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

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Chapter 17 - A Taste of Bitter Wine

Chapter summary: Sûla seeks help when Ar-Pharazôn loans him out to Dulginzin and Annatar has a late night meeting with the King. 

Warning violence

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The half-eaten fish lay, mouth agape, on Tigôn’s plate. The guests fell silent. The musician, who had been playing the lyre quietly in the background, plucked one note with a ping and then ended the song abruptly. The only one at the table not realizing that he had committed a major gaff was Dulginzin, who stood weaving slightly, gesturing with his goblet. He repeated himself. “Give me Sûla, my Lord King. That is my wish.”  He thoroughly disrobed Sûla with his eyes as if he already owned him, and then sat down with a thump.

Sûla’s gaze turned plaintively towards the King, who appeared most annoyed. “That is a bold request, son of Izindor,” Ar-Pharazôn said, stroking his chin, “and not one to my liking.”

Lord Izindor’s head bobbed in an elaborate supplication. “My Lord, forgive my son’s brash mood. He is in his cups and not speaking his mind clearly. I am sure he did not mean a permanent gift, but merely a loan for the evening.  We are entertaining some private guests and would like a dancer.  Your zirâmîki’s performance tonight was most impressive. My son was, er, impressed. That’s all.”

“No- uh,” Dulginzin began, but Izindor seized his son’s shoulder in a claw-like grip. “Yes, Dulginzin, that is the way of it,” he said.
 
Drawing Sûla into the crook of his arm, Ar-Pharazôn fondled his hair as if he were a pet, then looked at Annatar, who blinked once, like some huge lizard. The King nodded. “One night,” he said. “Know that it is a great favor I’m granting you. Be satisfied with it.”  He turned to the musicians, “Now then, strike up something lively.  This party is like a funeral.”

Throughout the rest of the dinner Sûla sat stone-faced near the King and did not speak except when spoken to. When the group gave a final performance, he danced with precision and beauty, but the erotic fire had gone from him.

Tigôn was upset on behalf of his friend, sensing that, for some reason, Sûla viewed this request as more dreadful than a night spent with the foul Regent, although the source of Sûla’s misgivings was unclear. To be sure Dulginzin was a nasty character but Sûla had escaped becoming the man’s property and he need only dance for the evening. What was wrong with that?  Apparently, there was more here than met the eye.

The party broke up rather early, beginning with Amandil pleading exhaustion and a need to get an early start on ordering supplies for the return journey.

“Indeed, it has been a long day,” the King said.  He offered a final toast to their great victory over the Haradrim, picked up by all the guests with cries of “Hear, hear.” Then he ordered the guards to escort Annatar back to his secure room and rose to depart for his own chambers. Stumbling slightly, the King put a hand on Annatar’s arm to steady himself. Coming along behind them, Tigôn noticed Annatar lower his eyelids alluringly, then incline his head and whisper something.  The King nodded.  What was that about?   

“My Lord,” Sûla said, coming up on the King’s other side, “may I attend you before bed?”

“You may,” Ar-Pharazôn said gruffly.

“Don’t tarry too long, King’s zirâmîki,” Dulginzin smirked, as he swaggered by. “There is a grand party waiting for you in our quarters.”

Ar-Pharazôn scowled at him. “Do not misuse your prize,” he said, and then stalked unsteadily out of the room.

Sûla began to follow but Tigôn caught his arm. “Is everything well with you?” he whispered.

Sûla laughed sarcastically, jerking his arm away. “Oh yes, everything is just fine. Dancing for the Lords of Arandor is an honor that I have not dreamed of.”   

“Perhaps when Izindor’s party is over, you might like to come by my room . . . to play a game of bones, just to relax, and to talk . . . if you wish,” Tigôn suggested. “I’m in the south wing, second floor, by the stairs.”

“I rather doubt I’ll have the opportunity, Lordling, but it is most kind of you to offer,” Sûla replied. “Pray excuse me.”  He hastened after the King.  

Tigôn stood for a moment reflecting on injustice, while behind him the servants began loudly clearing the tables.  He decided that he wasn’t drunk near enough, paused by a serving table laden with wine jugs, and poured himself another large goblet.  On further reflection, he picked up the entire jug and carried it and the cup back to his room.

* * * *

As soon as the bedroom door closed behind the King, Sûla felt as if his knees had turned to sand.  He knew well what being alone in Dulginzin’s chambers would entail and the thought filled him with horror. Perhaps he could still entice the King into changing his mind.  He sidled up to Ar-Pharazôn, put one hand on the broad chest and stroked the King’s face with the other, feeling the rasp of incoming beard on his fingers.  “Was my dancing not pleasing to you this evening, my Lord?”

“It was indeed. Very,” Ar-Pharazôn said gruffly. He caught Sûla’s hand, pressing it to his lips, and then drew him close, kissing him soundly on the mouth. “So tempting, you are,” he said. Then, with a sigh, he turned away and plopped himself down in his chair.  “But I fear I am tired from the journey and I have promised you elsewhere tonight. So there we are.”

“Do you relish sharing me with another?” Sûla asked, pouting. He sank down to the floor.

“No, I do not,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“You know what Dulginzin will require of me, my Lord?”

“Huh,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted.  He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.
Encouraged, Sûla continued, “You are the Great King.  You can do anything you wish.  If this is distasteful for you, you could just wave a hand and negate it.”

“A King cannot go back on his word, Sûla, or risk losing his subjects’ loyalty.  We are constrained in ways that apparently you do not understand.  So, it’s done then. Help me into something more comfortable.”

