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

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Chapter 3 - Preparing for the Hunt

Chapter summary: Sauron prepares himself to meet Ar-Pharazôn and discovers that letting go of the Ring is not easily done.

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“Dolgu, bring me the black tunic,” Tar-Mairon called from his seat in front of the mirror. “No, idiot, not that one—the raw silk one with the gold embroidery.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the Chief Nazgûl growled. He thought, What have I become—a scunning lackey? A chambermaid? I, who was once a Prince of Númenor?

In the seven days since Tar-Mairon had taken the new form, he'd been worse than a woman trying on a new robe for an important party. He had demanded news of the latest fashions in Ar-Pharazôn’s court and while awaiting that, had spent much time in the bath, oiling and grooming the new body. The rest of the time he had experimented with various garments, hair dressings, and cosmetics. The whole project had taxed Dolgu’s ingenuity as there hadn’t been much in the way of face paint, luxurious garments, or bath oils in the vicinity of Barad-dûr. In addition, court fashions had changed since his own days at Armenelos, not that he had paid much attention to them even when he had been a prince there. He’d had to bargain with one of the ravens to gather some information. To obtain the items his Master demanded, he’d had to a send swift horseman out to the traders at Pelargir—at best a risky venture with the Tarkîl marching towards their doors. And what reward did he have? Naught but harsh words and menial tasks. All in all, Dolgu would have rather engaged Ar-Pharazôn’s army and watched his own minions slaughtered down to the last uruk than play personal attendant to His Excellency.

Nor could he get used to Tar-Mairon’s new body. It was startling every time he looked at him expecting to see the Dark Lord, Master of Barad-dûr, and saw instead—a wretched elf. He snarled quietly to himself.

Smoothing his scowl, Dolgu entered the chamber with the requested garment held over one arm. The wolf lay sleeping on the floor, his head resting on his huge paws. He lifted his head and growled softly. Dolgu gave him a wide berth.

Tar-Mairon was seated on a stool in front of his mirror wearing naught but a dressing gown. Strands of the long, coppery hair were pulled back from his face in many small braids, twined with gold cord. The rest of it, oiled and brushed bright, flowed like a river of silk down his back. He was looking with intense concentration in the mirror as he dabbed a greasy substance over his lips. Dolgu had to admit that those lips looked much better now than they had when the elf had owned them.

Tar-Mairon frowned. “Still not completely healed,” he fussed. “They need to be perfect. Has Ar-Pharazôn stopped marching inland yet?”

“He appears to have encamped on a hill on the west side of the Ephel Dúath, about five days’ journey by horse from here. His heralds are increasing their calls for your surrender. They are beginning to sound . . . irritated.”

“Indeed,” Tar-Mairon chuckled. “Well, they will have to wait a little longer. I imagine the fact that we have not yet engaged his army is quite maddening.”

“They have sent scouts out all over the country and encountered no resistance. That may be why they’ve decided to sit down and wait. However, they are still taking all precautions. The King is well protected. I could lead a sortie out to challenge their flank—maybe catch them off guard?” Dolgu tried not to sound too hopeful. Smashing in a bunch of Tark heads would feel quite good about now.

“No, let the King wonder what we are planning. I doubt he’s prepared at all for this.” Tar-Mairon waved his hand at his reflection, then drew his lips back, and rubbed a finger across his teeth, which created a squeaky sound.

“When do you wish to leave?”

“Tonight. We’ll travel under cover of darkness. I’ll take a small escort that will deliver me to their sentries.”

“My Lord . . .” Dolgu began.

“I’ve already heard your objections. Don’t question me further,” Tar-Mairon snapped. He bent back toward the mirror as he drew a kohl wand along his eyelashes drawing a thin black line. “Which do you think, Dolgu, the jet earrings or the rubies?”

“Forgive me, Lord, but I am not attuned to the nuances of style.”

Tar-Mairon’s glance flicked up and down Dolgu’s somber robes. “No, I gather not.” He tilted his head as he slid gold wires through his earlobes. The rubies winked and glittered in the light. Then he stood and held out his arms. “Very well, I’ve done what I can with the face. Dress me.”

“Perhaps Gron would be better suited . . .”

