Elegy for Númenor – Volume 2: The Darkening by elfscribe

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3. Wind and Waves

Chapter Summary: In the midst of a hurricane, Sûla tries to rescue Sauron so the sorcerer can cure the wounded King before their ship sinks.

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Below decks the gloom was faintly dispelled by an occasional lantern swinging from the rafters. Clutching the Zigûr’s precious potion in his arms, Sûla paused. Should he search for the surgeon? No, that was likely to take too much time. Best to first release his master, who might be able to use his sorcery to save the King. He’d likely have better results than the surgeon anyway, who was prone to burning caustic herbs and chopping things off. Sûla made his way down to the bottom level, passing the pumps where a dozen men stood in a line laboriously pushing the huge crank that drove the pistons that sucked water from the leaking hull.

“The Zigûr is drowning below,” Sûla cried to the crewmen. “Where’s Captain Hazûn with the keys to the cage?”

“In the bow, last I saw,” one of them called.

The Zimrazra shuddered. Sûla waded through the icy water, which had risen to his knees. He accosted several men as he slogged past, but couldn’t find anyone who knew where the captain of the King’s guard was. He was soon shaking with cold and rising panic. What if he was too late? Could the Zigûr actually drown? Was his body mortal?

He reached the bilge. In the flickering light of the lantern, he pushed through the disgusting water, now waist high and filled with debris: floating barrels, snaky ropes, an occasional drowned rat. The storm was muffled down here but the increasingly distressed ship creaked and groaned something fearful. “My Lord!” Sûla called.

There came a strange, ethereal sound of someone singing. The voice was soft and beautiful, full of lament. The language Sindarin. An elf’s song. What in Arda was Annatar up to? Sûla slogged closer through the swirling water, “My Lord Annatar,” he called again.

Annatar’s voice thundered in the dark, speaking Adûnaic this time. “Hurry, you laggard. The cage is filling up.”

Well, at least that irritated voice was familiar. “Coming, my Lord,” Sûla called. He churned forward and then kicked something hard. Pain shot from his toe up his shin. He cried out and stumbled forward. The jar flew from his hands, landing somewhere with a splash, and he found himself swimming in the icy water with a mouth full of evil-tasting brine.

Where was it? Oh, by the dreadful Lord Zizzûn, where was the jar? Frantically, Sûla surged to his feet, but he could discern nothing amidst the floating detritus. “I lost it,” he wailed. “Lord Annatar, the jar!”

A strange red light emanated from Annatar’s hands, which grew in power and luminescence. Before Sûla’s eyes, Lord Annatar created a floating ball of fire, which became brighter with each passing moment. “There!” he cried and pointed.

Sûla wallowed over to the little blue crock serenely bobbing about. He grabbed it and then swam towards his master, who was now standing shin-deep in water.

“Where in the great fucking chaos of Eä have you been?” Annatar cried.

“Delayed. Through no fault of my own,” Sûla gasped. “The King fell and hit his head. What sorcery is this?” He gestured at the light.

“Never you mind. Give me that potion, immediately!”

The crock was too large to fit through the bars. “My Lord,” Sûla said helplessly. “I have no keys. I looked for the guard, but couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“I’ll manage it, but I must have the potion first,” Annatar rasped.

Sûla prodded at the corked lid, then used his teeth, and felt it budge. The ship lurched again and Sûla slammed against the bars of the cage.

“Easy, easy,” Annatar cried.

“If you think it’s so friggin’ easy, you should try it,” Sûla snapped.

Immediately he was sorry, as Annatar’s eyes turned into wheels of fire and Sûla’s temples throbbed in response. “Sorry, sorry, my Lord. Please forgive. Everything has been a trial.”

Annatar waved a hand dismissively. He bent and pressed his face to the slot in the bars. “Hold it up and tilt it so I can drink. Don’t spill any!”

Sûla held the jar as best he could and tipped it up. Annatar, his eyes back to their golden color, lapped at the liquid, some of which dribbled some down the sides of his sumptuous mouth. Sûla briefly saw a large cat lapping at a stream of water. Annatar paused and spoke again in that soft musical voice, but the words were strange. “Futility, Gorthaur. You may triumph today, but ultimately you won’t contain me.”

With a snarl, the sorcerer went back to drinking the liquid again until he’d emptied the jar. He wiped his dripping lips with the back of his hand, then straightened, his eyes clear and spiteful, his form now sharp-edged. “Shut the fuck up, traitor’s spawn,” he growled.

Sûla took a step back, not knowing what to make of all this, but there was no time for mysteries. “My Lord, the ship is sinking. Ar-Pharazôn has been injured. Altogether, we are in desperate straits. Please, can’t you do something? Could you communicate with Ossë? Is that possible? Tell him to quiet the storm or we’ll all be lost.”

“Hunh.” Annatar looked at the beamed ceiling for a long moment. Then he barked, “Stand back!”

Sûla retreated several feet through the fetid water.

Raising both hands, Annatar pointed at the lock on the cage door. Lightning blasted from his fingertips. Sparks flew and the lock separated with a sharp pop.

“You mean you could’ve done that at any time?” Sûla gasped, dismayed.