Sûla pulled off the King’s shoes, then removed his outer tunic and shirt.  As his hand drifted over the laces in Ar-Pharazôn’s leggings, Sûla gave him a sly look.  “Perhaps you would like something to relax you for bed?” he suggested.  Before the King could give him an order, one way or another, he knelt between the King’s outreached legs and fumbled open the ties on the pouch at his crotch. The organ was soft and wormlike as Sûla took it in his mouth. He worked it until it rose and fattened encouragingly. Surely, Sûla thought, this might make the King remember his worth.

“Ah, yes, that’s good,” the King sighed above him, spreading his legs further.  He put his hand on Sûla’s head and helped the bobbing motion.  However, for some reason the King’s yard resisted Sûla’s best efforts, even more than normal.  In desperation, Sûla tried every trick he knew, flicking his tongue on the soft head while using his hand on the shaft, and then taking him deeply down his throat.  Finally Ar-Pharazôn came, in a few weak spurts.  He quickly went soft, even though Sûla kept mouthing him.  

“That’s enough,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted. “You may go.”

“You do not wish me to warm your bed then?” Sûla asked, desperately. “Remember how cold it is here at night? I could spend but a few hours away with the Lords of Arandor and then come back?”

“I know what you’re trying to do.” Ar-Pharazôn wagged a forefinger at him. “But it won’t work.  I promised Izindor that you’d spend the night. That means the whole night until dawn.”

Sûla felt his insides fluttering, caving in on themselves. He could not help himself, even though he knew pleading was very unwise.  Hugging the King’s knees, he said, “Please, my Lord, please!  Don’t make me do this.  Don’t send me from your side.  I cannot bear it!”

“Sûla!” the King growled warningly. “Remember what I told you earlier. Consider this your punishment for disobeying me and be grateful it’s only a distasteful evening with Izindor and his idiot sons.  It might have been worse.  I was going to make your punishment a night with the Regent – a man who is as pungent as he is ugly.”

“Please Sire, send me to the Regent, or flog me, if you wish to punish me, but not this.” Sûla ran his hand up the inside of the King’s thigh.  “Has my service been unworthy?  My Lord?”

Pharazôn sighed. “Your service has been exemplary, except for disobeying me the other night – and your behavior now.”  The King attempted to rise, but Sûla clung to his legs like a burr. “What is the matter with you?” the King growled. “This is most unseemly.  Let go!”  He put his hand on Sûla’s forehead and shoved him backwards to the floor. Sûla’s elbow connected hard on the tile and he suppressed a yelp. “Do as you’re told and do not dare question my decisions!” Ar-Pharazôn roared. “I will accept only so much insolence, even from my favorite cupbearer!”  He made a move to stand, but then fell back into the chair with a groan. “Curse the wine,” he said.

“Am I still your favorite, my Lord?” Sûla asked miserably, holding his throbbing elbow. He sat up, biting his lip and looking pleadingly at the King.

“You are quite lovely. You know you are,” the King said. “But I’ve made a promise and I won’t gainsay it.”

“My Lord . . . ,” Sûla begged.

“Not another word!  Not one! This is what comes of indulging you too much.  If I hear any more from you, I truly shall give you to Dulginzin – permanently!”

Sûla hung his head, defeated.  Wild badgers clawed his gut, seeking to overwhelm him.  He tried to calm himself. How bad could it be?  He’d been raped before. He could endure it again. Perhaps if he lay limply and did not fight, Dulginzin would be merciful and quick. He wouldn’t dare really hurt him, would he?  But Sûla was not able to quell the feeling that he was drowning. Breathing rapidly, he stood and bowed his head. “Forgive me. In all things, I am your obedient servant, my Lord.”  

“That’s better,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted. “You may go. Oh,” he said, his voice sounding rather too casual, “before you go to the chambers of the Lords of Arandor, I want you to stop by the room where the Zigûr is staying and deliver a message to his guards.  Tell them to bring him here.  I have some matters to discuss that will not wait.”

Sûla’s head snapped up. The Zigûr. Oh, why hadn’t he thought of him earlier? Perhaps Annatar would help him. He hid his smile with his hand.  “Yes, my Lord, whatever you wish.”

* * * *

The foot that had been briefly crushed against the side of the wain that afternoon was giving Mairon some trouble. He favored it with a limp as the guards escorted him down the darkened hallways towards the chamber that doubled as his prison. Strange that it did not seem to be healing as quickly as normal.  If it hadn’t been for this swollen reminder of his humiliation this afternoon, Mairon would have relished his triumph this evening.  A subtle flash, a nudge here and there, and he’d already set events in motion that would flower to his advantage, sooner or later.  In addition to his pained foot, he was being afflicted by a slight blurring in his vision. There it was again. Could it be the wine?

“Quit dawdling,” one of the guards said, giving him a shove. This one was new, not broken in sufficiently. Mairon shot him an image of a back bloodied at a whipping post, and the man jerked away from him.

“Have a care, mîki, my foot was injured,” Mairon snarled. “I suspect the King will wish you to see to it.  I’ll need some morthul steeped in hot water and some bandages to wrap it up.”

The guards eyed each other dubiously.  The new one laughed.  “At this time of night? We’d need to wake a healer for that.”  Mairon hissed at him and he ducked his head.

“Very well. You take charge of him,” the man said and retreated down the hall.  The other guard came in the room, made a thorough check, banging on the bronze-sheathed walls, and then left.  Mairon looked at the sumptuously appointed room with its elaborate tapestries. And then back at the thin bronze paneling. Alloys were supposed to contain sorcery. It remained to be seen if they would.
 
