(continued from this...)
“Useless Southerners,” Jexson muttered under his breath, and licked his dry, cracked lips. He was parched with thirst, and craved water, yet it frightened him to be near it, even a little cup of it, and yet, he was so terribly thirsty -
“Jexson! Are you listening to me? Who is your best tracker?” the shipmaster Balkumagan asked again.
Jexson thought hard for a moment before replying, “That man,” he said, pointing at Burrwood.
“Maybe I am, but I am also no fool,” retorted Burrwood. “You just want me out of the way so you get all the reward for yourself! Send another to look.”
“You will do as I say!” said Jexson, drawing out Sarphir from its sheath. The elven sword glittered cruelly in the morning light.
At that moment Pharazagar, hearing the sound of rasping steel, rushed up holding a length of iron chain that had been salvaged from an old broken-down donkey cart. “Since the High Lord Parnard can untie knots so cleverly,” he had told Balkumagan the night before, “perhaps the Dwarves of Othrikar can supply some iron fetters for us.”
“What is this!” he said, running into the midst of the quarreling Men. “Why are you fighting! Where is the High Lord!”
Burrwood of Bree looked at him, scratching his patchy beard before replying in an uncaring, surly voice, “Run off again, he has.”
“Which way, fool!” Pharazagar said, and he threw the chain on the ground in his exasperation.
Balkumagan remained calm and unconcerned. He crossed his arms across his chest, and informed him, “It is no great loss. The High Lord will run to our pursuers, to this Estarfin Black Demon Elf, and then we will have them.”
“But these Men are weak-hearted ruffians, and cannot best him!” Pharazagar said in Umbarrim. Though the words were not understood by the Bree-Men, the look of contempt as he uttered them did not go unchallenged.
“You swarthy Men are so full of shit that your skins have turned brown.” Burrwood took up Steel-Thorn, and waved the elf sword in the Umbari's face.
“Watch yourself, fool of a Bree-Lander! Pharazagar is master of the sword,” Balkumagan warned.
“I accept your invitation to duel,” said Pharazagar, making a gracious bow, and as he drew out a huge greatsword from an ornate gold and leather sheath, specially made by one of the finest leathercrafters in Near Harad, he adopted a low, crouched position known as the ‘Scholar Playing With a Kite’ stance, his personal favourite. To his surprise, Burrwood dropped his sword as if it burned his hand.
“Do you yield already?” Pharazagar said, incredulous.
“This sword,” Burrwood muttered, shaking his head as if to clear it, “it has a mind of its own.”
“What is that you said?” Pharazagar leaned closer and cupped a hand over his ear. “It is a fine sword! Only a poor carpenter blames his tools.”
“I ain’t no carpenter!”
“Pick up that elven sword, else it is forfeit,” Pharazagar ordered, then sheathing his sword, said in Umbarrim, “What fools we must deal with, Magan. But I will put up with them, if this serves our King best, although I do not understand how it does.”
Balkumagan nodded, and said to Jexson, “This is your best tracker? Then he must go track that elf who is probably halfway home by now because of your incessant bickering!”
Jexson stalked over to Burrwood and gave him a good shake. The man looked befuddled, glassy-eyed. “You fellows there,” he said offhandedly to his men sitting nearby, “go with him.” Burrwood climbed up on his horse as if he were in a dream.
Perplexed, the half-Haradrim, half-Númenórian swordsman watched the group of men ride away across the wind-swept hills, then said, “Balkumagan, brother, how can you say losing the High Lord is no great loss?”
“He will be brought back, along with Estarfin and his scout; we will capture all of the Elves at once, and so please Lady Zairaphel and our King. Why should they settle for only two elves?”
Danel smiled to herself when she heard the Men arguing, and saw how weak Jexson was becoming, thanks to the sea-longing dwoemer laid upon the ring she crafted for Parnard, now worn by the mortal Jexson in his ignorance. “Parnard is very fleet of foot, and very canny, too,” she told the Umbarrim. “The man Burrwood has Parnard’s sword.” Then she decided against saying anything more that might help her captors, and fell silent.
Pharazagar set his jaw as he gazed at the line of black craggy mountains of the Ram Dúath, doubt gnawing at his heart. This plan of Balkumagan’s was not very sound. “If you think these Bree-Men are capable of conquering these elves, who am I to argue?” he said to his friend, and resigned himself to uneasy waiting. The sun climbed higher and higher in the sky, burning off the creeping mists, and it grew almost hot; yet there was still no sign of the hunters. Finally, he looked up with a sigh, and said, “I do not have as much faith as you do in these fainthearted Northerners, brother. Allow me to ride out and follow them, and see what it is they do.”
Balkumagan slowly nodded. “One of us can achieve more than a host of these Breelanders. Go then, find Estarfin, and bring him and the High Lord back alive,” he replied, after staring at Danel for several minutes.
Pharazagar touched his palm to his forehead, and jumping on his blood bay horse, rushed away over the hills. Nan Amlug, they called this land, Dragon Valley, yet he had seen no dragons. A wood lay ahead; did the elf run in there? He guided his horse under the forest eaves. The horse seemed unbothered enough - then he heard a groan coming from underneath a thorn bush. He peered closer. It was one of the Bree-Men! He hopped off his horse and bent over the man. Blood trickled from his slack jaw and seeped from a deep wound in the center of his chest. The man's eyes were open, staring up. He would be dead soon. Pharazagar stood up, his sharp golden eyes darting around. A few feet away lay another man, face down. Judging by the amount of blood that pooled under the body and ran in bright red rivulets through the weeds into the dust of a shallow gully, he was definitely dead. He rode a little deeper into the wood, then his horse stumbled, and he was almost pitched from his saddle. Cursing, he righted himself, and saw that the horse had tripped over a headless body partially hidden in the brush. He rode on without stopping until he reached a clearing. In the middle was the man Burrwood, breathing hard on his horse, and looking bewildered at the crumpled forms of three of his dead comrades.