“Gron is too short and requires a stool, which is irritating because he has to keep clambering up and down. Hurry.”

The wolf raised his head and yawned with a flap of red tongue.

Dolgu picked up one of the garments from the pile on the chaise. “My Lord, I need to ask, how long will you be gone?”

“I have no idea. Years, most likely,” Tar-Mairon said. “Intrigue takes time.” He grimaced as Dolgu shoved the black tunic over his head and roughly pulled the laces tight at the sides. “Have a care with that!”

“Then who is to command . . .?”

“You, my pet, will take charge in my absence.”

Suffused with sudden pleasure, Dolgu paused to look at his Master. Suddenly all his effort had become worthwhile. A much desired promotion! He would be the Dark Lord in Tar-Mairon's absence, which might be for a very long time. “I’m honored, my Lord.”

“Don’t become too comfortable,” Tar-Mairon said with a curl of the lip. “Be ready to receive a summons. I may need you on Númenor. If so, Khamûl will take charge.”

“Yes, my Lord. What am I to do with your former body?” The flesh that had housed his Master had been lying in state, arms folded across the chest, in the chamber below them. Tar-Mairon had forbidden any disposal of it, in case the transmogrification did not take.

“Burn it,” Tar-Mairon said. “It is of no further use to me.”

“It shall be done, Excellency.”

Then the Ring spoke up in that strange voice that had an after-effect like ringing steel. “What is to be my fate, Lord King? For to continue wearing me is to deliver me into the hand of thine enemy.”

“Yes, I’ve thought on that,” Tar-Mairon said. “It is a problem.”

This presented an opportunity such that Dolgu could not contain himself. He knelt before his Master. “My Lord, if you please, I could take the Ring. I would keep it hidden and safe for your return.” He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

“Oh ho ho,” the Ring chuckled.

Dolgu looked up and met his Master’s eyes. They glowed like fire and Dolgu realized that he’d gone too far. Suddenly, in a motion so quick it was blurred, Tar-Mairon moved.  He hooked his leg around Dolgu’s and jerked him over backwards causing him to land with a painful smack. The wolf’s wet mouth clamped none too gently about his throat.

“Dolgu!” The voice cut him like shards of ice. “NO ONE wears the Ring but I. Know this, to the depths of your being, my pet. Even to THINK otherwise is not permissible. Do you understand?”

Dolgu nodded ever so slightly, unable to speak.

“Down Ráca,” the Dark Lord said and the wolf released him. “You have no cause for disquiet. I have thought of everything,” Tar-Mairon continued airily. “Now, finish dressing me and then leave until the sun sets. I have things to do.”

Slowly Dolgu rose onto one elbow and with disgust wiped the drool away from his throat. He looked into Ráca’s maw with its lolling red tongue. The animal appeared to be laughing at him.

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“Where art thou taking me?” the Ring asked, in a voice rife with suspicion.

“Never you mind,” Mairon returned. His metal-shod footsteps echoed as he descended the dizzying spiral stair, down and down. Would it never end?

“I demand to know.”

“You may demand nothing!” Mairon snarled. Now that it had come to it, he didn’t know if he could really do what he intended and anger at the entire circumstance embroiled his gut. He was used to controlling events, setting them in his own pattern of how the world should be run. Like pieces on a gaming board, he wanted to see all moves and select the ones that would most advantage him. But for the first time in many years, he could not see ahead in this venture. The road was dark and uncertain. And he did not know if he could bring himself to part with his most precious creation. Curse Dolgu for expressing doubts! Curse the Edain! And most especially curse Ar-Pharazôn! Oh, the Númenórean would pay dearly for interfering with his plans in Middle-earth and for forcing this humiliation upon him. That fate was certainly in the stars.

“Thou art planning to leave me!” the Ring shrilled. “Know that once thou takest me from thy hand, thou shalt lose a goodly portion of thy power.”

“Do not presume to lecture me, the one who created you! I know everything about you!”

“Dost thou? When hast thou removed me before?”

“As you so wisely pointed out, my pet, I cannot take you to Ar-Pharazôn and I cannot trust anyone else to watch you. Dolgu has already proven that. It would be like leaving my beautiful virgin daughter in the care of a randy old lecher. This is the only choice left in a bag of bad options.”

