On the Starlit Sea by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 12: Manhandled/Better me than you

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And then the Umbarians come close enough to hail. The sky of scudding storm clouds is almost black overhead, plunging both ships into a strange half-light in which the Umbarian torches throw circles of flickering, blood-red brightness. 

Lightning crackles overhead, and the mastheads and yardarms flicker with an eerie glow. ‘Ossë’s fire,’ the Elves mutter, and touch their amulets.

A long rolling of great drums booms like thunder in the mountains, and then a braying of horns that stuns the ears. 

“Elf-ship!” The Prince of Pellardur speaks the formal Adûnaic of Umbar’s imperial court, and the mere sound chases a cold chill of fear down Elrohir’s spine. “We are the Shakalzôr . Stand down to be boarded, in the holy name of Mûlkher and the Emperor, in whose waters you trespass!”

Elrohir’s teeth hurt, he is clenching his jaw so hard. Beside him Glorfindel moves a little closer until their armoured shoulders touch. 

Galdor seems wholly unafraid as he laughs into his loudhailer. “We are the Nemir of Lindon,” even now, there is pride in that fair Elvish voice, “and we will hack off any Umbarian foot that steps on our deck!”

“You harbour a brigand, a criminal fleeing his just punishment.” The Corsair’s face is barely visible beneath his high helmet, but he seems wholly unimpressed. “Are you willing to die for him?”

Elrohir swallows. His blood beats in his ears, loud as an Umbarian war drum. For a moment, Glorfindel’s gauntleted hand closes around Elrohir’s. His mind’s touch does the same, gentling the terror that draws over Elrohir’s heart.

“You are mistaken, Umbarian,” Galdor replies with calm surety. “There are no brigands on my ship.” 

“You lying cur!” The Umbarian bellows. “Is Glorfindel the Elf not aboard?” 

Elrohir gasps, straightens himself, then dares a glance aside at Glorfindel, but the Elf remains still, looking across to the enemy, his expression hidden behind the face guard of his Elvish helm. 

“Glorfindel slew my brother, the great General Arnûzir, at the Pass of Horns. Surrender him, and go free. Deny him to us, and we will destroy you!”

In the silence that follows Galdor and his officers cluster on the quarterdeck, their fair faces tense. 

“Valar!” Galdor is the first to find his voice. His eyes dart from Glorfindel to Elrohir. “Did you two down a prince each!?”

“Elrohir’s was an emperor.” Glorfindel’s dry wit has not left him, it seems. “Don’t get any ideas, lad,” he slaps Elrohir’s shoulder with a grin, “I got a Balrog once.”

Elrohir gives him a blank stare. “A what ?”

Galdor raises an eyebrow at Glorfindel. “A dead prince might have been worth a mention. And how do they know you are here?”

With a terrible lurch of his stomach, Elrohir realises Galdor is right. At the Pass of Horns the Haradrim slaughtered an entire Umbarian army, without survivors. How, then, did Glorfindel’s name reach Pellardur?

“Valar, no!” Glorfindel gasps, and grows pale, and Galdor with him.

Elrohir stands frozen, watching the pair of them share some terrible epiphany. It is but a moment before they gather themselves. 

“Challenge him!” Glorfindel says to Galdor, his voice tense.  “See how he responds.”

Galdor raises his loudhailer to his mouth once more. “Are the Umbarians so afraid of battle that they fall to haggling instead? Why should we hand over one of our own?”

The Umbarian laughs, a dreadful sound. “Ah, we know well the lying nature of the White-fiends! Conspiring with the traitorous Elf-friends, hatching plots and mischief! But this time you have stuck out your noses too far! See what comes to him who sets his foolish webs before the feet of the Emperor of Umbar!” 

He snaps his fingers at his attendants, and from one of the great iron grates leading down into the Shakalzôr’s bowels a pair of soldiers emerges, dragging between them a long bundle swathed in a ragged cloak. When they heave it up the ladder between them it utters a small, pitiful moan.

A mutter goes up among the Elves. 

The guards drag their load into the circle of torchlight beside the prince. For a moment the Umbarian stands still, his eyes on the Elves, relishing their fear. Then he yanks away the cloak. 

Underneath is a man, or what remains of one after an Umbarian interrogation. He is naked, and there is barely a patch of skin that has not been whipped, branded or bruised. The face is an unrecognisable mass of swelling, nose broken, eyes swollen shut. The hands are useless lumps of flesh, nails pulled out, bones shattered over and over. Even so, miraculously, he lives. He writhes and moans, blindly turning his face towards the Elvish voices. 

The ears are pointed. 

“Calear!” Cries of grief and anger rise from amidst the crew. The rage in Galdor’s face is terrifying.