Suddenly Mairon felt dizzy.  Sinking down into a chair, he noticed a strange movement in one of the tapestries decorating the wall.  It depicted a battle with the wretched elves and a dragon, most probably that villain Glaurung. Yes, there it was again, the dragon seemed to blur and shift.  He felt a lurch in his stomach as if the jellied eels were coming alive.  Had they not agreed with him? By Angainor, he was never sick!  He pressed his hands to his eyes.  Around him, he heard a faint whispering sound, smelled something burning, as if the dragon was really spewing its sulfurous flame. A strange flutter erupted in his chest.  He stood and walked several paces, turned and saw himself sitting in the chair, hunched over slightly, hands covering his face.

The shock momentarily rendered him speechless.  Then the air rang with a string of curses uttered in Black Speech.  He took a step towards the self on the chair and it dropped its hands, looked at him and laughed. It was most uncanny!  He felt a drawing sensation in his gut as if someone was pulling on a chain affixed to his navel, and suddenly he found himself sitting in the chair. A wave of anger rushed through him. No, it couldn’t be! Was the spell reversing itself?  It wasn’t supposed to work like that!  He racked his memory for anything that had been in the Necromancer’s scroll. What a stupid oversight not to have arranged to bring it with him!  But then, the Númenórean fools would have only taken it if he had.

The door opened and the guard stuck his head inside. “What’s the matter with you?” he yelled.

“I need the morthul now,” Mairon snapped.

“Narûkh has gone for it,” the guard said. “It won’t come sooner than he does.”

Mairon waved his hand and the door banged shut in the guard’s face. He did not like feeling this shaken and out of control.  He recalled a similar feeling of panic when he’d attempted to ride his horse into the caves several days ago.  Clearly, something was amiss with his borrowed body.  Morthul might ameliorate his problem but he would need to obtain the ingredients to concoct his brew again. And some of them were going to be hard to come by.  This did not put him in a good mood, not at all.

There was a knock on the door.  Good, the guard had been terribly efficient.  “Come,” he snarled.

The door opened and Sûla quietly entered, shutting it deliberately behind him. Ah yes. The boy was right on time.

“My Lord,” Sûla said. “The King calls for you to attend him this evening.” He came towards Mairon, sank down on his knees and lifted cupped hands in supplication.  “Before you leave, please, I have a favor to beg.”

Mairon felt his quivery insides return to a purring satisfaction.  “Let me guess what you want,” he said with a smirk.  “A new wolf-skin to wrap your pretty paramour in.”

The boy looked confused.  “What, my Lord?”

“Oh, don’t be dense,” Mairon snapped. “I am quite aware of your feelings for the King’s messenger. You had better beware, affection like that will only bring you trouble.” He got up, paced towards the wall and then sat on a divan underneath the tapestry, pressing his hand to his forehead. Shaky.

Still on his knees, Sûla swiveled to face him. “You are mistaken,” he said. “There is no affection there.  I had a falling out with him. I saved his life at Arzog’s Pass and he couldn’t even thank me.”

“Ingratitude is quite common among the Númenórean lords,” Mairon replied.  “But you made a play for him during your dance tonight. I saw it. I’m warning you now that it is a weakness and will make you vulnerable.”

“I assure you, I have no feelings for anyone other than for the King,” Sûla said with a flash of his eyes. “My Lord, I have need of your skills.”

“Come then, you need not worship me on your knees,” Mairon said.  Not yet at any rate. “Sit here with me.  I feel for your plight. That young Lord of Arandor is a nasty piece of work.”

Sûla rose and sat tentatively on the divan.   

“It’s unfortunate that the King felt duty-bound to honor Dulginzin’s request, isn’t it?” Mairon continued. “But that’s the sort of man Ar-Pharazôn is.  Someone who sticks by his principles, rather than letting sentiment cloud his judgement, most especially sentiment for a bed partner.”

Sûla bit his lip.  The boy looked so young and lost that if Mairon could feel pity, he might have some for him, but such weaknesses had long ago been purged from him.

“My Lord Annatar,” Sûla said. “I simply cannot . . .” he choked slightly and put a hand to his throat. “Please, you know what he did to me before. I used the spell you gave me to punish him and it worked beautifully, but I fear it will not be enough for this situation.”

Mairon nodded. “I have felt you speak the spell three times now. It is powerful magic, not to be used unless you are in dire need.”

“You felt it?” The light brown eyes darted up to look anxiously at him. The boy licked his lips. “But I have been ordered to spend the whole night.  I can’t continue freezing him every few minutes, can I?  I’m sure to get caught. And much as I should like it, I cannot cut his throat.  Too many people, including the King, know my whereabouts. Is there a way to prolong the spell? Will you help me?”

“I think I’ve helped you rather much of late and so far asked nothing in return,” Mairon said cooly. “Tell me, why should I do so again?” He leaned back against the divan, interlacing his fingers.

“You said you’d ask for a favor at some point. I am ready to fulfill my bargain. What do you wish?” Sûla asked fearfully. “I do not have much to give.” He put a hand to the dragon ornament curling along his upper arm.      

Mairon smiled. “But you do,” he said, and lifted Sûla’s chin with one finger.  

The boy seemed to relax. “Oh.” He edged closer. His hand strayed to Mairon’s thigh and he leaned forward, his lips hovering near enough that Mairon could feel the boy’s soft breath. The sensations were most pleasant. Such lovely lips. Mairon felt interest prickling within, a feeling he had not indulged in many a year.  But no, not yet.