Further and further into the bowels of his great tower he traveled. As he descended, he could feel the anger slowly drain away, only to be replaced by a growing panic, manifested in cold sweat that pricked his face and chest. Where this fear came from he had no idea, but when he finally reached the prison level, it overwhelmed him to the point that he stopped short and leaned against the wall, scarce able to breathe.

Was it the smell of the dungeon, the dust and fetid bodies that seemed to stick in his throat? Or was it the sounds—the creaking, low moans, and occasional howls? It was dreadfully familiar in the way that one sometimes feels things have happened before. Was he remembering Angband? It had been many a year since he’d been down here but it had never bothered him before. The prison was necessary to maintain discipline. He knew that, but now he was overwhelmed by anguish, such that he wanted to bolt. He felt it so strongly that he had to pause and grasp a set of iron bars to keep himself anchored. He rocked once, twice, thrice.

With a roar, something huge rushed at the bars. Startled, Mairon leapt back. A cave troll. Mairon straightened. “Get back,” he cried, raising his hand and projecting his intention. The creature snarled and retreated into the dark.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind there came wild laughter. The thought leapt unbidden. You didn’t plan for this did you, Sauron?

“Who is there?” He turned his head this way and that, seeing naught but shadows.

“Take thyself in hand, Lord King,” the Ring remonstrated. “What seekest thou?”

“A suitable hiding place for you,” Mairon replied. He took a deep breath and began walking. His feet seemed to know where they were going, even if he didn’t consciously direct them. Down one corridor lit by the flickering torches, and then another. He finally came to a stop in front of a cell. It was empty. The door yawned wide.

Entering that cell was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He stood still, shaking like a rabbit until finally his anger reasserted itself. There was no reason for this! He was the Lord of Barad-dûr. Everything here must obey him: the elvish body he inhabited, his golden creation, the very stone of the tower. All!

Once in the cell, he was beset again by the strange compulsion to count. He shook it off, headed for a spot that somehow he knew would have a loose stone. Crouching down, he lifted it out with a hollow, grating sound, reached into the dark hole and pulled out a soft object. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, but he knew he wanted to keep it. He tucked it into his shirt, then began to twist the Ring off his finger.

“My Lord,” the Ring whimpered. “Wilt thou truly abandon me?”

“Not forever. I shall return for you once I have dealt with the Dúnedain. Do not fear.” He caressed the smooth metal, then raised it to his lips and kissed it. This was his most extraordinary creation. It represented mastery over all living things, paid for with betrayal, destruction, and death—and yes—worth it all. Could he really do this? Could he abandon it and himself to an uncertain fate? Yes, he must. He was proud of the fact that he rarely let emotion overpower logic. He’d examined the options and this one, however unsavory, was the best one.

“Listen,” he said, “you will sleep deeply and only awake when I say the words engraved upon you.”

“I hear thee, Master. I shall sleep. A last warning, Lord King. Thou shalt never feel completely whole until such time as we are reunited. ”

“I know.”

“Affection shall feel like a substitute for me, but it is not. Beware the elf.”

“What elf?” Mairon asked in consternation. He waited but the Ring kept silent.

Mairon began tugging, but the Ring seemed stuck fast about his finger. “Let go, curse you,” he commanded. With a hiss, it slipped free. He crouched there in the dark, weighing it in his hand. It had grown most heavy. Drat the thing anyway.

As he started to put the Ring into the hole, his hand jerked and closed into a fist. It was only by tremendous force of will that he relaxed his fingers. Tilting his hand, he allowed the Ring to slip from his grasp. It landed with a disquieting clatter. Quickly, he replaced the stone. Whispering cries reverberated about the room.

“Hush! Now go to sleep,” Mairon said.

Waving a hand in front of the stone, he set a warding spell upon it. Anyone who came here would see nothing of interest. Gratefully, he left the cell, went down the passage a short way, turned, and sent out energies searching for weaknesses in the rock. Found. He traced them back into the root of the mountain, then gave a high pitched cry. The rock groaned and cracked. He cried again.

