then looked gratefully at Elendil, who gave him a quick smile before sitting back down.

“By Ossë,” Darîkil said softly, turning and looking enviously at Tigôn.  “A King’s favor is no light thing.  What will you ask for? Gold? Time off?”

“I don’t know,” Tigôn whispered.

“And now, we come to another matter,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “Tell the guards to bring him in,” he gestured at the pages. Tigôn went to the door and beckoned at guards standing in the hall. They came forward, leading Annatar chained by the neck between them.  He was dressed in a black robe of rich sueded silk embroidered with gold thread.  His fiery hair was braided back from his leaf-shaped ears and hung like a curtain down his back.  Annatar moved like the power of flowing water and Tigôn could hardly keep his eyes from him. As he brushed by with a musical chink of the chains, Tigôn felt something like the sharp pin-pricks you get from touching metal in winter time. He couldn’t help it.  He lowered his head in respect and so did Darîkil. 

The guards led Annatar into the room, where his very presence commanded everyone's attention. The King rose from his chair.  “Annatar, you have acquitted yourself admirably.  You shared your knowledge of the fire-flinging engines with us, and are responsible for the destruction of our enemies.  I hereby honor my promise and allow you to go free from the shackles.”  He nodded at the guards who produced a key and proceeded to unlock the Zigûr’s chains.  First the bands binding his wrists, then the ones about his ankles, and finally they removed the ones attached to the leather collar, which he still wore about his neck.  Strangely, once they were free, there seemed to be a collective sigh in the room.  Tigôn felt lighter.

“You are great and wise, Ar-Pharazôn,” Annatar said, bowing.  He rubbed his wrists, one after the other.

“Do not forget yourself, Annatar,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “You are still my prisoner and will come back to Númenor so I can watch you.  Do not think of trying to escape.  The guards have orders to cut you down instantly, should you try to do so.” 

Tigôn saw nods of approval from several lords, including Lord Amandil.

A grimace crossed Annatar’s lovely face.  “I have not forgotten, O King,” he said.

“There is an opportunity here, Annatar. Good service will be rewarded, as others in my court can attest.  Disloyalty will be met with severity.”

“I hear your words,” Annatar replied.

“Now then,” said Ar-Pharazôn, rubbing his hands. “We have a banquet to attend, thanks to the generosity of the Regent here. I am sure that will come as welcome news.”  There were chuckles around the table as the King rose and the others followed suit.

The Regent said, “You are all welcome.  We have prepared quite an entertainment for you. Please to follow me.”

As the Council members filed by Tigôn, the King paused, bent slightly and said in Tigôn’s ear. “Go find Sûla and bring him with you to the banquet hall. He should be with the musicians. As reward, you may stay and eat with us.”

Tigôn looked up into the King’s vivid blue eyes. He swallowed.  “Yes, my Lord.” The King swept by in all his crimson finery, leaving a scent of roses and musk oil in his wake. 

“Gah, the banquet! You have all the luck!” Darîkil said enviously. 

Tigôn gripped the doorframe for a moment. Why him and not one of the other pages?   Sûla was the last person he wanted to see right now.  
 
-tbc-

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Chapter End Notes

All the Adûnaic names here are elfscribe inventions except Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr.

Curunórë is Quenya meaning “inventor’s land.”  Thanks Mal!