“The others caught me up,” Burrwood panted, his face slick with sweat. “An' then,“ he gulped, and stammered out, “We spotted him, the High Lord, an' then they dismounted –”
“Those fools got off their horses to fight the elf on foot? Why?”
Burrwood goggled at him and said he did not know.
Pharazagar whistled in amazement. “This Elf is sneaky! And dangerous! How did he get ahold of a sword?”
The Bree-Man shook his head. “He is fast…”
“Accursed light-footed Elves! But I love a challenge.” Pharazagar sniffed the air and scanned the ground. “Quickly, damn you! Tell me which way he went!” Burrwood flung out a finger ahead, and Pharazagar rushed off, followed by the Breelander. If he had not been in such haste, he might have found six swords lying in the underbrush beside the six dead men, but he was no Ranger. On he rode, through the woods of Nan Amlug, until the trees ended and the hills flattened out. He knew he was near the bridge that led to a few farms and settlements, and began to grow worried that the elf had eluded them for good, when he spotted a silver glimmer against the sere fields, and turning his horse’s nose towards it, spurred it on. He let out a loud whoop and grasped at the braided cord hanging from his side: black mûmak hide from a calf, the most supple and strong, and lifting it aloft, whirled it overhead, spinning it faster and faster, then as he closed upon his target, sent it whirring towards the fleeing elf. The bolas twirled and tangled around Parnard’s long legs, and the weights on the ends of the cord knocked together with a clanging sound of metal against metal. The elf sprawled to the ground in a cloud of dust. This was much better than hunting lions or giant scorpions in the desert!
“We got him!” Pharazagar cried out in joy, for this was sport of the rarest sort: Man hunting Elf, and his hot Haradrim blood thrilled with primal savagery. “It seems that his armour saved his legs from being broken: that was lucky, your Majesty,” he quipped, bowing in mock respect to the squirming elf, then took out a pocket kerchief and stuffed it into Parnard’s mouth before he could say anything. “Help me hold him down! What a wriggler!” The two men managed to restrain the elf’s wildly flailing limbs and untangle the bolas.
“Where is his sword?”
“He must have dropped it as he ran,” was Burrwood’s answer. “I never seen anything like that ball an' rope thing, is it somethin’ from the south? A cunning weapon, that is!”
Pharazagar nodded. “It is used for hunting birds of flight – or lions or other prey.”
“Lions? Them big tawny cat things?”
“Nevermind that now. We must get off the road. Help me get him on my horse.”
“Aye, those Rangers roam all around this land: ‘tis best not be seen with an Elf.”
“Elves are terrible company, indeed,” laughed Pharazagar. “At least this one is not as heavy as he looks.”
“He is heavy enough,” grumbled Burrwood. “An’ some folks say Elves can run on snow. Pah!”
“No doubt this one could; his feet are like flame,” said Pharazagar. The two men hefted him on Pharazagar’s blood bay horse.
“There!” panted Burrwood. “Back where you belong, High Lord! All wrapped up, neat an' tidy-like, ready for delivery.”
“Yes, a very special delivery,” laughed Pharazagar, elated and in a good humour from the exhilarating chase. “You may be swift, High Lord of the Noldor, but I am the swifter! Now let us hurry back to Balkumagan before we are seen!” He galloped away, heedless of any uncomfortable jostling or angry muffled cries of protest from his unwilling passenger. It was just past noon when they returned to the camp.
“Oh, cousin!” Danel said, pale with sorrow, as Parnard was dragged off the horse and let to fall on the ground.
“What is this? I see you have brought back the High Lord, but where are the rest of the men?” said Balkumagan.
“They are all dead, except that one,” Pharazagar said, jerking a thumb over at Burrwood. “The High Lord killed them.”
At this Jexson made a strangled cry and leapt forward to strike Parnard. Balkumagan grabbed his arm, and pushing him away, told him to stay back if he wished to keep his head squarely fastened to his neck.
“We could not ambush the other elves,” Pharazagar continued, eyeing the big Breelander to ensure he would not attack again, “not with just two of us left, smack dab in the middle of Ranger territory, without any cover on these wide open hills -”
“I kept on my horse, sir. I rode at him, but he was so fast –“ blurted out a wild-eyed Burrwood. “Killed all six of them, did the High Lord, before I knew what was happening!”
“Is this true, Cousin?” Danel asked Parnard, looking very skeptical. The Wood-elf woozily mumbled something as he lay in the dirt. “Let him speak at least,” she said, and turned her large gray eyes upward in a soulful appeal to the Umbarrim.
“Ware the gaze of that witchy elf-woman,” Pharazagar said to Balkumagan, looking away. “And leave that gag in his mouth for now: I am weary of the High Lord’s ceaseless complaining and caterwauling.”
“He is mostly unharmed, as you can see, Lady,” Balkumagan said to Danel.
“Parnard,” she murmured over him, placing a cool hand on his cheek, “You did well. No more escapes for now.”
“Attend to your cousin’s advice, High Lord: no more attempts to escape, or your leg will be broken.”
“And still you have not captured Estarfin,” Danel said, lifting her voice in proud triumph. There remained only four Men alive.