“You mistake me, young one,” Mairon said. “Much as I find you charming, we have agreed, have we not, that such an indulgence would be most . . . unwise.”

“Oh,” the boy said again, sounding rather disappointed.  Mairon hid his smile.  “Then what?” Sûla sat back warily.  

“I strongly suspect that soon the King will wish me to prove my claims regarding the elixir of youth.  I will need someone to procure the substances I need to brew it and help in its production.  I think you are worthy of that honor.”

“Is that all?” Sûla said, with a harsh laugh.  He tossed his head.  “You’ll have to ask the King’s permission.  Although I doubt he’ll refuse you. He seems in a great mood to loan me out these days.”  The lovely eyes veiled as he looked away.  Bitterness.  Good.
   
“Rather trusting, are you not?” Mairon chuckled. “You have agreed too quickly without really knowing what I’m asking.” Sûla’s alarmed glance flicked to meet his and Mairon chuckled again.  “Do not worry, I have no wish to harm such a promising assistant. Be assured, it is a fair bargain.  So, you would like to render Dulginzin harmless.” Mairon tapped his lip with a finger.  “It so happens that I have ordered some of the very thing you need.  The guard should be here with it shortly.  Morthul, a narcotic.  Rubbed on the skin, it dulls pain.  Infused in a liquid and taken internally, it causes a deep sleep. I can give you the magic to alter its structure to intensify the effect. You’ll have to put it in his drink.  That shouldn’t be hard; he was swilling enough tonight.” Mairon nodded.  “Yes, I think that will do nicely. He’ll sleep like the dead and wake up in the morning feeling as if he has a terrible hangover. No one will know.”

Sûla’s face lit. “Yes, that is precisely what I need!”

“He’ll have bad dreams,” Mairon warned.

“Even better,” Sûla replied.

“There may be unforeseen effects.”

“‘Tis no matter. Tell me the words!” Sûla declared, his face hardened with the lure of power.

Like leading a lamb to the sacrifice, Mairon thought and was suddenly reminded of his first seduction of Dolgu many years ago in this very palace. Mairon shifted towards the King’s cupbearer with a soft rustle of silk. “The guard will bring the morthul shortly.  Just as before, you must take the spell from my lips.  Be careful of my foot now.”   

****************

Whatever the sorcerer had given him with that kiss, it caused Sûla to feel as if he was striding down the hall wearing big boots, although in fact his feet were bare. Shadows cast by hanging lamps fled before him. He almost looked forward to matching wits with the odious Dulginzin, now that he had the Zigûr’s tincture and the spell to make it strong. He patted the ceramic vial hidden in his sash. But how to administer it without being noticed? And what then? What if there were others in the room? There were still many things that could go awry.

Sûla rapped on the door to the chambers where the Lords of Arandor were ensconced. A servant, a small, cruel-looking man with a scar on his neck, answered it and led him into a sitting room.

Like a great bear, Lord Dulginzin was sprawled on a cushioned hassock near a crackling fire. Except for a pair of leggings, he was nearly naked, sporting a well-muscled chest covered with dense black fur. His strange wall-eyed brother was lying on a cushion on the floor playing a clay flute, rather tunelessly.

“Ah, here he is, finally,” Dulginzin growled, gesturing with a large, bejeweled goblet. “You certainly took your time in getting here.”

Sûla bowed deeply. “The King required my services.” Already he was feeling less certain of himself than he had been a few moments before.

“I can well imagine he did after your performance s’evening,” Dulginzin said, lips curving into a cruel smirk. “I will require your ‘services’ as well and now you cannot say me nay. It will be an enjoy - enjoyable night.” He turned his head towards his brother. “By Ossë’s crack, Mirandor, that’s enough!” The bizarre tootling ceased. “Stand not by the door, zirâmîki. Come here.”

“Where is your father? And your guests?” Sûla replied, heart thudding, as he approached warily.

“The old man’s in bed . . . with a headache,” Dulginzin chortled. “He cannot handle drink. And the guests are gone. You’ll have an easy time of it, since you need only dance for me.” He snapped his fingers at the servant. “Give him the wine.” The man hastened to do as he was bid. Sûla noticed that he had burn marks on his arms.

Schooling a grimace, Sûla started to sit down on a nearby stool. The last thing he wanted was more drink that might impair his wits.

“No, o’er here,” Dulginzin said, patting his thighs.

“My Lord has said that I am only required to dance, not to sport with you,” Sûla replied, and immediately regretted how haughty he had sounded. Dulginzin sprang from his chair and backhanded him across the face, sending him sprawling to the floor. Face stinging, Sûla glared up at him. “Wrong, zirâmîki,” Dulginzin said. “I require your full services.”

“Dulgi,” Mirandor drawled, “didn’t Fa-ather s-say not to leave any v-visible marks?”

Dulginzin turned on his brother, who raised his hands over his head to fend him off. “I have no problem leaving visible marks on you, idiot,” he said. He beckoned to the servant who held a large ceramic wine cup by both handles. “He’s stiff as a board,” Dulginzin said, indicating Sûla. “Give that to him.”

“If you please, my Lord,” Sûla said. “I would prefer none. It affects my dancing skills.”

“You may not refuse me anything, tonight,” Dulginzin said. “Tonight, if I say drink, you will.”

“I still have the King’s favor,” Sûla replied. “You’d be wise to remember that.” He stood and pointedly rubbed his stinging face.

“You think I’m afraid of old Ar-Pharazôn, the Impo - impotent?” Dulginzin said with a drunken slur. “Well, I’m not. Ask any of those dead Haradrim if they were ‘fraid o’ me. Ask my brother.”

