Almost a year had passed since Delioron’s return from his mission to the Trollshaws. The journey from Eriador to Minas Tirith through mostly desolate, empty wilderness had been as ever long and fraught with peril. When he had finally left his report to Parthadan in Minas Tirith, the Warden of the Green had been satisfied to hear that Sauron’s planned invasion to Imladris had been thwarted without a stain to Gondor’s reputation, though he had rebuked Delioron for bringing Gondor’s involvement in the affair to Lord Elrond’s attention. Parthadan would have preferred the matter to be solved without alerting the Lord of Imladris of Delioron’s presence in the area, let alone his ties to the Kingdom of Gondor.
Even Denethor did not know that Parthadan had sent Delioron into Eriador to investigate the source of the Steward’s strange visions in the palantír and Gwathrandir’s mysterious disappearance. Parthadan had acted behind Denethor’s back on the matter, for Delioron had been retired from his duties, essentially by the Steward’s direct orders. Denethor disapproved of Parthadan’s methods of using ’common rogues and cut-throats’ in the running of his office, which to Denethor was low and dishonorable and beneath everything Gondor stood for. The Ruling Steward of Gondor would not have been happy to hear that Parthadan had been working behind his back against his wishes. Parthadan had risked losing his station, perhaps even his head.
In the end Parthadan had thanked Delioron for his exemplary service to the realm once more and sent him back to his home in the Cape of Belfalas to continue his retirement. And there he had stayed through the long, hot summer of Western Gondor, with no news from Minas Tirith. He had adopted the lifestyle of a retired scholar with enough wealth to live a leisurely life in his estate, devoting his solitary existence to scholarly pursuits. Often he would travel to Dol Amroth to study old tomes in the Library of Saphadzîr. To his neighbors he was just a retired lore-master from Minas Tirith, a hermit who kept to himself, perhaps a little eccentric, perhaps a little too reserved, but perfectly harmless and ordinary neighbor. None of them had any idea of the secret work he had performed in service of the Kingdom of Gondor for many years before his forced retirement a year earlier.
On the day it began it had been a rainy morning of early autumn. Delioron had been in his garden gathering apples into a small cart when he had heard horse’s hooves clattering against the pavement on the short stretch of road leading to his house. Delioron was not a sociable man and he never had any visitors. He was not expecting company this morning either. He turned and saw two riders in his front yard, cloaked and hooded against the rain. Delioron did not have the weapons of his trade on him, but an axe he had used for pruning was leaning against an apple tree. He took it now, left the cart of apples where it stood and walked towards the front yard. He hid behind the balustrade to get a closer look at the riders.
The first rider dismounted while the other remained sitting atop his steed. The one who had dismounted wore a dark green cloak and black gloves. He was stubby and not very tall. When he pulled down his hood Delioron recognized the homely, colorless, short-nosed face and long gray hair immediately. He was Parthadan, the Warden of the Green.
Parthadan suddenly noticed the dark, ominous silhouette standing behind the shadow of the balustrade, unmoving like a statue, axe in hand. Delioron lifted his axe and pointed it’s head towards the other man, still sitting atop his horse.
”My companion from Minas Tirith”, Parthadal replied to the unspoken question. ”The roads of Gondor are not as safe for travelers as they used to be. He’s a member of the Citadel Guard, and he has no idea of my business here. He has no idea who you are either.”
Delioron did not respond. It had started raining again. The autumn was coming.
”Aren’t you going to invite me inside?” Parthadan asked. ”He will naturally wait outside.”
Parthadan had been the Warden of the Green of Minas Tirith for more than fifteen years now, and Delioron had known him for almost as long. It could be said that Parthadan had ’inherited’ Delioron from his predecessor, who had originally sent Delioron to Rhûn as an emissary from Gondor on a diplomatic mission to prevent the easterling kingdom of Narimanush from falling into the hands of Sauron. The mission had been a catastrophic failure, and Delioron had been stuck with the rebels after Hûz III’s troops had beheaded King Seddîd during a bloody coup. Delioron had participated in the rebellion to overthrow Sauron’s puppet ruler from the throne of Narimanush. Many bad things had happened over the next three years as Sauron’s forces had crushed the rebel movement piece by piece in a bloody genocide. When Delioron had finally returned to Minas Tirith after four long years of absence – presumed dead since the fall of King Seddîd – he was not the same man he had been when he left. The war in the east had changed him forever and molded him into a new shape, a shape that could never be changed again. Parthadan had not been sure what to do with him at first, but he had soon found uses for him. He had found that even Gondor had uses for someone like Delioron.
Time had not thinned the mutual suspicion and dislike the two men felt for each other. Their relationship had been one of shared benefit in a world that resembled a rickety hanging bridge over a dark, bottomless chasm.
”Why did you come here?” Delioron asked.
”I had a good reason.” There was a hint of sarcasm in Parthadan’s voice. Delioron made his decision. He held the axe carelessly in his right hand as he walked around the balustrade and climbed the stairs to the main door. Parthadan followed him through the foyer and anteroom into the main hall in the back of the house. Delioron removed his own wet cloak and hung it on a stand next to the doorway. Logs crackled in the fireplace. Flames licked the surrounding stones. Delioron walked over to a small table and poured himself a goblet of red wine. He did not offer to pour for Parthadan.
”I have been approached by the enemy”, Parthadan began.
Delioron remained silent. He sipped the strong, priceless Dorwinion wine from his goblet. The wine warmed him inside. He did not sit down, so Parthadan remained standing as well.
”I received a sealed letter from Mordor”, Parthadan said. ”It had been slipped below the doors to the Keep of the Keys in the First Circle, where the doorwards found it. The letter had no indication of the sender, but it had been addressed to the Warden of the Green. Húrin brought it to me. I opened it and it was from Mordor.”
