“Sire, your armour is excellent, but may I suggest something?” said Naraal as he stood before the decrepit old house with the wolf’s head device carved upon its ancient oaken door.
The Black Númenórian dismounted from his white charger, removing his finely wrought helmet, the Amlugorchalthôl, forged from steel and gold in the semblance of a monstrous dragon’s head. Azrazôr had idly commented to the High Priest how much he liked it; while the man of Angmar did not wish to give up this most treasured mark of his office, he was no fool, and valuing his life more offered it to Azrazôr as a gift. “Please, take it,” he said as evenly as he could manage, feigning warm generosity. The other priests chimed in, “Take it, take it,” no voice wavering in the apparent enthusiasm and new-found loyalty for this upstart that had come up from the distant southlands like a raging tempest.
In one single day their entire mode of living had been upended, and for the first time in the long history of the Priesthood they were united: hate is a powerful motivator and binding force, and the Angmarim hated this golden-haired Southron deeply and venomously. They hated him for killing their brethren, and for his alien race, and what they considered his alien faith. Despite being united in hatred, not one of these men dared challenge him, even if they had the courage to do so, because he was tall and strong, his step was firm, and his will unyielding and without mercy. They would have banded together to kill him, but most were craven, always considering the risk to themselves first, even if he was outnumbered: he would shake them all off as a great mûmak shakes off pesky flies. Ah, well, only a day or so more, and the southern tyrant would be leaving, they assured themselves. Their troubles and annoyances would soon be at an end, and they could return to living in the manner in which they pleased. Little did they know what Azrazôr planned for them. He paused in placing the heavy iron key in the lock, fixing ice-water-blue eyes upon his Umbari companion, and nodded for him to speak.
Naraal said, “In the Northern lands there is armour made from a metal called mithril. It is most rare, but will withstand any blow. There is none stronger. It is forged by Dwarves for their kings and princes.”
“Of course we have heard of mithril, Naraal. It is a material of assumed scarcity because it is very difficult to procure and the supply is always outstripped by demand. And where will we find mithril enough?”
Naraal bowed low, answering, “Sire, we might relieve a Dwarf-Lord of his armour, melt it down, and kidnap a smith or two to forge it anew. Not that you should look like a Northern King, but that you should have the best. Duzir may know where to find it ?”
“We do not know what that imp of my aunt knows.”
“A strange creature he is, but loyal and quick about his tasks. Loyalty is uncommon these days.”
“Zairaphel saved his life. He swore to serve her. There is nothing that remarkable about it.”
“Ah, yes. Dwarves always repay a debt. I may have judged him too harshly. He knows many secrets, I warrant,” said Naraal, bowing even deeper. “Harder than adamant, this metal is said to be. It is true! I have seen Dwarven folk wield mithril-edged weapons in battle. If our smiths could learn the techniques -"
“Do they fight as fiercely as the Haradrim?”
“Sire, I would say the dwarven folk are some of the hardiest warriors.”
“Then we will ask him what he knows,” said Azrazôr, and entered the house. It was warmer and drier indoors owing to the cheery fire in the hearth, and a sweet and rich incense seemed to be everywhere, permeating everything, masking the pungent odour of rot, mildew and acrid fogs that rolled down the hills from deep fissures in the mountains of Angmar. Underfoot was a large soft woolen carpet of Umbari make, and combined with an exquisitely carved teak settee scattered with plump cushions, the room was made almost homely to the Umbarrim.
At that moment Duzir hopped down the squeaky stairs like a miniature billy goat, beaded black braids bouncing, and scampered into the room to greet them.
“Oh. There you are, Druxar,” Naraal said. It pleased him to see the dwarf bristle each time he bungled his name.
Duzir leaned back to glower up at the corsair, eyes bright with malevolence and partly hidden by shadow under long wiry black eyebrows, like tiny coals glowing behind a dirty grate. “So you are back. How did you enjoy your time with the Angmarim?” he asked.
Naraal made a scornful laugh. “They are a lazy and uncultured bunch.”
“That is the middling local Men in a nutshell,” quipped Duzir. After bolting the door shut, he helped Azrazôr remove his armour with nimble fingers, remarking on the fine workmanship of the golden dragon helm as he placed it reverently upon a purple velvet cushion. He poured two glasses of wine (one of the best vintages from the wide vineyards northwest of the Sea of Rhûn) and handing one first to Azrazôr with a low bow, and the second to Naraal, said, “This arrived for you yesterday,” and shoved a crumpled note towards the corsair’s navel.
