Demrîng drew his black hood over his head, and his face sank into shadow. He pushed his bare hands deep inside the folds of his cloak and felt the cold blade of the dagger Delioron had given him. He stepped down from the narrow lanes of the upper wards and into the long sweep of Pelargir’s harbor. He moved past the warehouses and rope‑walks until the great quays lay before him with their forest of masts and creaking rigging.
Demrîng thought: Why has he woven such an elaborate scheme?
Demrîng did not believe Delioron would surrender himself to the Corsairs to save some boy from Harad – or anyone at all, not even that scholarly woman of his. Delioron had not survived this long only to throw his life away so easily.
But what was Delioron’s true play? A trap for Demrîng? What trap? If Delioron had wanted him dead, he could have killed him long ago, at his convenience. Instead he had set Demrîng free, given him silver and even the dagger Demrîng now felt beneath the folds of his cloak.
Perhaps Delioron intended to trade Demrîng for the boy from Harad? That seemed the most plausible thought to Demrîng. The Corsairs would gladly bargain for a traitor to Sauron. A traitor’s life for a child’s.
Demrîng had settled on the answer. He had decided to meet Gorndaer, to let him arrange the meeting with Delioron. And then he would kill Delioron. This time he would do it without words, without warning.
Of course he would not be caught in Gondor again, nor could he ever return to Mordor. Yet he still had the treasure‑hoard he had buried in Ithilien, enough to begin a new life. Perhaps in the Dale‑lands. He had been there too, weighing the strength of Dale and Erebor; a remote country, far from Mordor and far from Gondor alike.
He would meet Gorndaer at the harbor and set Delioron’s bargain in motion. Then he would send word to Delioron, and another meeting would follow. Then he would kill them both – Gorndaer, who knew him and might betray him later, and Delioron, who had betrayed him before.
Perhaps the Corsairs would be satisfied with Delioron’s dead body, at least long enough for Demrîng to flee. He would buy or steal a horse and ride to Osgiliath, always watching his trail, at a steady pace. After digging up his treasure he would cross the Anduin again above Cair Andros and travel through the northern vales of the White Mountains, avoiding the Great West Road. Enter Rohan through the Wold, cross the East-emnet and skirt Fangorn’s western edge, follow the Anduin Vale northward, pass west of Mirkwood and enter the Dale-lands from the northwest. Demrîng knew Easterling languages, routes and contacts, he knew the shady merchants of Lake-town. He could become a smuggler between Lake-town and Rhûn.
For a moment he just stood there in the swirling fog, lost in his escape plans. Then he saw a shadow moving in front of him in the strange, yellowish light, obscured by the fog. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the dagger.
Radon was waiting in the fog, holding a short sword.
”Where is your master?” he asked.
Demrîng blinked, surprised. His fingers clenched around the hilt of the dagger. The weapon was too short against a sword when he could not surprise his opponent or strike from behind. Thin line of sweat rose on his forehead, above his dark eyebrows.
”Where is your master?” the other man asked again.
”Who are you?”
”My name is Radon. Gorndaer told me you wanted to see me.”
They could see each other clearly now, as if a space had been cleared in the fog for their meeting.
”Where is Gorndaer?”
”Dead. As you too shall be soon enough, Demrîng, traitor to Sauron.”
This is absurd, Demrîng thought.
”I am no traitor”, Demrîng lied fluently. His flat voice sounded like the voice of a stranger, a thing fashioned by his training, drilled into him from early childhood in the darkest pits and dungeons of Barad-dûr. He had been taught never to reveal himself: Sauron’s perfect weapon, stripped of emotion, stripped of desire. But it was just an illusion, like everything else about Demrîng. ”I am giving you Delioron.”
”Your master.”
”I led him here. I was going to kill him.”
”It is not your concern anymore, traitor.”
”He wanted to arrange a bargain…”
”About what?” Radon smiled.
”A child. A child from Harad.”
”Tilyh’s child”, Radon said. His voice was haunting, colored by the fading light of the quiet afternoon and the gloom that lay in the fog.