Delioron put the goblet down. He was in his mid-to-late forties, but his figure was still tall and strong and commanded respect. His face was hard and his eyes were gray, calm and expressionless. It was not a good-looking face because it was weather-beaten and hard-looking, but there was something strangely alluring about it too. His hair was almost completely gray, the same shade as his eyes. His fingers were blunt and his hands big. He did not speak often, but when he did, his voice was ruthless and razor-sharp.
”What are you doing here?” he now asked. ”I thought Denethor put me in retirement. Are you working behind his back again?”
”Not as such. Not really. We have had lots of problems lately and I’m finding it difficult to fulfill the demands of my office without the use of… ’common rogues and cut-throats’, as Denethor puts it. We can’t trust the palantír anymore. Sauron controls it. Even Denethor sees that now. I have convinced him to stop using the seeing-stone and also that we absolutely need to turn a blind eye at certain things to find answers about the plans of the enemy. So Denethor has given me his permission to ’do as I think best’ for the time being. Your name never came up as such, but… and besides, you will not be going anywhere where your actions might arouse unwanted attention from our citizens or allies. Not this time.”
”I don’t give a damn about your correspondence with the enemy”, Delioron said slowly. ”I’m enjoying my retirement. It’s very peaceful here. I have done my part for Gondor. Leave me be!”
There was a long silence. Both men were trapped in the service of Gondor and they knew it. They knew too much, they had seen too much, done too much, and neither would ever be completely free of their bonds. They had known each other for fifteen years and the only thing they shared was a lie: the glory of Gondor. Delioron stared at the short, pale man with long gray hair and realized that he was feeling pity for him. Or perhaps for himself.
”What was in the letter?” Delioron finally asked.
”It was written by a man named Tarîkbên; a Black Numenórean. He claims to be in a high position in Barad-dûr. An overseer of Sauron’s dungeons.”
”Do you know how the letter was delivered to Minas Tirith?”
Parthadan shook his head. ”Almost anyone can get to the First Circle of the city fairly easily, but as far as anyone knows we have only had visitors from Gondor and occasionally Rohan for years. So whoever delivered the letter must have been a citizen of Gondor or Rohan, or someone pretending to be.”
”What does the Black Numenórean want?”
”He fears for his life”, Parthadan said. ”Apparently Sauron has been dissatisfied with the quality of his work for a while now, and Tarîkbên has grown concerned that Sauron intends to retire him. And as we both now, ’retirement’ in Mordor means the more permanent kind. So he wants to escape. He wants to flee Mordor through Gondor, and he wants gold and our protection.”
”Where is he now?”
”In Barad-dûr, as far as I know.”
Delioron reached for the bottle of Dorwinion wine and poured himself another drink in the goblet. He did not offer a drink to Parthadan. Both men remained standing.
”What do you want from me?” Delioron asked.
”Tarîkbên wrote that Sauron will send him to a mission in Emyn Muil some time during next winter. During the mission he will cross Nen Hithoel on a boat and come to our side of the lake. It’s where you can find Amon Hen and the Argonath. I am sure you have heard of them. I want you to be there when he comes to receive him.”
Delioron put down the empty goblet and walked over to the fireplace. He took a black poker and pushed a big log of oak back into the fire.
”I wonder why the letter was addressed to me”, Parthadan suddenly mused. ”Why wasn’t it addressed to the Steward directly?”
”Because Denethor would refuse to respond to it in any way”, Delioron replied. ”He would toss it in fire and never give it another thought. And he would be right to do so. It’s a trap.”
”Perhaps. But what do we have to lose if we hear him out, see what he has to say?”
”Only me”, Delioron said.
”Precisely.”
Delioron said nothing. He kept poking the logs in the fireplace.
”But come on now!” Parthadan said. ”Why would Sauron set up such an elaborate trap just to capture one meaningless envoy from Minas Tirith? You have no significance! Under no circumstances will this man of Mordor be allowed to step inside Gondor’s borders. You are to make sure of that as well.”
”What does he have to offer us in return?”
”Information. Tarîkbên claims to know a lot about Sauron’s plans.”
”What can I promise him?”
Parthadan stared into the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames. He saw mighty warships crashing onto each other in the flames. He heard the screams of dying men as they fell into the sea.
”You can promise him the keys to the Tower Hall if you want”, he said. ”Promise him anything you like. As I already said, he will not be allowed to enter Gondor no matter what he can tell us.”
”So just empty promises in exchange for information?”
”Exactly. Go see this man when he arrives. Interview him thoroughly. Promise him the moon and the stars. Evaluate his information. If it is a trap, I want to know it’s purpose. And when you have squeezed everything you can out of him, you can either kill him or send him back to Mordor. Just make sure he will not take another step to Gondor’s direction. Use your own judgment. I don’t want to know how exactly you handle it. I don’t need to hear the gritty details.”
Delioron said nothing. Parthadan blinked and reluctantly tore his eyes off the flames. He saw Delioron’s cold, mocking face watching him from the shadows, felt the freezing gaze of his gray eyes on him.
”Will you do it?” he asked.
”Do I have a choice?”
No, Parthadan thought. There is no choice for you, my friend. Ever. Aloud he said: ”Have you ever been to Amon Hen before?”
”Once”, Delioron said. It seemed like the memory came reluctantly. ”On my way there. To Rhûn. Eighteen years ago.”
”Good”, Parthadan said. ”Then you know the lay of the land. I have to go now. I have business in Dol Amroth. That’s why I came here to see you personally. I will leave you to make the arrangements and preparations for your journey. Waste no time. It’s a long way to Nen Hithoel, and I want you to be in place before winter.”