“It is from my First Mate, Magan,” Naraal said, scanning the message’s cryptic cipher. “He reports the Men of Bree are ready to strike. The wanted Elves are now back at their home, and the Men plan to capture them within days. If those Bree-landers make a mistake, Magan will not. There is another of our people, a nobleman, with him. I cannot make out his name in this code.” He squinted. “It might be ‘Pharaz,’ or ‘Phazôr.’ Magan says here that he is a notable swordsman, albeit still a youth.”
“If he is so notable we would have heard of him,” retorted Azrazôr. “But no matter: as long as he is skillful, trusted and wary.”
“My First Mate believes so, else he would have killed him. It seems this young buck is eager to serve Your Highness. We will give them a few days to spring a trap; with a favourable journey, the Elves will be here within a fortnight.”
“Is all ready for them?”
Duzir replied that it was, and from behind Azrazôr’s chair winked and leered at Naraal, mischief radiating from him like dry heat from a squat black stove.
“Do you have any further instructions to send to Magan, Lord? He will…lose most of the Men on the journey, once he knows the Elves cannot escape.”
“Lose them or kill them? It seems a waste.”
“They are strong but not very clever. I can tell him to bring them all, unspoilt, if it is your wish?”
Azrazôr made a rare smile. “Do you wish for more sacrifices?”
“Only if it is your wish, my King.”
Duzir sang out, “Sweet, sweet is the blood spilt in the dead of night!” earning a disapproving over the shoulder glare from his master. He settled down again, barely, by making low chuckling sounds in the back of his throat until his mirth was dissipated.
“There should be twenty of the Bree-landers, my officer, and the swordsman. The swordsman may need to prove himself. I would keep my officer, if it pleases you, Lord,” said Naraal.
“Tell your First Mate that he may keep whom he will. The rest will be offered to Lord Sauron. Any who is unfit, or who fails in their duty, shall fall on the altar. Let him decide, if you believe him worthy. We will look upon them before they are marched away. We trust he will choose well, or he will be marched away as well.” Azrazôr held out his empty glass, prompting the dwarf to rush forward and pour out more wine.
Naraal bowed again, saying, “He who does not serve well deserves his fate. The elves will not be taken easily - I suspect they will slay a few of our Men. They will bring the Elves to the feet of the Ram Dúath: they know not the location of this house. My instructions were to ride the main path through the land of the dead. They are to carry a banner bearing the sign of the All-Seeing Eye.”
The heir of Castamir nodded at this, then sat reflecting upon his distant business ventures and other affairs in Gondor, Umbar, and Far Harad for several minutes, until Naraal decided to broach the earlier topic of conversation again, and said, “Our King needs the finest armour Middle Earth can offer, Druzêl: that would be mithril armour.”
“Tell Naraal what you know of mithril, and anything else he wishes to know,” Azrazôr told the dwarf, and raising up a hand commanded him to speak.
Duzir's black beady eyes shifted from one man to the other, but being compelled by the implacable will of the Black Númenórian, cooed out, “Mithril, mithril…” and as if speaking sweet nothings to a lover, said, “...hard as diamonds, light as feathers - you can hammer it finer than a hair on Queen Zairaphel's precious head and it will not break! In skillful hands there is no metal better in the world for armourcraft.”
“Perhaps we can take a few Dwarven smiths into our care to teach our smiths the art?” said Naraal.
“Those Dwarves! You think they will share what they know? They will never give up their trade secrets!” Duzir was sent into a snorting paroxysm of laughter at this suggestion.
Naraal frowned. “There are ways of loosing tongues - “
The dwarf stopped laughing. “Threaten to shave their beards, then get out the hot thumb clamps and the board of nails?”
“Nay, capture also their sons and daughters.”
“It may not be enough...ooo hoo! Daughters! Now you are on to something! Bring ‘em here!” Duzir twirled his moustache in delight.
“I am sure many a Dwarf can withstand torture, but to watch their children being tortured…”
“Very poor slaves do Dwarves make: like Elves, they are too stiff-necked and stubborn. We do not like this idea,” declared their king, who had sat in silence during this exchange, stone-faced and his eyes cold and expressionless.
The frosty rebuke had the effect of pouring cold water over Duzir's fevered thoughts of captive dwarf daughters and hot clamps, and Naraal admitted with another low bow, “This plan is not without risk, Lord. To incur the wrath of the Dwarf-Lords before we are ready is folly. I believe most Dwarves guard their families well, although I have not knowingly seen a Dwarf woman. They say it is hard to tell the men from the women.”
“I have not seen one in so many years!” moaned Duzir.
“There are Dwarves in Angmar,” Naraal continued, ignoring the outburst, “but only small settlements, and also a few scattered in the North Downs, friends of the accursed Rangers, near that hive we saw in the ruins.”
