Naraal could not help but wonder what he had gotten himself into. Angmar had never featured highly on his ‘places to visit’ list, yet here he was, sitting in the shade of a rock, in bleak inhospitable lands, keeping an eye on a bunch of Angmarrim who were about to sacrifice someone they had captured on a wayside altar.
No, give him the Shield Isles anyday!
The place was getting to him. He wondered how anyone could live here. The Angmarrim or the Tribes folk, both must have an unnatural ability to cope with the dark and drear, the pall of death and disorder that permeated everything. Except the house. The house was not dark and drear, though the Dwarf, Dubold, was. Naraal thought briefly about the stunted creature. He had only known a few dozen Dwarves in his life and Douzet was like none of them. Dwarves were usually loud and confident, yes, but none emanated such a sense of…cruelty, or delight in wickedness? That House was even more uncanny than the Dwarf. Set alone near a place swarming with undead, out of sight of the rough road, yet once through the door it was all of warm Umbar. At least on the floor he had explored. Decor, furniture, incense, plants all spoke of the comforts of his homeland.
He shook his head, trying to focus his thoughts. Running a hand back over his braided hair, he thought how much he longed for pipe-weed. He had rationed it to last until they returned to some sort of civilisation, but what was the point? When would he get to smoke his pipe, with Angmarrim, orcs, trolls, and those long-legged ill-begotten bird-women walking around?
He needed to think.
Sitting opposite him in some form of silent meditation, a relaxed smile on his face, sat the cause. Captain Greenfield, or Azrazôr, as he had come to know him, was someone exceptional. At first Naraal had thought him to be but another arrogant slaver from Umbar, but as days had passed into weeks, he had realised that was far from the whole truth.
And now he knew: Azrazôr was of the line of Castamir, one of his heirs, in fact he claimed to be the most pure-blooded and directly descended through his father’s lineage. Naraal was not a man to take such claims at face value. But Azrazôr had none of the bluff and bluster of an impersonator. His ‘nobility’ was clear to see in face and form and manner. His plans were detailed and laced with cunning. There were still many questions, such as where was his army or navy? Where were his servants and lackeys? He seemed to be self sufficient, needing no one else. But one man could not overthrow the Steward of Gondor and its armies.
Yet the Corsair had seen Azrazôr confront the undead in the Barrow Downs and command Orc, Troll, and many Angmarrim themselves, and none dared make a move against him. Such a man inspired Naraal more than any other he had met; he would follow him.
“Why reveal our plans and risk acting before all is ready?” Azrazôr had told him. “We will not make the mistake so often made by others. My aunt and I need but a few loyal servants - keeping a company of followers under one’s roof is a good way to get assassinated. You, Duzir, and one or two trusted others are enough to serve us. Our nets are drawn and our lines cast. Think not that there are no ships awaiting my orders, or that we lack men, for our servants and spies are in every land, in every city.”
Once his loyalty was given, it was not to be taken back. No one Man could take Gondor, but then he had never met a Man like Azrazôr before. If anyone was the true heir of Castamir, it was him.
But then there was Zairaphel.
Out from a saddlebag he took some dried fruit and venison, and chewing it, saw Azrazôr glare a warning at him. Bowing his head, Naraal chewed as quietly as he could. There was chanting in Black Speech, and a gurgling scream. Then the sound of the Angmarrim heading for their horses.
He looked to his Captain...his King. That thought filled him with pride. It seemed few Umbari knew just who he was, some placing their hopes in Balakhor and his three brothers. They were fools, all of them. He had seen them. Good orators, good with swords, but none could compare with Azrazôr. None came even close.
“We want to see what these Angmarrim priests have done. We doubt it is of acceptable standard,” said Azrazôr. “We shall not have our Lord Sauron insulted.” He dismounted from his horse and approached the stone temple.
Naraal followed, his thoughts returning again to Zairaphel. What was he to do about her? Graceful and aristocratic, mysterious and mesmerizing, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She seemed to view him as her property. Under normal circumstances he would not complain, but she was Azrazôr’s aunt, looking at least ten years younger than him, more like an eighteen year old than someone who must be at least in her fifties! She was of an ancient Númenórian bloodline, and a High Priestess, he knew that at least. He had memories of the sorcery women like her could wield, having once gone to bed with a voluptuous red-head who looked not a day over twenty, then awakened next to a scrawny, bald hag with withered teats the next morning. He shuddered. Never again!
How could he avoid the aunt and her dwarf servant Doozell, without offending her? He also needed to show to Azrazôr he was loyal first and foremost to him.
He had reached the site of the sacrifice. The altar was soaked in blood, the body splayed callously across it. The man’s heart had been torn out but cast aside, a lump of gore leaking blood on the dusty pavers. He felt like throwing up, but steeled himself to remain outwardly stoic.
Azrazôr looked down at the bloody altar, his face darkening. “Do they think that will please our master? Nothing is done in accordance with ceremony! These Angmarrim priests are so mindless and disorganised, shall we have to teach them the rituals anew?”
“Perhaps your aunt...” began Naraal.
Azrazôr waved a hand. “She would take great delight in bringing these men under her power, but no. We shall send in our people when the time is right to throw leashes around the necks of these so-called priests, and put an end to this obstinate defiance and insult.
“Your men will soon receive our message and will deliver the High Lord to us,” he observed to Naraal as they walked back to their horses. “It is my aunt’s special desire that the elf ‘Estarfin’ is slain; her urging tests our patience. Do it speedily.”
Naraal wondered momentarily if Jexson would be up to the task. He had a couple of dozen men, that was true, but the three demons were rumored to have slain far greater numbers than that. He knew, whether his Captain did or not, that it would take not only might but a great deal of cunning to capture the elves, and he was not sure if Jexson was up to the task.
“If it pleases you, my lord, should I return to the lands nigh the sea, and bring them here? My Men are capable, but you say you want them brought alive and unharmed.”
Azrazôr, mounting his white charger, answered, “It does not please us, but we need you here by our side. Few there be whom we trust more thoroughly, and now, when great events are to occur, and we have many secret foes, we desire to have thy counsel and help. No, we will not bid you farewell, Naraal, my Chief Mariner: one of the rare exceptions does our confidence make for you.” He said this with such a generous frankness that Naraal felt lifted up by it, and was made even more resolute to follow his command, thinking, Here is the one who will reclaim the ancient seat of Annúminas and unite the three broken kingdoms with Gondor.
