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

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Chapter 10 - Of Golden Curls and Vinegar

Chapter summary: Sûla brings a healer to the Zigûr’s tent with an unexpected result.

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Dawn illuminated the eastern side of the tent, making the fabric glow golden as Sûla turned restlessly in the King’s big iron bed. On his other side, the coals in the brazier pulsed dark red, looking strangely sinister. For most of the night, Sûla had been sleeping deeply, luxuriating in the King’s absence, but now, as he thought over events, he became uneasy. He hadn’t reckoned on how angry his story would make the King, who had been gone for hours now. It was becoming a source of worry. Was Ar-Pharazôn torturing the Zigûr, and if so, might the sorcerer reveal their deception? That thought made him sit up. Perhaps it would be best to put his ear to the vast network of whispered information and find out what was happening. If his worst fears were confirmed, maybe he could get a horse and slip away before he was caught and horribly executed. Rising, Sûla hastened into his clothes, walked through the large antechamber, unfastened the loops holding down the doorflap, and stuck his head out, squinting in the sudden brightness. It was chilly. An armed guard stood there, shifting from foot to foot.

“Hail Bildûn, where is the King?” Sûla asked.

“Still in the Zigûr’s tent.”

“What news?”

“The Zigûr’s guards were punished, fifty lashes, and they say the King himself meted out the same to the Zigûr.”

“Why were the guards punished?”

“Failure to perform their duty. Haven’t heard it all, but they say it had to do with you.” Here Bildûn regarded him down the length of his hooked nose.

“I should see if the King needs me,” Sûla said.

“Doubtful. I’m sure he can manage to wield a lash on his own.” Bildûn laughed. “Ah, here he comes.” He straightened up and saluted the King, ignoring Sûla, who retreated into the tent, looking around for a place to hide. But it was too late. He heard the King’s voice, addressing the guard, then he entered. By Zizzûn, the front of his tunic was marred with streaks of blood! What had he done?

“Ha! There you are!” Ar-Pharazôn cried, striding towards him.

“My Lord.” Sûla hunched his shoulders, braced for a blow. But the King caught him by the upper arms, and with a chuckle, hoisted him into the air.

“I am most pleased with you,” Ar-Pharazôn said, setting him back down. “You may pick out a piece of jewelry from the treasury.”

“What? Yes?” Astonished, Sûla raised his eyes to the King’s. “What happened, my Lord?”

“Annatar confirmed your story. I do not think you need worry about him for now. He has been well chastened. Still, be wary around him. Only speak to him when spoken to and volunteer nothing. Do you hear me?”

“I obey in all things, my Lord.” Sûla inclined his head, breathing easily again.

“The army is staying here to rest for the day. It’s been a long night.”

“Do you wish a change, my Lord?” Sûla waved a hand at the King, who looked down at his garments and frowned.

“Oh, uh, yes. And prepare a basin of hot water. I need to wash.”

Sûla hastened ahead of the King into the inner chamber where he poured water from an ewer into a brass pan and set it on the tripod over the coals in the brazier. As he helped the King disrobe, Sûla inhaled the distinctive and familiar scent of sex. But when he removed the King’s breeches, he saw that his groin was stained a red-brown color. Blood? What had he done? Was it a tryst with some other slave? Or could it have been with the Zigûr? Sûla’s stomach clenched. Was the King developing a taste for violent couplings? He couldn’t imagine that the sorcerer would take such an insult without some consequence. His head buzzing, Sûla carefully sponged the King clean, applied perfumed oil, and dressed him in a new robe.

“I am weary and wish to lie down a while,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “Go wake Tigôn and tell him to spread the news among my lieutenants that the encampment will not break for today. Hurry.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla said.

“Oh, and find a healer to take care of the Zigûr’s wounds. We can’t have them festering.”

His wounds? Sûla looked up again, startled. “Without fail, my Lord, rest well.”

