Turning down the road and looking up the hill, their eyes met for an instant as Naraal approached. He made a constrained nod; the man only looked at him without making any sign of recognition. “Greenfield, is it?”
“You know why I have come, then.”
“Of course. I am Naraal.”
The man known as Captain Greenfield nodded once and resumed looking down upon the town.
“It is nothing special,” said Naraal, following his gaze. “A few have their wits about them. Most do not. They do not take much notice here -”
“A strumpet named me Southerner."
Naraal drew a sharp intake of breath. The man wore a long plain cloak over a sleeveless white surcoat, belted at the waist and fringed at the bottom with feathers. Long daggers hung at his sides. Tall, oiled boots reached almost to the tops of his knees. Gold and emerald armbands coiled around his bare arms, muscular and bronzed from the sun, in the flamboyant style of the Haradrim. On his brow he wore a gold and gemstone circlet. Light hair hung in tight ringlets over a pair of bold blue eyes. “I do not want to dampen your mood, but you are too clean for this place. A roll in the mud would help,” he said.
Captain Greenfield curled his lip. “I am in need of proper raiment and nourishment."
Naraal assured him that he would fetch some straightaway, and immediately began walking towards town, his shady compatriot falling into footstep behind him and pulling his cloak to cover the more outlandish accoutrements of his outfit. “Just keep your eyes peeled…” Naraal said as they passed through the town gates. Across the street, just beyond the guard post, a small group of women huddled together gossiping.
“Plenty of that here,” said Naraal, spitting on the dusty street, "plenty plain and homely."
Greenfield passed a cold eye over the women. “I shall keep my distance."
“Let us go on, then,” Naraal said, and led him through the twisting streets to the door of a pie shop. “Once again, better is to be found elsewhere, but it is the best to be found hereabouts." He made an apologetic bow as he opened the door. Food and drink was brought, and Captain Greenfield guzzled down beer as fast as any thirsty sailor could, then slammed his empty tankard on the table. It did nothing to ease the knot in his stomach.
"Yesterday I was approached by a large, stupid-looking man," he said under his breath in Haradaic.
“Men like that are two-a-penny."
"Yes…but he knew my name and spoke of trouble."
"This is what I heard: those who were to put Yondershire in readiness were routed.”
“All of them?”
“Not all of them. One survived: he spoke of marauding elves from Ered Luin.”
Greenfield smiled without mirth. "Yesterday’s man shoved a sack under my nose and told me it held elf ears. I damn near threw him on his face."
“There is talk amongst the rat-folk of a black demon-elf, led by one High Lord Parnard."
“Pah! We will rid ourselves of these interlopers.”
“Yes, but listen, Captain! They say that one of the elves is a female with red hair. She would fetch a good price on the market if we can take her alive.”
“Elves do not make good slaves. They will be put to the sword.”
“As you wish. I saw money aplenty, but it is all the same to me,” said Naraal, glancing around.
While Greenfield ate he considered Naraal’s suggestion. “We will send them north to toil in the ash pits," he said, nodding as if in answer to an unspoken question. "Though there is not much profit, we must find the silver lining in these things."
“I will find out more about High Lord Parnard and his plans.”
“Capture him. He will bring a good ransom as well as information.”
Naraal rocked back and forth on his chair, took his pipe out, and tapped its bowl on the rim of his plate. “I will say this as a warning - though I do not disagree - ” he began cautiously, for the man known as Greenfield was unused to being contradicted, and was now staring at him in cold surprise. “It will not be an easy task. We should take one of the others, a female, the red-haired one, perhaps."
“Do as you like. Sell her or kill her - we can afford to be generous," said Greenfield, and recognizing the evil light that had sprung up in his companion’s eyes, added, “but know that if you make her your plaything, be quick about it, as she will soon die, and then you will be left with nothing.”
“So that rumour is true!”
"Use her as bait."
“But Captain! Do we want a war with Mithlond just yet?”
“Enough talk! Take me to my lodgings."
Guided by his forefathers' concepts of power and virtue, Azrazôr arrogated unto himself the right to treat others exactly as he pleased, being told from a very young age that only a small group of Men can lead, the greater portion must work and obey. Unlike the other lords, who did little but prance about on their horses, Azrazôr was a slave-trader, and he excelled at it, gaining distinction and amassing wealth far over the general run of slavers.
From the outset Azrazôr boasted the title of Slave Lord. By his own efforts, with great energy, unscrupulousness, and success, the Númenórean expanded his trade so that within a year, he sold two thousand slaves. The following year, he sent ten thousand to the slave markets, and continued to grow his stock of slaves exponentially, for the empire required an excellent source of labor to maintain its parasitic life of plenty, and demand was great. As the empire had come to rely on slaves for its basic economic functioning, Azrazôr felt it was his patriotic duty to import slaves by the thousands to work in its giant labor camps.
Valuable prisoners were saved from death only by the intervention of Azrazôr, either by being smuggled out to the broad fields of Rhûn to farm crops or to the great workshops in Harad where they would produce luxury goods of every description: furniture, metalware, carved figurines. These articles found their way not only into Greenfield’s quarters but into the homes of his friends and acquaintances throughout the land and even beyond its borders. Especially gifted artisans were sometimes loaned out (at high price) to teach their trade to others. It was Azrazôr’s own slaves who created the splendid green jade mûmakil statues that flanked the wide stairs leading to the palace complex, the exact replicas of the ones that stood outside the six doorways of the Fanatics’ temple in Nabú, located in Far Harad.
Azrazôr improved slaving methods over time, and devised a new system of organization, so that even with a limited number of slave-drivers, the slaves could be rigidly supervised. One or two boss leaders would run about, whipping up the slave host, and whenever one of the slave-drivers made an appearance, the slaves would work at a mad pace. Azrazôr then introduced a warning bell that would toll when the slave-driver arrived on the work site, and this proved so effective that only the sounding of the bell was needed to increase the slaves' output. Eventually he amassed such wealth so that he was one of the richest men in all Umbar.
It was this sudden creation of wealth that drew the attention of the Eye, and Azrazôr found himself summoned. Those summoned often disappeared without a trace, but to disobey would mean certain death: there was no choice but to obey.
