“Well, High Lord,” said Duzir to Parnard, “how do you think you will like us?”
“I do not think I shall like you at all,” he replied.
“Oh, but I think you will,” retorted the dwarf, nodding and winking at Pharazagar. The Umbari swordsman grinned back at him, and they began to chuckle.
The nasty sound made Parnard even more uneasy, and not having the heart to ask Duzir what he meant, drew his chair a little away, dismayed and altogether baffled, and feigned a moody interest at his cell's spartan furnishings: the feeble fire in the grate, the narrow shelflike bed, the spindly washstand.
Duzir, who had been charged by his mistress the Sorceress Zairaphel to take good care of this prized elf, eyed him up and down in a manner similar to that of the shrewdest horse trader in the Grand Market of Umbar Baharbêl, and said to Pharazagar, “Are you sure he is High Lord?”
“Absolutely.”
“No,” said Parnard.
“No-!?” they cried.
“No! I am the High Lord! There is only one: me!” he declared, straightening his shoulders and looking down his long nose. “Just what are you suggesting? That I am not fit for the title?”
Duzir ran his fingers through his beard as he recalled what he knew about Elf Kings. This one was not what he expected: he was nowhere close to seven feet tall, and he should be broader of chest, squarer of jaw, and firmer of eye. His shining armor, however, looked just like what was worn by a mighty Elf Lord of the Second Age: leather and steel plates worn over a hauberk of mail with elegant pauldrons and braces, enameled green and etched with intricate vine-like tracery of the fussy sort that delighted Elves. He saw no Tengwar symbols interspersed among the vines, no wards of protection. The color green was not usually associated with Deep-Elves; but in any case, the armor was exquisitely wrought by skillful elven hands, and the mail, curiously enough, was of particularly fine dwarven-make. Together they were worth a tidy sum.
“Do not let those gormless ways of his fool you, Duzir,” said Pharazagar. “The High Lord killed six men all at once, bare-handed!”
At this Parnard shook his head and sang out sheepishly, “No, no, no –”
“You see how humble he acts? It is all part of his canny deception!”
The dwarf stared at him for a moment longer. ”Aye, appearances can oft be deceiving,” he said, then exclaimed with a wicked leer, “He has armor worthy of a king, no doubt about that! Off with it now, High Lord, so that I may examine it better.”
Parnard could not remove his armor by himself even if he wished; he was no warrior, only a Wood-Elf of peaceable temperament who had never set foot upon a battlefield and wielded his wineglass and eating knife with far more alacrity than his sword, but he well knew that by ancient custom his armor would be seized by the victor, just as his sword Steel-Thorn had been taken by the brigands, and it would represent a final capitulation that these wicked Men and Dwarves had triumphed over the Eldar race, and this galled him to the core. But it was too much to explain, as Duzir was now advancing with greedy fingers outstretched, so he tossed his silvery black hair over his shoulder with a contemptuous flip, and said by no means would he consent to be relieved of his armor.
Then the dwarf fell upon him and a desperate wrestling match ensued. Parnard, longer of limb and much faster than Duzir, tried to squirm out of the dwarf’s ironlike grip, but his speed and agility were of no consequence in such tight quarters, and the dwarf was inordinately strong. The elf was grabbed up in a vehement bear hug, thrown across one stumpy leg onto the floor, and pinned fast. Before he even knew what was happening, nimble fingers wormed around, deftly unfastening the buckles and laces of the cherished armour that Estarfin had made specially for him.
“I could keep on wearing it, and save you the trouble -” Parnard gasped, sweating and struggling in vain to escape the dwarf’s clutches and foul breath.
Pharazagar, in a jocular mood because his part in the elves’ abduction was successfully completed and he thought that the burdensome responsibility of guarding this squirrely elf was relinquished, laughed to see the sight, and said, “Now we may behold the High Lord in all his glory!” As Duzir tossed piece after piece of armor aside, the Umbari man regarded the elf with a languid curiosity, wondering at the strange interest the Sorceress Zairaphel had for him. Underneath the gauntlets, his hands were fine-boned, with gracefully tapered fingers that were delicate-looking, yet surprisingly deadly; he wore a quilted jacket that was embroidered in a rich brocade of flowers of gold and silver thread, which, unbeknownst to his captors, Parnard had sewn upon this article (one of Estarfin’s old cast-off gambesons) because it was too grim for his tastes, being covered with bloodstains. “Really, Duzir,” Pharazagar said with another laugh, “this is no way to treat an honoured guest. Lift him up, and put him to bed with his dolly and a cup of warm milk, lest he catch cold.”
Parnard flashed a look of raw hatred at the man. “It is a good thing to hate someone,” the swordsman said with a roguish smile, “it stirs the blood and keeps things lively.” Having given this pleasant reflection Pharazagar edged away, wary of the High Lord’s temper.
The dwarf clambered from the half-squashed elf, and told him that if he caused any trouble he would re-affix the iron chain around his neck and wrists, saying, “I caution you to think less of redressing your losses and of vengeance. So much bitterness of spirit is not good when you must be sweet and endearing to Lady Zairaphel, then no harm will come to you.”
“I care not for the affection of a wicked old woman!”
“That is because you are not wise; but you will learn better now that you are in our power. Think of poor Cousin Danel - why should you make her the victim of your vengeance? What is to be, will be, and fate will have it so.” The firelight twinkled at Parnard’s collar, and snatching at it, Duzir snapped the silver and emerald leaf necklace from his neck. “What is this? Another elf-trinket! I shall take it for safekeeping.”
A tinkling bell sounded outside the room, faint and melodious. “Hark! My mistress calls,” said Duzir, scooping up the armor in his arms, and hurried out with Pharazagar. The door was bolted shut and Parnard was alone. He lay where the dwarf left him for a long while, sighing and grabbing at fistfuls of his hair, and tearing at it with rage, thinking that he never felt more wronged and miserable, bereft of his freedom, friends, sword, rings, and now his armor and jeweled pendant, the very last tokens of the esteem of the Noldor that had remained to him. Where was Estarfin? Did he lose his way in the darkness? Parnard again resolved (for the hundredth time probably) to escape, if such a welcome event afforded the opportunity.