He started to pull away but the King caught his arm and pulled him up close. “Come back around noon,” he said, and took Sûla’s mouth in a greedy kiss. There was no mistaking what he wanted. Sûla kissed him back, just ardently enough to show his devotion, but not so much that noon might come sooner than planned.

As he escaped into the bright sunlight, he could feel his spirits lifting. Things were working out quite well after all. He threaded his way along the snowy, muddy paths between the tents thinking about which piece of jewelry he might select. The necklace of red coral or maybe the arm cuff in the form of a dragon with glittering ruby eyes? Yes, that one.

He found Tigôn’s little tent on a hillock, its side painted with the King’s crest and a messenger’s wings. It overlooked a network of rivers glinting in the distance like a spider’s bedewed web.

Sûla called, “Tigôn, are you up?” There was no sound. “Tigôn?” He lifted the flap and peered into the dark interior, making out a fur-covered lump on the cot. Quietly, he approached and leaned over the still form, pulling a corner of the fur away from the boy’s face. Tigôn's eyes were nearly covered by the mass of blond curls, his lips were parted slightly, moist and rosy pink. Quite kissable, Sûla thought, remembering the unsatisfying peck he’d stolen the night before. The boy looked so fresh and innocent that Sûla was filled with a sudden longing. He reached out, softly stroking those enticing curls away from Tigôn’s forehead.

Tigôn suddenly hissed, grabbed Sûla’s arm, and jerked himself upright. The furs fell back revealing his slim, bare chest, collarbones flared like wings. “What? Who? Oh, it’s you.” Disgusted, Tigôn fell back into the furs. “Sûla! You scared the crap right out of me. What are you doing here?”

“Sorry.” Sûla straightened up and stepped back a pace, his heart beating quickly. “The King sent me to wake you. Said you should go tell all his lieutenants that the army isn’t moving today. Better hurry, I hear them already starting to break camp.”

“Oh shite,” Tigôn said. Sitting up again, he scrubbed a hand over his eyes and then upwards through his hair making it bush up wildly. “I had hardly any sleep. Strange dreams.” He looked up at Sûla, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, very strange.”

“Tell me later,” Sûla said, retreating. He had a sudden thought. “Perhaps this evening. Come to the tent, later, after the King’s asleep.” He smiled his most charming smile. “I’ll give you an opportunity to win back your buttons.” He gestured down at his flies.

“Ha!” Tigôn said. He looked bemused for a moment, his eyes unfocussed. “Well, maybe, if I’m free,” he said. “Now, get out of here so I can dress.”

“Sure you don’t want me to stay?” Sûla asked slyly. “I am, after all, a body slave, and skilled in dressing . . . and undressing my masters.”

“Get out!” Tigôn scooped up a boot and threw it him, as Sûla ducked out the door, laughing.

Whistling a tune, Sûla went back down the hill, sliding along on his heels through the packed snow. Yes indeed, it was turning into a good day. And now he needed to summon a healer to check on the Zigûr. He headed for the area where they usually were encamped.

* * * *
A woman crouched outside a tent near a fire, red-faced with the heat, stirring a black cauldron. Her face was plain with a severe mouth and upturned nose, her eyes as dark blue as a tarn. A strand of light brown hair escaped her cap. The steam issuing from the pot smelled pleasantly pungent. Despite the chill, her sleeves were rolled up. Smears of blood marred her apron.

“Good morn, banâth,” Sûla hailed her. “Do you know the whereabouts of the King’s surgeon, Yanak?”

“Aye, as well I ought.  He’s my husband. Good for nothing lout that he is, he’s still abed.” She left off stirring and stood, setting her hands on her hips. “What brings you abroad so early and why in’t the army breaking camp?”

“The King commanded a day of rest,” Sûla said.

“Did he now? I suppose he should after his work last night,” the woman said.

“What do you know of it?”

“What do I know? I’ve been tending to backs flailed raw. One man’s near dead,” she said with a snort. “Who are you?”

“The King’s cupbearer,” Sûla said with a short bow.