Annatar face morphed into that of a dragon, causing Sûla to fall backwards with a splash. Annatar roared, “Quiet! Now earn my favor, boy. Protect my body. Do you hear? Protect it with your life until I return.”

A twisting column of black smoke arose from the sorcerer, gathered, then flew with a sharp hiss past Sûla into the darkened hold. The red light disappeared, and in the intermittent beam of the swinging lantern, now dark, now light, Annatar resumed rocking as he clutched the bars of the cage.

“Well, by the powers,” Sûla said. “What did you just do?”

But Annatar didn’t say anything. He seemed to have lost his wits completely.

“Protect the body,” Sûla repeated. Surely that didn’t mean letting him drown. He dropped the empty pot in the water, flung open the cage door and pulled his gangly master out with a splash. Annatar seemed pliant enough, willing to follow his lead. His body felt cold, which was highly unusual. Normally Annatar’s skin felt hot to the touch. Given how chilled he was, Sûla missed that heat. He slung one arm about Annatar’s waist, and draped the sorcerer’s other arm over his shoulders. Together they struggled out of the stern.

Annatar made a choked, guttural sound as if trying to speak. Seemingly distressed, he clasped a hand to his throat.

“My Lord, I fear I do not understand, but at the moment, I need you to get a grip,” Sûla said. “The King is wounded and your healer’s arts are needed.”

They sloshed awkwardly past the team manning the pumps, who were slowing with exhaustion. At the rate the hold was filling, they’d soon have to abandon the effort and then all hands would have to cram onto the cockle boats. Sûla wondered if they’d all fit and decided not to think about what would happen if they didn’t. The ship was listing, tilting the water to the starboard side. He fought down panic.

His strangely passive master allowed Sûla to guide him to the ladder and push him along to the upper decks. Climbing was hampered by Sûla’s stubbed toe, which was hurting. The Zigûr began humming as they went. The same tune as before.

They emerged onto the deck where immediately the storm enveloped them, howling fiercer than before, flinging rain sideways that bit into Sûla’s face, while the wind whipped the reefed sails into tatters. It was dark, except for the occasional bolt of lightning that irradiated everything in unearthly brightness. Sûla began shivering again.

Reaching the King’s cabin, Sûla popped open the door against the gale. At least it was warm inside, close even; the room was awash in odors of sweat, candle-wax, and some obnoxious incense. The outer room was teaming: three of the Bawîba Manô acolytes knelt amidst the clutter, fervently praying in a low drone, along with a pale-faced Nibanuzîr, the King’s Head of Household. When they entered, Hazûn, the Captain of the King’s guard rushed over and grabbed Sûla, pinning him against the wall with his forearm pressed to Sûla’s throat. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Bringing the Zigûr to heal the King,” Sûla rasped. “Let me go.”

The curtain was drawn closed across the back of the cabin. Voices within. Not ideal. Sûla couldn’t let these men see him use an unlocking spell on Annatar’s trunk. That ability he needed to keep secret.

“The surgeon is with him, along with our chief priest,” Hazûn said. “They said let no one enter. How’d he get out, anyhow?” He gestured at Annatar, who looked strangely withdrawn.

Sûla thrust Hazûn’s arm away. “There’s no time for this foolishness! I had to get him out myself as the water was rising rapidly. If he drowned, I doubt the King would have been pleased about it at all. Do you? And who held the keys and was responsible for him, hmmm?”

Hazûn glared. “If I were you, Sûla, I’d shut your insolent mouth.” He gestured at the Zigûr. “He doesn’t look well.”

“He’s not,” Sûla said. “He’s sick from bilge water, but he can still help the King. Hurry! The ship is sinking.”

The curtain rings skated back revealing the strange hawk-like figure of Ikar-lak glowering at him from the depths of his beaked headdress. “The King needs quiet,” he cried. The acolytes ceased murmuring and regarded the head of their order with alarm. “Not you,” Ikar-lak growled at his followers. He pointed at Annatar. “What is he doing out of his cage! Hazûn, get them out of here.”

“Just doing that, your eminence,” Hazûn said. He grabbed Sûla’s arm and reached for the cabin door, which abruptly flew open. Captain Nadroth charged in, water dripping off his oiled cloak. Behind him came his navigator, Tala, wearing a sagging, wide-brimmed hat and toting a heavy bag over her shoulder.

“Where’s the King?” Nadroth said.

The surgeon, Uzorî, rose from the bedside. He was a wiry man with bushy eyebrows and spectacles perched upon a nose that was perpetually tilted upwards. He wore the headcloth with a red circle indicating his status as a healer. “What’s all this furor? His Majesty has a concussion and is in a delicate state. Not to be disturbed. You all must leave at once.”

“That is precisely why I am here,” Nadroth said. “We all must leave. The ship is sinking. We need to move the King and all here into the cockle boats.”

“Sinking?” Ikar-lak quavered. “How can that be?”

“The natural way of things when a ship is pounded by large waves,” Nadroth said. “The hull develops cracks, letting water in faster than we can pump it out. I’ve pulled the men off the pumps and am sending as many as possible out to the boats.”