“I swear to you if you hurt me, the King will string you up by your balls,” Sûla replied. “Especially once he hears about your reference to his prowess, which I happen to know, is considerable.”

Mirandor started snickering again. Dulginzin lunged forward drunkenly, and grabbed Sûla by the arms. However impaired he might be, he was still hideously strong; Sûla struggled against him to no avail. Dulginzin held his arms by the elbows and jerked them up at an angle behind his back. It hurt. Greatly. “You’ll say nothing to the King. Nothing,” Dulginzin hissed. “Or I’ll kill you – in some dark corridor where no one’ll suspect. I promise you that. Mirandor, pull his head back.” Sûla felt a sudden hard jerk on his hair and pins of fire erupted along his scalp. “Now Pâroth,” Dulginzin addressed the servant, “make him drink it.”

The servant loomed close enough for Sûla to see hair in his nostrils, then the courtesan felt the edge of the cup pressed against his lips. Sûla struggled some more, and wine spilled down his neck onto the metal mesh shirt. For a moment he worried about returning the garment to Lillu without damage and then his jaw was jerked open and more liquid poured down his throat. Coughing and spluttering, he attempted to swallow but it was more than he could take. His throat burned. He heard Dulginzin's deep laughter. By the gods, he couldn’t breathe! He choked again, violently, and thrashed so much, it felt like his arms were being wrenched from their sockets. The cup finally emptied. Dulginzin threw him, gasping like a beached fish, face forward on the floor. There were no words for this drowning sensation. He felt out of control, hysterical. He coughed and coughed again so hard he thought he would vomit.

“It would go much better for you, Umbarian, if you followed my orders,” Dulginzin said, his voice coming through the burning haze. “Just because you bend over for the King, you think you can wave your arse at the rest of us. You’ll learn differently tonight. Now it looks like you’ve spilt wine on the floor. How careless of you. Lick it up.”

Shaking, Sûla slowly lowered his face to the tiled floor and began lapping up the puddled wine, feeling the rasp of dirt on his tongue. At least this was better than what else Dulginzin might be doing to him. He wished he had as much power as the Zigûr so that he could summon an army of frenzied, biting squirrels to put down the man’s pants. Once he managed to give Dulginzin the morthul, ah then the tables would turn! But doubt began consuming his thoughts. Lord Dullard did not seem constrained by fear of the King. Clearly he was drunk already and not in his right mind. What if the draught didn’t work? What if the fiend killed him before he could administer it?

“That’s better,” Dulginzin said. “But you missed a spot.” He laughed again, the sound like a rumbling war engine.

Sûla cleaned up the final stain and coughed some more. His tongue felt like sandpaper. He licked it across his forearm to get rid of the grit.

“Now, you need t’earn your keep,” Dulginzin said. “You’ll dance for me. Like you did for th’ King. Do it jus’ as nice. Pâroth, get the musicians.”

The servant bowed and left. Dulginzin fell back into his chair, limbs akimbo. “Naked,” he said.

“What?” Sûla said, lifting his head to look at him.

“You will dance naked. Take the fripperies off – artfully. I’ll be judging you. It will not go well for you if you fail to please me.” Dulginzin smirked.

*********

Once Sûla left, Pharazôn began to have doubts about whether or not he should have summoned Annatar to his chambers this evening. Aphanuzîr’s words to him just after the banquet were causing him to second guess himself and he didn’t like it.

Pacing like a beast in a cage, the King stroked his raspy face and contemplated calling a barber, then decided it was too late for that. Curse it, he could still hear Aphanuzîr’s softly-spoken warning. “If you value my advice as you used, Pharazôn,” his old mentor said, “you will keep that creature at bay. He is a crow in swan’s plumage, appearing fair, when we know that his heart, if indeed he has any, is most black.”

Pharazôn had nodded and said, “You needn’t fear. I know what he is. I only plan to use his knowledge to our advantage. After all, I tied him to a cross today and paraded him through the streets of Umbar. I know he hated that and yet he did nothing to prevent it. I believe he is not the all-powerful being we feared he was. I’m not intimidated by him.”

Aphanuzîr had looked at him with that captain’s squint, the one used when examining the sky for signs of a squall, then he dipped his head. “That is encouraging to hear. Good night, my Lord.” And he left.

So Aphanuzîr feared he was weak. Curse him, it was not true! Pharazôn had already shown he was capable of standing up to the sorcerer. Annatar was not going to trick him into anything he did not wish to do. That he could promise himself. He felt better. He put a hand to his forehead. The effect of the dinner wine was wearing off, but it was giving him a vague headache. He poured himself a cup of water and drank it.

The door opened and two guards escorted Annatar into the room. When he entered, it was as if the air suddenly crackled with the sound of a distant forest fire. His appearance - that tall, willowy form, that exquisite elfin face, surrounded by the fall of silken red hair - belied the sensation of power. It made Pharazôn feel young, and foolhardy, as if he were sneaking out of the palace for an illicit assignation. With a wave of his jeweled hand, he commanded the guards to send for some food and drink and then wait outside. The door clicked shut behind them – ominously.

Annatar’s mouth worked a moment, as if hiding a sneer. It was disrespectful and Pharazôn opened his mouth to say so, but then the sorcerer bowed gracefully. “You sent for me,” he said.

“You intimated that the Regent was skimming funds. I want to know what you know,” Pharazôn said, thinking it best to dispense with airy niceties.

“That will require some conversation,” Annatar said. “Are you going to invite me to sit? My foot hurts.”

“Your foot?” Pharazôn echoed.