“Oh aye, I’ve heard of you.” She opened her mouth as if to say more and then shut it firmly and after giving him a baleful glance, bent back down to stir the cauldron. “What do you want then?”

“The King has summoned Yanak to tend to the Zigûr.”

“What’s wrong with ‘im?”

“He was punished with a whip and the King doesn’t want the wounds to fester.”

“By the bones, there’s another one.” The woman sighed. Sûla could see that she was younger than she’d first appeared. “Yanak is indisposed,” she said, “but we can hardly refuse the King for all that, can we? I’ll see to it. Give me leave a moment, I need to give ‘em this first.” With an iron dipper, she scooped up a quantity of reddish colored brew, sniffed at it, then poured it into two mugs. “Willow bark,” she said. “For pain and fever.” She tilted her head towards the tent. “Come along wi’ me.”

Sûla followed her into the dimly lit tent that smelled of sweat and wine-breath. Two men were lying face forward on the cots, bandages wound about their torsos. Sûla recognized the Zigûr’s guards and had a flash of guilt. But then, he thought, how was he to know the King would order them flogged? Another figure lay off in the shadows, snoring like an orc.

The woman opened up a ceramic jar, dropped a dollop of honey into each mug, and knelt by one of the bandaged guards. “Here, sip this. Slowly, it’s hot.”

“My thanks, Zôri.” The man lifted his head and saw Sûla standing by the door. “Ai! What’s he doing here?” He raised his hand as if warding him off, thumb tucked across the palm in the sign against evil.

“Eh what?” The woman looked over at Sûla. “He’s here to get my help, seems the Zigûr suffered the same fate as you.”

The guard took the tea in a hand that shook. “He’s bad luck. Tell him to leave,” he said.

Sûla recognized him as Hozdunik, the craggy-faced man who had taunted him several times, hinting that he wanted his favors. Raising his chin, Sûla said, “The Zigûr tried to attack me, me the King’s own body servant, and you and your nadzûn over there slept through it all. You deserve what you got.” Then he turned his back and left the tent to wait impatiently outside.

The snoring inside stuttered, rattled, and then ceased. He heard a man’s voice say sleepily, “Here, who was that?”

“The King’s business,” the woman said sharply. “Now roust yourself up, ya drunken brute and take care of these men while I’m gone.”

“Ai my head!” the man said. “Hold your tongue, woman. The sound of your voice is busting my brains.”

“Nay,” she said, sweetly, “my voice is a delight. It mun be the copious amount of wine ya drank last night while I was tending to men’s backsides. Now get up!” There came a loud clatter as of metal banging together, a thump on the ground, and a yelp.

“There, that’ll set your head to rights,” the woman said. “Now, if you can manage to crawl your worthless hide outside, there’s a willow tea brewing for the headache. I’ll be back . . . maybe.”

Sûla had to hide a smile behind his hand as the tent flap snapped aside and the woman emerged with a satchel over one arm. The other arm was crooked around a wooden cask and she carried a large, resin-coated basket.

“Men,” she said jerking her head in the direction of the tent. “If they’re not swilling, they’re whoring or fighting. Very well then, take me to the Black One. Here, you can carry this.” And she thrust the basket at him.

They marched silently back up the hill leading to the Zigûr’s tent, passing men in a confused state of half-packed, half-unpacked as they unloaded wains, tamped the tent lines back down and stoked the cooking fires. There seemed to be a goodly amount of cheer. Small groups of men were taking the opportunity to relax, sitting on little cross-legged stools around the fires, smoking pipes and talking. Sûla heard roars of laughter here and there.

Then suddenly the woman said, “Why do you think he surrendered, the Zigûr?”

Sûla shrugged. “He said the King’s forces outnumbered his.”

“And you believed that?” Her face was intent upon his, brow furrowed slightly.

“Not my place to question,” Sûla returned.

“Do you know what he’s done, what he’s capable of?”