Elrohir has no idea how anyone would recognize even their own brother in such a state, but then he feels it - the captive Elf’s mind against his own, all veils torn away by the pain, a raging storm of suffering. 

The Elvish spy from Pellardur. 

Alphalas, who stood behind Galdor, springs forward with a cry of grief.

“Silence!” Galdor says sternly, thrusting her back; but the Umbarian laughs aloud.

“So you do recognize him!” The Umbarian taunts. “A rat caught creeping about the streets of Pellardur. Oh, how he squeaked when we prodded him, names and all! It is plain that he is known to you. Do not dare deny it now!”

“I do not deny it!” Galdor says. “Indeed, I know who he is, and despite your scorn, foul thrall of Sauron, you cannot say as much. But why do you bring him here?”

“Maybe he is but a slave who you would not grieve to lose, and maybe not: one dear to you, perhaps?” That dreadful laugh once more. “If so, take swift counsel with what little wit you have. I have no love for spies, and his fate now depends on your choice!”

No one answers him, but he sees the Elves’ faces tight with anger and the horror in their eyes, and he laughs again, for it seems to him that his sport goes well. “Good, good!” he says. “He is dear to you, I see. Or else his errand was one that you did not wish to fail? It has. And now he shall suffer, as long and slow as our arts can contrive - unless you accept my terms.”

“Name the terms,” says Galdor steadily, but Elrohir can see the anguish in his face. There can be no doubt that he will accept.

“You unnatural things can bear much,” says the Umbarian, taking Galear by the chin to study the battered face. “This one will survive if I give him back to you now. As you can see all his parts are still attached!” He laughs cruelly. “Hand over Glorfindel, or one by one he will lose them!” 

And with that he draws a knife, and slices off Calear’s ear. 

Calear howls, his open mouth a black void in the swollen ruin of his face. With a quick flick of his wrist the prince launches the ear at the Nemir’s deck. It lands on the sand-covered planks at Galdor’s feet with a small, horrible thud .

“Be swift about it, or his nose is next!”

All eyes are on the grisly thing, but Glorfindel says at once “Lay a plank across. I will go over.”

“No!” Elrohir cannot help it. The thought of Glorfindel falling into Umbarian hands is unbearable.

“Elrohir.” Glorfindel lays a hand on his shoulder, a comforting touch, though he can barely feel it through the layers of mail and gambeson. “Whatever else Calear told them, he kept you safe. Despite all they did to him he has not uttered your name - yet. I will not leave him there until he breaks. He has suffered enough.”

“Only fools make deals with Umbarians!” Faced with this much Elvish naivety, Elrohir cannot contain his scorn. “They will hack your man to pieces whatever you do, and you beside him!”

“I will make them release him.” Glorfindel’s face is hard, his mind closed.

“They will tear you apart!”

Glorfindel looks Elrohir in the eye, and says only. “Better me than you.” 

Four short words, and yet they turn Elrohir’s stomach. “This is madness!” he exclaims, but  Glorfindel only holds his gaze in silence. 

Elrohir stands reeling, battling remembered horrors. He has seen too many people cut to pieces in slow stages on Mûlkher’s altars; he knows the sights, the stench, the dreadful sounds of evil death. Without a doubt Glorfindel’s fate will be the worst of all. The Elf will die screaming, and Elrohir cannot bear the thought. 

In his despair he turns to Galdor. “Captain, you must stop him!”

“Elrohir,” Galdor says, laying a gentle hand on Elrohir’s shoulder, moving him back and away from Glorfindel. “I would not order this, but Glorfindel volunteers. He may go.”

“No!” Elrohir twists, shaking off Galdor’s hand, and grabs a fistful of Glorfindel’s surcoat. “I will not let you!”

“Elrohir, lad. Listen to me.” Galdor’s tone remains calm, but there can be no doubt that the Elf means business. “I am the captain of this ship, and as such I command your obedience. If you hinder this, I will have you escorted to your cabin.”

Galdor sends him a wistful look, then turns away, already giving orders. 

For a moment Glorfindel and Elrohir face each other, Elrohir still with a white-knuckled grip on the grey wool of Glorfindel’s surcoat. He opens his mouth to protest, but Glorfindel cuts him off. “Please be careful while I am away. Do not make me explain to Elladan how you were killed in a scuffle.” 

Very gently, Glorfindel takes Elrohir’s hand and unfolds his clutching fingers. His eyes are wide and serious, the fear behind them now plain to see. He understands well indeed what horrors await on that red-sailed ship.

“Promise me!” Elrohir urges as he lets go of him. “Promise that you will take care!”

“The promise is given, Elrohir.” Glorfindel says simply. He draws his Elvish sword and wheels the blade into a bright arc of silver. “I will not make this easy for the bastards.”