“Injured at the end of that delightful ride you orchestrated through Umbar. My Lord,” Annatar said.  He lifted his robe to show sandaled feet, one with a bandage wrapped about the instep.

Pharazôn indicated two cushioned chairs by the fire. “Sit then.” They settled themselves. “I did not know you would be injured,” Pharazôn averred. “I assure you it was mere show for the Umbarians.”

“Never fear, it will heal quickly if I can get the proper herbs.” Annatar combed his hair back from his face in a positively feline gesture.

“You shall have them,” Pharazôn said.

“Well then, you have cut to the chase and so shall I. As far as Rabêlozar is concerned, my spies have kept me well-informed.”

“You said he skimmed taxes to create the temple. Did he take any for himself?”

“Assuredly. He has been living well, no doubt about it.”

“I’ll have Azgarad go through his books tomorrow,” Pharazôn said.

“I believe you’ll find his books in good order. Rabêlozar is not fool enough to leave behind evidence in black and white.”

“I’ll torture him then,” Pharazôn concluded.

“That could work.” Annatar nodded. “But he does not know the details himself. The key lies with his exchequer, one Ephalak by name. He knows where the money went. Chain him overnight within sight of the forge, apply a hot brand or two, then promise him a position in your court if he confesses. You’ll have your evidence with no loss of time, which you can ill afford in your scramble to leave these shores.”

“Indeed,” Pharazôn said, with a lift of his eyebrows. He rose, opened the door, and instructed the guards to arrest the Regent’s exchequer, Ephalak, and put him in the dungeon. “Make sure the Regent knows about it,” he said.

When Pharazôn returned and settled himself again, he said, “We had suspected the Regent was playing us, but there was no evidence. Your spies seem better informed than ours.”

“Knowledge is the key to power, my Lord,” Annatar said. “I learned that at the knee of the Master.”

“From Morgoth,” Pharazôn observed, with a shudder.

“So the elves called him. Do you believe their propaganda? Was there a choice for men between Melkor’s brethren and Melkor himself? There is much you don’t know about Eru and the Valar, his servants. Although your priests sing their praises, how have they ever repaid your devotion?”

“They created Númenor for us,” Pharazôn said.

“Do you believe the lie that they did it to reward your valor against their Enemy? No. It was to keep their eyes on you. Tell me, O King. Why did they allow my Master free reign in Endórë, and not interfere for thousands of years while countless elves and men lost their lives? Why then, once they’d defeated him, would they create a haven within sight of Elvenhome, allow the elves of Valinor to freely visit you, some say to spy on you, and yet you are never permitted to visit them? Why did Eru grant endless life to the elves and not to men? These are among many conundrums that cause one to wonder about the benevolent intentions of Eru and his minions.”

Pharazôn nodded. Curse him, Annatar made sense. These very questions had troubled the wise of Númenor for years. But he had his doubts. Pharazôn said, “I am well-read in our history and I know what you and your foul Master did, spreading your reign of terror. The Valar never did anything like that. Why should I choose to ally myself with you?”

“We must be strong to maintain order and it comes at a price. There are always those who fight the dominant power, whoever it is, thinking to further their own petty interests. I know you understand what I'm saying. In putting down the Haradrim, you are ensuring that they do not disturb the peace of Umbar. I have the same interests as you. When I heard that you had come to Endórë threatening battle, it occurred to me, sitting on my throne in Barad-dûr, that we are both better served by uniting our forces, rather than grinding each other down, while our true enemies, the Valar and the elves, sit back and laugh at our folly.”

His voice had grown strident and hard. Pharazôn’s blood prickled with it. Suddenly he relived the moment of ecstasy that he’d felt, buried deep inside the sorcerer, blood slippery against his loins. His brow broke out in a sweat and he was relieved when the door opened and servants bustled in carrying trays laden with a light supper, a meat pie, cheese, and some more mulled wine. They arrayed a low table with plates and cutlery and left. Pharazôn was still quite full from dinner but now had a desire for more drink.  

“You have not responded to what I said,” Annatar replied, languidly cutting a wedge of the cheese and lifting it to his mouth. His tongue slid along his sumptuous lips. Pharazôn forced himself to look away.

“I think I have already acknowledged that I believe it wise to make such an alliance,” Pharazôn said. “You are here after all. Your spirit could be wandering headless about the wastelands.”

“I suppose I have to thank you for that,” Annatar said, seemingly amused.

“We have much to offer one another,” Pharazôn continued. “I was most impressed with your designs for the war engines. I have not seen the like before. Such power and precision. We could never have routed the Haradrim so easily without them.”

“You have the plans I brought with me. I can teach your engineers how to construct the engines from them,” Annatar said. “We can build more from the models. When do you plan to set sail?”

“We should be ready within a fortnight.”

“Are you still determined to carry me off to your island?” Annatar asked.

“I have not changed my mind,” Pharazôn replied. “The better to keep a watchful eye on you. I do not trust you, you know.”

“That is obvious. I hope, in time, that you'll think better of me.” Annatar's eyes gleamed at him.

“And now,” the King continued. “I come to another of my questions. What do you require to brew the elixir of youth?”

Annatar sat back in his chair. He took a sip of wine. “Do you feel a need for a restorative, my Lord?”

“I should like to try it before we set sail, to know if you are speaking the truth, or merely seeking to cozen me.”

“I am not sure we have the time. The brew requires many exotic substances.”

“I think that you are dissembling,” Pharazôn growled. “I can send messengers to procure whatever you need.”

“I require an assistant,” Annatar said, wiping his lips daintily with a napkin.

“That’s easy enough,” Pharazôn said.