Along the corridor, a pained wailing erupted amongst the other prisoners. Some began hammering on their iron bars with a sharp plink, plink. A third time Mairon cried as he spoke the words of unmaking and heard another crack of stone. With a roar, a section of the wall slid over the Ring’s hiding place—burying it deep. He had to step back further as the scree rushed up against the iron bars of the cell and wait until he heard a final soft rattling of pebbles and a hiss of dust.

He coughed and waved the air clear. Down the hall the torch flickered wildly.

It was done. He could hardly believe it himself and the sense of relief surprised him. “Sleep well, until I have need of you again, precious one,” he whispered.

He could hear the sounds of the prisoners’ agony all around and found he could no longer bear this place. “Silence!” he roared. And then he fled back up the stairs.

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Moonlight etched the frost-rimed trees in shimmering silver and black. The woods seemed full of strange portents, half-seen signs that felt as ominous as crows. They were close enough now, about two leagues from Ar-Pharazôn’s encampment. Mairon could sense the guards stationed on the other side of the clearing, could see the gleam of their helms. Reining in his horse, he held up a hand and felt the slight rush of wind as Dolgu and the five hand-picked escorts came up alongside, their harness creaking in the cold air and their horses’ breath puffing like dragon smoke. Ráca loped alongside, his head as high as Mairon's knee.

"Pitiful humans! Let me rip out their throats,” the wolf growled. He turned his yellow eyes towards Mairon, awaiting a command.

"Not tonight, Ráca," Mairon replied. He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. His horse crunched the bit.

“Orders, my Lord?” Dolgu whispered.

“Stay here until they’ve taken me into custody. Be sure all has gone according to plan. Then return to Mordor.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Take care of Ráca. He’s yours now.”

The wolf whined. Dolgu cast a wary eye at him.

“Very well,” Dolgu said in a voice heavy with displeasure.

Mairon laughed softly. “Dismiss the men from Khand and Rhûn from the army, no need to feed extra mouths, and await my summons to Númenor.”

“Yes, my Lord. May Melkor grant us success.”

It was as close to a fond sentiment as Mairon had heard Dolgu voice. Mairon nodded. “Melkor surely owes me that at the least. Guard well my Realm until my return.” He dismounted, tossed the reins to the black-eyed lieutenant, then leaned down to pat the wolf, letting his fingers sink for a moment in the soft fur.

“Are you leaving, Master?” Ráca growled.

“Hush,” Mairon muttered as he scratched that place behind Ráca’s ear. He wondered if what he was feeling could be termed affection. Perhaps he was weakening with age. He looked up at Dolgu seated on the back of his huge, raw-boned black horse, a hood pulled low over his face. Mairon could see the steely glint of eyes. “My most loyal,” he purred. “I am trusting you to act in my stead.”

“I am bound to your service, my Lord. Your enemies are mine,” Dolgu said and inclined his head.

Mairon nodded. He grasped the bottoms of his black leather gloves, pulling them snug, each in turn.

His escort raised swords in salute. Mairon turned from them, searching the wood for movement. Somewhere nearby he could hear the iron gurgle of water. The new body felt strange to him as if he was trying on a new jacket that had not been tailored sufficiently. The sight and hearing were acute but it seemed the elf had lost some conditioning. Mairon had practiced sparring every day to test the reflexes, but still was not completely sure how effective he would be. In the last couple of days, he had eaten more than his wont to put on muscle. Would it be enough?

He strode off, keeping to the dark shadows of the trees, skirting the clearing. His great black cape billowed softly behind him. He could feel the leather satchel that was bound about his chest, pressed close to his skin. So much planning had gone into that. The helm weighed heavily on his head and limited his field of vision. How much easier it would be to stalk the guards if he could become a bat or a wolf, but, disconcertingly, he had discovered that since he had removed the Ring, he could no longer shape-shift. He wondered what other powers he might have lost.

He steeled himself. No more doubts. Now it had come to it. It was time to take control of his fate in a way that Melkor would never have understood because he would have deemed it weak to surrender under any circumstance short of an invasion by the Valar. Well, Mairon was no longer a sniveling servant and he had boundless faith in his own cleverness. He was eager for the hunt to begin.