“I’ve heard tales. I begin to wonder about them, having met him. He seems, well, reasonable.”

“Reasonable!” she snorted. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen . . .” she broke off. They walked further and then she rounded on him. “I have the sight. I’ve felt him, ever since he arrived. I knew sooner or later, he’d call for me.” Her voice seemed calm but there was something eager in her eyes that didn’t seem to fit.

Sûla stopped dead. “The sight?” he said. “Like a weirding woman?”

“Aye, but different. I don’t curse folks; I’m a healer.”

Sûla snorted. “If you can sense him, then lead the way to his tent.”

“Very well.” She closed her eyes and extended her hands, fingers twitching. Then she pointed, saying confidently, “this way,” and led him, with a couple of detours and false steps to the door of the Zigûr’s tent.

“That proves nothing, you could have found out earlier where he was encamped.” Sûla folded his arms.

“Ah, a sharp one, you are!” She tapped his nose with her finger, which he resented, thinking it was much too familiar for their differing stations.

“Sighted, are you?” Sûla mocked.

She reached her hand to the tent flap and then snatched it back. “By the bones,” she said. “I can feel him. Oh, this is monstrous, this is. Like carrion crows circling above.” Her voice caught. She took a step backwards and then another. Sûla looked at her closely. Was she play acting again or did she mean it?

“The King commands you to give him succor,” Sûla said.

Her face had become pale as a bowl of porridge. “Who are you, little cub, to be ordering me about?”

Sûla drew himself up to his full height to let her know just what his position was, but her gaze was focused somewhere far distant. Then, her expression hardened and she patted the satchel. “You go first,” she said, “since seemingly you have nothing to fear from ‘im.”

Sûla entered the tent lit by a hanging lantern. He beheld the Zigûr, naked, lying on his belly upon the cot in the same position of tense pain as the men in the surgeon’s tent. But here the smell was not the same one of decay and unwashed bodies. Instead, it smelled a bit like scorched linen. There was something, some kind of current that Sûla could feel in the room, as if standing in the surf feeling the undertow. The Zigûr’s head rested on his arms, his eyes closed. Long, sooty black lashes. As Sûla approached, he could see that his back was crisscrossed with lash marks. Some bruising was appearing here and there, but still, it didn’t look nearly as bad as many he’d seen. The King had been easy on him.

Without opening his eyes, the Zigûr said softly, “Ah Sûla. Come to salve me, have you? Who else is there?”

“A healer, my Lord Annatar.”

The eyes opened, revealing their golden cat-like shape. The woman let out a little gasp.

The Zigûr closed them again wearily. “No need to fear me, woman, I’m quite indisposed at the moment.”

But she dropped the wicker basket and stood stiffly, her lips working. “I willna touch ‘im,” she said. “I don’t care if the King lays my back open either.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Sûla asked. “I’ve touched him and taken no hurt from it. I assure you, he’s not the monster tales make him. See?” He approached the cot, noting the weals, some raised and white and some red with thin scabbed lines. Even with lash marks marring his smooth skin, Sûla could see that the body was well-formed, the unwounded skin quite fair. He laid a hand on Annatar’s strong calf and saw the rusty looking streaks along the inside of his legs. Oh so that’s what had happened. He felt a pang of empathy. Perhaps it would be best if he tended the Zigûr’s wounds.

“Tell me what to do,” Sûla said.

“Here.” She held out the cask she carried. You soak the linen in vinegar and put them on his back. Then you just bandage him round to hold them in place. I expect even the King’s ‘cupbearer’ could figure it out.”

Annatar opened his eyes again, regarding her steadily. “Not so unnerved by me that you can’t make sharp remarks,” he said. “What’s your name?”

She fidgeted, as if deciding whether or not to answer.“Zôri,” she said, finally.

“Ah well then, Zôri, are you a healer or not? My backside is distressing me greatly.”