“Then you won’t mind loaning me your little cupbearer. I have found him to be quick and efficient in serving my food and in attending to my back, after you flogged me.”

Pharazôn had a flash of Sûla’s tawny hands pressing a linen bandage over Annatar’s fair white buttocks, laced with red stripes. Ah yes, another reason to take Annatar back to Armenelos with him. Suddenly, he had a desire to watch him performing with Sûla and the other zirâmîkin. An inspiring thought. Certainly that would keep the Dark Lord in his place.

The King nodded. “Sûla can assist you with your endeavors.” He hesitated, his body pounding in anticipation. “I want to know,” he began. Annatar widened his eyes, inviting the question. “What did you do the last time I . . . when I had you. You did something that made the climax feel remarkable.”

“I did nothing special,” Annatar said, with a shake of his fiery head. “I told you. You merely felt the power of a Maia.”

“Was that all?” Pharazôn said. “If so, the Maiar have missed their calling as the world’s most enticing courtesans.”

“By Angband, another talent unrealized,” Annatar chuckled.

Pharazôn laughed, the warmth of the wine buzzing in his veins. “I wouldn’t waste it,” he said, lowering his head and looking up at the sorcerer. “But if you can do that on your own, why have I a need for the elixir of youth?”

“I suspect it may be inconvenient to attempt to rule a kingdom while you are continuously thrust up my backside.” Annatar’s eyes crinkled wickedly. “My potion will rejuvenate you in all areas of your life, not just love-making. It is like a taste of Aman.” He pulled a lock of crimson hair through his hand. “The elixir of youth will give you stamina, make you feel like an adolescent again.”

“And what will be the price of this . . . gift?” Pharazôn asked.

“Ah, a shrewd bargainer. I’ll be plain, then. I want a position in your court as a Counselor. Grant me a seat on the Council of the Sceptre. I could be most useful to you and your kingdom. Remember my expertise in fighting battles.”

“I shall have to think about it,” Pharazôn replied.

“Do not think on it too long,” Annatar said. “I’ll not lift a finger to aid you, otherwise.”

How dare he! In sudden fury, the King rose and seized the sorcerer’s dark robe around his neck, hauling him to his feet. “You are not in a position to defy me,” Pharazôn snarled. “Just remember that.” Making the Zigûr stand was a mistake as the sorcerer was half a head taller and suddenly Pharazôn found it intimidating. He gripped harder making Annatar feel his strength.

“I have not forgotten,” Annatar replied smoothly. “But you do not frighten me. You have no idea, do you, my King, what my relationship with Melkor was? I grew accustomed to . . . rough usage. The secret is, I enjoy it.”

Once more, heat flared throughout Pharazôn, pulsing through him until he did not think he could become any harder.

“Power is an irresistible lure for me,” Annatar continued in his soft voice, now like the purring of a great cat. Pharazôn’s hands relaxed on the Zigûr's clothing. Annatar drew closer, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “I think we shall get on well together. What do you think?”

Suddenly, the air seemed perfumed with the heady aroma of alfirin.

**********

Dance naked! Sûla thought in a panic. Oh, this was not good. How would he conceal the ceramic vial in his sash if he had to take it off and walk around in nothing but his skin? This was going to be tricky. When the two drummers and the flute player entered and began their compelling beat, Sûla slowly began unlacing the side of his shirt, while staring at Dulginzin. I’m going to get you, you bastard, he thought as he smiled at him and arched an eyebrow. I’m going to make you fall deeply asleep and then tie off your balls so you castrate yourself. He licked his lips lasciviously and Dulginzin’s mouth curled up at the corners in a self-satisfied smirk.

With the mailshirt held in his arms like a partner, Sûla danced it to corner of the room. Turning his back on Dulginzin, he set it down. Then, undulating his arse provocatively and looking over his shoulder at his nemesis, he began unknotting the sash. Carefully, he clasped the vial, hiding it in one hand, while unwinding the sash from his hips with the other. From watching sleight-of-hand magicians in the palace he knew that people pay attention to distractions. He threw the sash in the air, letting it drift down, while quickly slipping the vial under a fold in the mailshirt. That would have to do. Gracefully, he plucked the sash off the floor, turned, coming back towards Dulginzin in a rolling hip walk with the sash draped about his shoulders. Stopping just out of Dulginzin’s reach, he slowly unlaced the wide-legged black trousers and pushed them off his hips, undulating like a snake shedding its skin. As usual, there was some awkwardness in getting the trousers over his feet, but he managed and then began to dance in earnest.

The fire felt warm on his naked backside. Dulginzin’s eyes gleamed as he watched him. This was no different than dancing for one of the King’s banquets, Sûla told himself, although now he derived no pleasure from the obvious lust he was provoking. He couldn’t bear the young lord of Arandor’s gloating expression and wanted to run screaming from the room. To distract himself, he looked away, imagining that it was Tigôn sitting in the chair instead of Dulginzin.

At first Tigôn would give him that wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare, innocent and somewhat disapproving, just as he had looked at him in the solarium when he was practicing. But then the messenger’s expression would turn hungry. Sûla would know when he had provoked the reaction he desired. He would dance until Tigôn was frenzied, stiff and dripping for him, then he would grind himself into Tigôn’s lap, listen for the gasp as he swallowed him up, took his body into his own, and relived the feel of his mouth against his. Tigôn’s heart would beat rapidly against Sûla’s chest, as he felt the page’s body responding, melting under him. The image caused him to stiffen and bounce, embarrassing him. Not here. He had become carried away.