“It is an interesting idea, Chief Mariner, but it may prove too difficult, as was our other idea to reclaim King Castamir's armour: the filthy Gondorians have squirreled it away in a rat-filled tower in Pelargir, guarded by Lord Sirgon of Lebennin. Until we breach the walls of Minas Tirith, we will not take back what is rightly ours," said Azrazôr.
“I can 'assess' the local habitations, and perhaps Dolzir will assist?”
“Assist you! How?” growled the dwarf.
Azrazôr held up a hand in warning. “Let Naraal ask the questions.”
“Advise me, Duzir,” and opting for a diplomatic approach by appealing to his vanity, Naraal said, “You are the expert here, after all.”
“Then what is it you wish to know? Do you want to know how to tell dwarven-women from dwarven-men? Or do you wish to know more about mithril?” Duzir stared at the corsair, eyes blazing fiercely.
“We shall need enough mithril for King Azrazôr's armour and a sword.”
The Black Dwarf whistled. “That is a tremendous amount! I once heard rumour of a mithril chain hauberk in one of the Shire-folk villages; I doubt there was any truth to that, why would they have such a treasure?”
“Halflings, in Dwarven armour! What a waste that would be. Very well, if we cannot steal mithril, then we will mine it,” said Naraal.
“Mine for mithril?” Duzir was almost sent into another fit of hysterics, but for the look of warning from Azrazôr. He weighed his words carefully, and stroking his beard, said as seriously as he could manage, “You cannot just go out and mine for it in any old place. Very deep under the earth lies the true-silver.” He then informed the two men that no Dwarf would ever give up the location to a mithril mine, no matter what the threat. “It is said to be found below the tallest crags of the Misty Mountains. Long, long ago, before Sun and Moon, the Lord of Darkness tumbled up the mountains like so much laundry, raising them high to fence in the Elves and keep them from traipsing into the western lands, and in doing so, raised up rich veins of mithril that would have remained buried deep under stone for all time.”
“There are the mines in Moria. Those Halls are far distant, and nearby lies the realm of the Elf Witch,” Naraal said.
“Aye, the Dwimmer-Bitch!” replied the dwarf.
“Then Mount Gundabad is where we seek mithril. Sire, I suggest sending the Angmarim to look for it there. They are useless priests. Let them dig in darkness.”
“Yes,” agreed Azrazôr, who liked this idea very much.
“It - might not be a place to go…” said Duzir.
Azrazôr, surprised that his decision was challenged, was more curious than angry, and waited for the dwarf to explain. Duzir said, slowly and reluctantly, "Mount Gundabad is where Durin the Deathless, oldest of the Seven Fathers, awoke.”
“A hallowed place, then?”
“Yes. Then the Orcs came and claimed it as their own. Said to be swarming with Orcs, last I heard about it.”
'If we destroy some of the orcs, that should not upset the Dwarves,” said Naraal.
Azrazôr nodded and announced, “We will cleanse Mount Gundabad completely, we will restore it to its former glory, and we will take any mithril we find! On the morrow we journey thence.”
The corsair and the Black Dwarf stood in awed silence, then Duzir volunteered, “There is a path leading to Mur Shatraug. Go east, then north. The path is behind Carn Dûm. The Witch-gate is occupied by Dourhands.”
Not wanting to be outdone, Naraal told Azrazôr, “Beyond that place is a large pit, orc-infested, or so it is said.”
“That's old news!” laughed Duzir. “Where are you getting your information? The Frost-bound hobgoblins under Warlord Dushtalbúk are now there. The dwarves of the Gabil'akkâ are their sworn enemies, and the goblins have struck an alliance with the Orcs of Gundabad who follow Gorgar the Ruthless. Not just dwarves, goblins and orcs are trying to take over control of Mount Gundabad, but so are the frost-giants of Thyrstáth, as well as a heretic faction of Angmarim. And then there are the filthy Longbeards.” He spat. “Latecomers! Glory hounds!”
Azrazôr said to him, “We know you have little love for other Dwarves. Once we have restored order to Mount Gundabad, you shall oversee the miners.” Naraal raised an eyebrow at this, but smiled at the dwarf all the same in mock congratulation of his new appointment. Duzir shrugged. Just the thought of getting his hands on some mithril was worth dealing with this bothersome Man. He made a low sweeping bow, pointed black beard brushing against the floor, and listened to his master’s instructions to wake them before dawn, and to have fresh horses ready, and many other things; and as Azrazôr appeared very eager to set off, the dwarf lost no time in the necessary preparations for their journey, and ran off to fetch hot water and towels.
“One step at a time, my King, and this entire land will soon be yours,” said Naraal.
“All that we seest, to us it is given,” intoned Azrazôr, and rising to his feet, retired to his chambers.