Her mouth worked as if making up her mind about something. Casting Sûla a look that reminded him of a horse spooked by a shadow, she shrugged the satchel off her shoulder and opened it, pulling out a wad of linen strips and putting them in the pitch-blackened basket. Then she uncorked the cask and a sharp scent of vinegar arose as she poured it out. “This will sting when first applied,” she said to Sûla. “That is, if he feels pain like others do.”

“You’ll find I yell with the best of them,” the Zigûr said, a smile creeping onto his face. More and more, in the face of that charm, Sûla was finding the tales he’d been told as a child hard to believe.

Zôri knelt, pushing the bandages down in the vinegar and sloshing them around. Her eyes had barely left the Zigûr. “They said you were like a wolf, black of skin and hairy, with sharp fangs and a long red tongue.”

Annatar stuck out his quite normal-looking tongue, grabbing it between thumb and forefinger and waggling it back and forth. “Today must be one of my better days.”

Sûla snorted. The Zigûr tried to raise himself on an elbow and sank back with a moan. “Your King has a good arm,” he said. “I’ll think twice before crossing him again.”

“The King himself did this?” Zôri asked. She shook her head and handed a dripping bandage to Sûla. “Clean out the cuts with this.”

Sûla pulled the hassock close to the cot so that he could sit, then set about sponging down the Zigûr’s back. Annatar flinched and grunted as the vinegar seared his wounds. His skin felt very hot under Sûla’s fingers.

“What did you do to set the King off?” Zôri persisted.

“Best that you not know,” the Zigûr said, raising his head and giving her a penetrating look.

She blanched and dropped her eyes. The Zigûr hissed again as Sûla carefully swabbed along the high curve of his arse, suddenly finding the whole thing rather erotic.

“You’ll have to rise up so we can wrap bandages around your chest,” Zôri said, bringing out more long strips and a knife to cut them. With a soft moan, the Zigûr levered his body up on his hands, so that Sûla could wrap the bandages around him. He wound it round and round, bringing the tails to the side to tie off while Zôri stood next to him, holding the knife ready to cut the excess.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sûla caught a motion. The Zigûr jerked away and scream-growled just like a hunting cat. “Watch out!” he cried, causing Sûla to jump nearly out of his skin. He looked up as Zôri was raising the knife high enough for a striking blow. Without even thinking, he grabbed her arm just as she brought it swiftly down over Annatar’s neck. They strained for a moment.

“Zôri, burzum-ishi krimpatul!” Annatar hissed the words he’d taught Sûla and the woman froze with the knife point just nicking Annatar’s neck. A line of blood trickled down onto the cot. Sûla felt the spell’s stir of air around them; the lantern hanging from the ceiling rocked back and forth. There was a roaring in his ears. For a moment he sat shocked.

Annatar eased out from under the knife point and sat up, face white and furious. “Move the bitch away,” he said to Sûla, voice low and calm but trembling with suppressed anger. Sûla hastened up, and pulled her two steps back. The woman came as if sleep-walking.

“Who sent you?” Annatar snapped at her.

“No one,” she murmured, dropping her hands to her sides. The knife fell with a thump and a slight bounce to the ground and Sûla bent to fetch it. Zôri was staring straight ahead, as controlled as the guards had been earlier. A little shiver moved up Sûla’s spine. What were the Zigûr’s powers, really? Were they foolish to be trying to keep him prisoner?

“I’ll ask again,” the Zigûr said, his eyes flashing and his voice a low menacing rumble, “Did anyone send you?”

“Nay.”

“Why did you try to kill me? It’s against the healer’s code,” Annatar said.

“Blood oath,” she said.

“Whose?”

“Mine,” she said in a dull voice. “Five years ago you wiped out a village on the coast, nigh to Edhellond. My whole family killed.”

There was a poignant silence. The Zigûr’s hands worked, clenching, unclenching.

“What shall we do?” Sûla said. “If we just let her go, she’s like to try again. I could report it to the King, and no doubt he’d banish her.”