“Look at you,” Dulginzin chortled, pointing at his erection, and Sûla felt an unaccustomed emotion, shame. “Stupid boy, that wine had a love charm in it. The kind that make the loins burn. You’ll want me now. You won’t be able to help yourself.”

“Did you think you needed a love charm when you are so appealing yourself, my Lord?” Sûla asked peevishly.

Dulginzin merely smirked.

Whirling the trousers about like a banner, Sûla spun in circles about the room. When he arrived at his pile of clothes, he dropped them on top of the mailshirt, then he danced back towards Dulginzin, pulling the sash from around his shoulders and using it as a curtain for his undulating loins.

Now, he was whirling about, seeing the room blur, settling into his own world of movement and sound, where he continued until his skin felt sticky with sweat. Finally the drums ceased. Feeling slightly dizzy, he bowed. When he looked up, he found Dulginzin watching him with a look of such violent greed that Sûla took a step backwards.

“Very good.” Dulginzin clapped. “What do you say Mirandor? How do we rate that performance?”

Mirandor cocked his head. “Fair.” He looked towards Dulginzin for confirmation. “I’d l-like to s-see him dance on your l-lap,” he said.

“I imagine you would,” Dulginzin said, draining his cup. He set it on the floor and stood. “But not tonight. I feel a need to lie down. Sûla, you’ll come with me. The musicians are dismissed.” He waved his hand.

As the musicians bowed, picked up their drums and filed out, Sûla felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He wasn’t sure he could stop the inevitable. He eyed the cup on the floor. How was he going to get the drug into it? “I see you are more temperate than the King,” he said, then forced himself to laugh. “I am used to bringing him a nightcap. I guess that’s one less task I have to do this evening.”

“What? No, you’re mine for tonight. You’ll do everything for me that you do for the King. Fill up my goblet, Umbarian. Bring it with you.”

Sûla picked up the bronze cup, went to the jug on the sideboard and poured some more wine. Then, he retrieved his pile of clothes as if straightening the room. “You won’t need those,” Dulginzin growled. He was walking unsteadily, as if on eggshells. Sûla didn’t think it would take anything to knock him out.

“I’m just tidying up, my Lord.” Without waiting for permission, he entered the shadowed bedroom, lit by a lamp sitting in the deep recess of the window sill, and carefully set the clothes on a chair near the door. Fumbling with one hand in the mailshirt, he felt for the vial. Ah, got it. As he closed his fingers about the object, Dulginzin suddenly seized him about the waist. Sûla turned his gasp into a giggle. “Careful, my Lord, you’ll spill the wine.”

“I don’ care,” Dulginzin said. “Bend over and grab the chair, and I’ll do you right here.”

“Let me put this down.” Sûla slid through the man's hands, dropping into a crouch to set the cup and the vial on the floor next to the chair. He heard a clatter as the vial rolled somewhere. That was not a sound he fancied.

“Wha’ was that?” Dulginzin growled.

“A piece of my jewelry. Let me get it,” Sûla said breathlessly. He patted around the floor.

“Heed it not,” Dulginzin said. He hauled Sûla upright and slapped him hard on the rear causing pain to blend strangely with a flare of desire. Dulginzin staggered towards the bed, pulling Sûla along by the back of the neck. “I want to lie down,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

The brute flung him hard onto the bed. Sûla gasped with the impact, stopping the yelp that tried to rise in his throat. “Yes, scream, go on. That’s what I want to hear from you,” Dulginzin said. He socked Sûla hard in the gut.

Ai! Pain roared through Sûla’s belly and he released the scream he had been holding. Dulginzin laughed, rolled him over onto his face, grabbed him by the waist and pulled him up close, cursing, as he fumbled with his ties. This was not what Sûla had planned, not at all. He wailed again but it only seemed to encourage Dulginzin.

Suddenly, Sûla remembered that he had another power at his disposal. What were the words? Oh by Zizzûn! What were they?

The first word formed like smoke on his tongue and then the rest seemed to flow of their own accord, as once more he felt the swirl of wind about the room. Dulginzin’s hand on his flank went rigid. Quickly Sûla rolled over on his back to see what he’d wrought.

It had worked! And not a moment too soon. The beast was frozen, rod in hand. Breathing hard, Sûla went limp under him, shaking all over. No, this was not the time to lose control of himself. He wriggled out from under his adversary, picked up the lamp on the window sill, and ran over to the pile of clothes on the chair. Now where had that cursed vial rolled?

Setting the lamp on the floor, he dropped on his hands and knees, crawling this way and that, as his heart pounded painfully. Where in Arda was it?

A pair of bare feet stepped from the shadows into the wavering lamplight.  Sûla startled so hard he thought he had jumped out of his skin. Abruptly, he sat back and looked past a pair of hairy legs and dangling genitals into Mirandor’s disconcerting eyes that stared to either side. The man giggled and held out his fist.  “Are you l-looking for this, z-zirâmîki?”

---

Chapter End Notes

morthul - black breath in Sindarin. Elfscribe invention. Name for a narcotic made from flower seeds, like opium.
Narûkh - Adûnaic name combining man (naru) and shout (rûkh).
Pâroth - Adûnaic name combining hand (pâ) and cut (roth).
Ephalak - means far away in Adûnaic
***********

Thanks again to Malinornë for beta reading, helping me with Adûnaic names and with figuring out how to auto-correct my accents.  Thanks also to members of the Lizard Council for helpful commentary, especially Russandol who also suggested the chapter title, and Pandemonium, DarthFingon, Erulisse, and Oshun.  And to Sian for her helpful suggestion regarding Mirandor.