Uzorî looked shaken. “Well, then, we need to carry him down there. But he’s in a delicate state and can’t be jostled.”

“We can tie him in a hammock and carry him over our shoulders. Tala, get some hefty lads up here to help,” Nadroth directed.

“I highly object to that method of transport,” Uzorî said. “Not with a concussion.”

“What if we roped him to a board,” Tala said. “That way you could make sure his head was secured. We can use one of the boards from his bed.” She lifted up a corner of the mattress.

“That might work,” Uzorî replied. “But how will he get lowered to the boats? He won’t fit in the hoist.”

“We’ll prop him in the cage and lower him as if he were cargo,” Nadroth said. “There’s nothing else to be done. Hazûn and Sûla, help me pull up that plank from the bed. Tala and I will search out some rope.”

Tala nodded. She pulled the bulging leather satchel off her shoulder and handed it to Hazûn. “Guard this with your life, Captain,” she said. “These are the tables and triangulations that will enable us to find our way home. Without it, we’re as good as dead.”

Hazûn nodded and set the satchel on a shelf.

“We’ll have to be very careful taking him out there,” Tala said. “The deck is very slick.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if he could walk out on his own, rather than be tied to a plank?” Sûla said.

“Of course it would,” Uzorî replied, voice dripping with scorn, “but look at him! Not going to happen anytime soon. As it is, one slip on the deck and he could go over the side. Then it’s the gallows for all of us.”

“The Zigûr can do it,” Sûla said. They all looked at him. Sûla nodded. “He cured the King before. He can do it again. Or didn’t you hear about that, Healer Uzorî?”

“I heard about an elixir to restore youth,” Uzorî said. He eyed them over his spectacles. “Seemed like a myth. I didn’t believe it and, since he’s been aboard, I haven’t seen signs of it.”

Hazûn shook his head. “Nay, it wasn’t a tale. I’ve seen the effect myself on several occasions since we left Umbar.”

“Believe me, it worked on my scourged back,” Sûla said bitterly. “Hazûn is right. I too saw the healing effect on the King and various Umbarians with my own eyes. We should at least try it!”

Ikar-lak sniffed. “We can’t allow the Zigûr to practice his sorcery on the King! Who knows what he’d do!”

Sûla clicked his tongue in exasperation. “Your eminence, they’ve been sleeping together. Or didn’t you know? If Lord Annatar was going to do something to him, surely he would have by now.”

“Anathema!” Ikar-lak made the sign against evil. “I want to know nothing of this. Besides, the Zigûr looks fit for naught at the moment.” He walked over to Annatar and waved a hand before his face. “I’ve never seen him so meek. Certainly, I’ve never seen him without an insulting remark on his lips.” He poked the Zigûr’s shoulder, with no discernible reaction. Annatar merely stared at him with a vaguely irritated expression, but it was enough to make the priest step back.

“My Lords,” Sûla pleaded. “The storm isn’t giving us much choice, is it? Are you willing to try?”

“Who put this zirâmîki in charge!” Ikar-lak growled to the Captain.

“Someone should take charge, then,” Sûla cried. He bit his tongue, knowing full-well what happened to presumptuous slaves. They were all scowling at him with various degrees of contempt. The Captain was the ranking officer here at the moment. Sûla stood before him and bowed as best he could on the lolling ship. “Captain Nadroth, if the Lord Annatar has but a few moments of privacy so he can concentrate, I assure you, we can bring the King to his feet. In the meantime, as you said, we have an urgent situation aboard.”

The ship rolled, knocking them off balance, so that some slammed into each other or the walls while others grabbed furniture. Objects rolled about on the floor. Sûla clung to the bedpost. He needed to get them all out of here! Would Annatar be able to function? If he couldn’t, Sûla figured he could administer a dose of the potion to the King himself.

“I have no time to argue,” Nadroth snapped. “We need to evacuate.” He turned angrily toward Sûla. “Try it then. Be quick about it. Captain Hazûn, stay by the door and be ready to help the King to the hoist. Healer Uzorî, you supervise.”

“I can do that,” Uzorî said. “Nothing will happen to the King while I’m present.”

Sûla kept his face expressionless. He could handle one person, if it came to that.

Captain Nadroth nodded curtly. “The rest of you, out! Follow me and Tala. Now! We need to get you all down to the boats.”

Ikar-lak hesitated, then gestured at his acolytes and Nibanuzîr. “Do as the captain says. May Ossë and Uinen grant us protection.” He glared at Annatar. “And if anything happens to the King, I’ll see to it myself that you’re held responsible.”

Annatar shrugged. Sûla chewed his lip. For all their sakes, he hoped this worked.

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Chapter End Notes

Tala – (Adûnaic. No known meaning) Captain Nadroth’s navigator, the only woman officer on board.
Uzorî – (invented Adûnaic. Combination of masculine U and zori, nurse)
The following fascinating article by Jonathan Crowe called “Navigating Middle-earth Before the Bending of the Seas,” in Tor.com caused me to rethink how I presented navigation aboard ship and is what gave Tala all her charts and tables. https://www.tor.com/2022/08/16/navigating-middle-earth-before-the-bending-of-the-seas/