”If you know that, then you know that I am telling the truth…”
”Tilyh’s child has already been taken care of.”
Demrîng waited. Radon’s sword hung low, its blade still angled toward the ground.
”He is dead”, Demrîng said.
”Not at all”, Radon replied. ”He’s on a ship bound for Gondor. To be reunited with his mother again.”
Demrîng blinked.
”Then why this… grotesque play?” Demrîng did not ask Radon, but himself. He felt like a nameless figure thrust onto a stage he did not know, costumed and given a dagger, with no understanding of the part he was meant to play.
”Where is Delioron?” Radon asked suddenly, sharply.
”Here”, Delioron said behind him. He felt the cold touch of steel against his throat. He did not try to turn.
”The sword!” Delioron ordered.
Radon released his grip and the sword clanked on the pavement.
Delioron shoved Radon to sit on a wooden crate behind them. He hit Radon on the nose with the pommel of his dagger. It looked as if the punch had come to his mind as an afterthought. Blood spurted from Radon’s nostrils to his upper lip and clothes.
Demrîng took two steps forward and picked up the sword. He walked over to the men.
”You summoned me, traitor of Gondor, so here I am”, Delioron said in his flat, calm voice. It was a purring voice of a large cat sneaking in the fog, a voice that foreshadowed violence.
”You are a dead man”, Radon said. ”And so are you, Demrîng. Death to traitors!”
”Beginning with you”, Delioron said. ”I will hit you to get your attention. Where is Si’nol?”
”You are a dead man”, Radon said again.
”That was not an answer to my question”, Delioron said pensively. He had his back turned to Demrîng. He was very close to Radon’s face. He struck Radon’s nose again, hard. Something cracked this time and Radon winced with pain. He did not make a sound.
”Not hard enough”, Delioron said, just as pensively as before. He struck Radon for the third time. Demrîng watched the violent beating with mild curiosity. Violence and pain did not excite him, but he understood pain and how it was administered. Pain was a tool, just like a dagger was a tool. Or a lie.
Radon was moaning now. And weeping, not from grief or remorse but from bodily pain.
”Do you understand now?”
”I am not afraid to die”, Radon said.
A lie, Demrîng thought. He understood lies too.
”It has not come to that. Not yet”, Delioron said. ”There is an easy death, like falling asleep, and then there is the hard death. But you know the difference.”
Radon said nothing in a while. Then he moaned again. His face was covered with blood. Suddenly Radon’s head jerked back violently, and a shaft of a bolt protruded from his ear. Delioron was already crouching behind the crate, and Demrîng was lying down on his stomach next to him.
”Over there”, Demrîng said. He pointed at a man crouched by the bollards, wrestling to set another bolt in the groove of his crossbow.
Delioron sprang to his feet, waved sharply at Demrîng and sprinted toward the crossbowman. The man was close – far too close to reload before they reached him. Demrîng was already running.
The crossbowman reached the same conclusion, abandoned the attempt to reload and ran. Delioron saw his silhouette clearly through the fog: a thin, bare‑headed man clutching a heavy crossbow. He had fled too late – he gathered speed too slowly, and Delioron was gaining on him fast.
Delioron leaped and tackled the man from behind, locking his arms around the man’s midsection. The crossbowman toppled and crashed onto the pavement. His heavy weapon flew from his hands and clattered across the street. He snatched for a dagger, but Delioron slashed his arm with his own blade. The man screamed and dropped the weapon. Demrîng reached them at last, out of breath.
”Who are you?” Delioron asked.
”You are in deep trouble now, you bastard”, Mudon said, gritting his teeth. ”You are making deals with agents of the Corsairs, you traitor! You are selling your…”
”We have to get him out of here”, Delioron said. ”Seize him from the other side!”
Demrîng and Delioron pulled the man to his feet, each taking hold of one of his arms.
”You stabbed me, you bastard!” Mudon said. ”You stabbed a sworn man of Gondor, you traitor!”