Like a panther, he crept towards the unsuspecting sentries until he was close enough to smell them. It was the deep hour before the dawn when men’s blood thins and their fears shape their actions. He could sense their discomfort. They were standing several yards apart on either side of the trail that went through the wood. One was blowing on his hands and the other stamped as he flapped crossed arms against his chest. Mairon licked his lips in anticipation of warm blood.

“By Ossë’s arse,” one of them swore. “It seems overlong for our replacements. My feet are like ice. I could use a hot cup of wine and about a week of sleep.”

“Eh well, dawn is a little ways off yet. Hold to it.”

“Hard to do, Hazûn, this inactivity is maddening. Where in the fly-blown gizzard is the Zigûr’s force of goblin creatures? I looked forward to lopping heads, not coming to this Valar-forsaken spot to freeze my balls off.”

“Did you have any to begin with?” There was a harsh bark of laughter from both men, then the second man continued, “To tell truth, Fermen, I’m just as grateful the Dark Interloper has chosen to hide in his mountain fortress. I have no desire to meet his ghouls in combat, not from the rumors I hear about them. I just wish his Majesty would give up and go home. I’ve a wife and kids waiting.”

“Ah well, Ar-Pharazôn is stubborn as a tick. He won’t brook any competition. Not him. I expect we’ll squat down here like some farm woman taking a piss until he finally forces the Zigûr to show himself.”

That’s my cue, Mairon thought, with a sardonic curl of the lip. With a soft hiss of metal, he drew his great two-handed sword, raised it to the side, and then, swift as a kite, he leapt out of the shadows towards the closest man. With a savage blow, he swept the man’s head clean off. It flew and rolled. The rest of the corpse slowly crumpled where it had stood, steam rising ghost-like from the neck as the warm blood pumped into the ground. Mairon felt a vicious glow of satisfaction. Apparently, his new body’s reflexes worked just fine.  He reached down, drew up a fingerful of the blood and popped it into his mouth, tasting the bright tang mixed with the salt of the leather glove.

The other man, eyes huge with fright, backed up and fumbled at his side to draw his sword, but it was too late. Already Mairon was advancing upon him, boots crunching in the frosty grass, his sword poised right at the vulnerable point of his armor, just under his chin.

“It seems fortune smiles on you this night, my friend,” Mairon purred. “If you play your next move correctly, you may yet live to see your wife and children.”
-tbc-

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Chapter End Notes

*Fermen (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) guard who was killed by Sauron.

*Hazûn (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) guard who “captured” Annatar and later becomes Captain of the King’s guard.    

*scunning (elfscribe-invented Orcish curse) the exact meaning is unknown but it’s nasty. Imagine ‘bloody’ in its place.
*Zigûr (Adûnaic) ‘wizard’. This term is used to describe Sauron as The Zigûr.

Addendum: On Sauron abandoning the One Ring at the roots of Barad-dûr. I know Tolkien said in letter #211 that Sauron took the One Ring with him to Númenor and used it to subdue Ar-Pharazôn, and that when Sauron’s body died in the wreck of Númenor, his spirit carried the Ring back with him. "Though reduced to a 'spirit of hatred borne on a dark wind', I do not think one need boggle at this spirit carrying off the One Ring, upon which his power of dominating minds now largely depended."  [The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien #211]
But that scenario raises some problems for the narrative. Why then doesn’t Ar-Pharazôn try to take the Ring from Sauron who is supposedly his subdued prisoner? Tolkien said in that same letter that Ar-Pharazôn wouldn’t have known about the One Ring, so he wouldn’t have tried to take it. Perhaps, but that seems unlikely. Even if that were so, why would he allow Sauron to keep a valuable piece of jewelry like that? So perhaps Sauron could make the Ring invisible so that Ar-Pharazôn wouldn't know it was there, just as the elves did with the Three. In addition, it seems that the Ring is so powerful that Sauron would have little trouble dominating everyone around him. Why then take 57 years of machinations to get Pharazôn to go after the Valar?  I also find it hard to imagine that after Sauron's body drowns during the Akallabêth his incorporeal spirit transports a heavy, very solid Ring back to Middle-earth across hundreds of miles of ocean? Magic, I guess. For me, in this story, I like the idea that Sauron didn’t have all his power when he went to Númenor and instead relied on his cunning and what magic he still had.