The Zigûr shook his head and a lock of his flame-colored hair came loose from the pins and landed upon his neck. “No, we don’t want you to get the reputation of a tale bearer.” He rose naked from the cot, bandages wrapped about his chest, and approached the woman, who stood woodenly, her gaze directed at nothing. If Sûla hadn’t seen the spell at work for himself, he’d have thought that she had suddenly gone daft. Annatar leaned down, whispering into her ear for what seemed a long time. Then he stood back as she became unstuck and her eyes flicked from him to Sûla. She turned and, without a word, left the tent.

Mouth agape, Sûla stared at the Zigûr, standing tall and graceful in his nakedness. He seemed remarkably composed for someone who’d just had an attempt made on his life. “What did you say to her, my Lord?”

Annatar made a gesture like flicking off a fly. He came back and lay down on the cot. “Finish the bandaging,” he said.

“Are you not afraid she might try again?”

“She will not,” the Zigûr replied, settling further with a slight moan.

“But . . .”

“Sûla, do you not know better than to question your masters?” the Zigûr said sharply. And every hair on Sûla’s body seemed to stand up in a prickling rush.

“My Lord.” He bowed, heart hammering.

“Come. Sit,” Annatar said, his voice honeyed again. He patted the hassock drawn up close to the cot.

Sûla wasn’t even aware of having made a decision to come back and continue winding the bandage. He simply discovered himself doing so. Annatar raised his hips up, allowing Sûla to pass it around his loins. The touch of the Zigûr’s skin was most pleasing. “There, finished, my Lord. Does it feel easier now?” He drew a blanket over the Zigûr’s back.

“Yessss.” Annatar reached out and stroked Sûla’s head, pushing the hair behind his ears, almost as if he were a dog. “I am most pleased with you,” he said. “You acted quickly and showed loyalty and courage in stopping that attack.”

Sûla felt an absurd glow of pleasure. “Thank you, my Lord. I try to serve well.”

“The King has good taste in his . . . servants,” the Zigûr said. “Come, give me a kiss.”

Sûla leaned forward, his lips brushing Annatar’s. So soft, so warm.

“You excite me,” Annatar said, golden eyes glowing. “But, we must be very careful not to do anything that will jeopardize your position with the King.” He patted Sûla’s cheek, then pulled away, closing his eyes again. “Now then, bring me water and some food. I’d like some cheese if you’ve got it. Then, I need to sleep.”

A strange double sensation of both disappointment and relief washed over Sûla, as if he’d escaped some pleasurable doom. But something was nattering at him. “My Lord,” he began.

“Speak.”

“If you are so powerful that you can stop an assassin, why did you allow the King to beat you?”

A crafty expression flitted across Annatar’s face, but he said, “The guard held a sword at my throat. Under the circumstances, what would you choose to do?”

“I suppose, given the choice of a whipping or having my throat cut, I’d allow the lash.”

“You understand now,” Annatar said.

“So the King does not know . . .” Sûla faltered.

“That you kept the truth from him. No, he does not.” The Zigûr reached out, strong fingers gripped Sûla’s arm. “Nor will he, if you keep your mouth closed. This is important, Sûla; our lives depend on you keeping faith.”

Sûla nodded. “I’ll get your food and drink, then.”

Annatar relaxed his grasp and smiled charmingly at Sûla. “Good boy,” he said. But the smile did not warm his eyes.

-tbc-

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Chapter End Notes

banâth - Adûnaic meaning wife.  I’m using it as a generic term for a woman, sort of like saying, “goodwife.”            
Zôri - a name meaning nurse in Adûnaic. Technically it should be spelled Zôrî, but since it’s a name, I’m taking a liberty because I can only handle so many friggin’ accents.
nadzûn - elfscribe invented Adûnaic word meaning a worthless buddy.
burzum-ishi krimpatul - in the darkness bind them. Black speech, recognizable as part of the inscription on the Ring.  

Betas: Thanks so much to Malinornë for her great critical eye and also to Ignoblebard and other members of the Lizard Council for picks.