The road beside the village of Herne was once known as the Royal Road, for it joined the two ancient Kingdoms of the Dúnedain, Arnor and Gondor. Running from Fornost in the far north, southward past Bree, and to the ancient trading port of Tharbad, literally, ‘Crossway’, it was now called the ‘Old South Road’ by the town's residents. Dense groves of oaks and larches hemmed in the old trading post, and on the surrounding slopes and hills curious red rock formations poked through the greenery. Herne had sprung up near the once-great ruined city of Caranost, where goods had flowed in abundance between the kingdoms. All was sleepy and quiet; Herne had faded into obscurity as the road was little-used ever since the Fell Winter of the Third Age 2911, when the great bridge of Tharbad was broken by devastating floods the following spring, and the Crossway now lay in ruins. Only a few humble stone houses with thatched roofs remained to mark the place that had once been a prosperous trade hub.
Inside one of the houses sat an unusual visitor. The elf had been sitting at a table in his new finery, mute and staring straight ahead with a dazed expression in his bright green eyes. Zairaphel must have worked her arts upon him, thought the corsair Balkumagan, as never before had he been so quiet, for so long, without wearing a gag.
“High Lord Parnard,” said he, nudging his shoulder again, “you must maintain your strength. We still have some way to ride. Shall I fetch your victuals now, perhaps?” No one would mistake him for Umbarrim, that was certain, despite the change of clothes and hairstyle. Parnard usually wore his hair in long flowing locks, without any ornament save a fresh green leaf or two, or perhaps a perfumed flower, depending on his fancy, but the Sorceress Zairaphel had combed it into tight braids that lay close against his scalp, the current style of the fashionable city dwellers of Near Harad. She had pronounced his transformation a splendid success, and it pleased her to see how well the elegant clothing fit and complimented his lithe figure and dark hair.
Parnard started, turning his head, and seemed to perceive the man’s presence at last. “Ah, yes,” he said, with the effort of one whose brain is so distracted with the most complex of equations that ordinary speech is almost impossible. “Bring the viands.”
As Balkumagan clattered around the hearth, ladling soup into a bowl, the elf’s gaze drifted down to the table. There, pushed underneath the rim of a platter was an overlooked table knife. He sat there staring at it for a few moments, then his hand crept closer to touch it, and finding that it was solid, and not some wishful vision, cupped the knife in his palm like a magician and tucked it behind him, inside the waistband of his new silk breeches. The food was laid out, and the sorceress Khahaynd, at Balkumagan's insistence, brought a jar of wine to the table.
“It is only local wine, High Lord, so do not expect much,” she said as she placed the vessel before him. “We Haradwaith are a civilized folk: in time you will come to appreciate that.”
“Oh, yes,” Parnard answered. “I can see that you are very civilized, very civilized, indeed. There are chairs enough for all, so let us sit at table and share food and drink, and regard one another, like civilized folk.”
“As you wish,” Balkumagan said, and pulled up a chair. “Yet I deem you mock us; no Men are as civilized as the Firstborn, I suspect. But at least we are not as the Men of Bree.”
“We should not speak ill of the dead.”
Balkumagan almost smiled, his bared teeth gleaming white against his dusky skin. “I admit, not all of the Bree-lander folk are like that rabble we had with us. Some are even educated. Yet we Umbarrim are more alike to the Elves than you know. We, too, are of an ancient race, with a storied culture and legendary deeds. I hope that you will enjoy the life that we offer to you. Understand that duty is duty, for your folk, as well as ours. I must serve Captain Naaral, and, in turn, he must serve our King, and the King’s aunt. And I will have you know that lady does not not wish to see you harmed in any way whatsoever.” He raised his cup to Parnard, then glared at Khahaynd to do likewise. She raised her cup, too, but only half-heartedly, and curling her lip said,
“Nothing is to deter a man from his duty, not even a woman.”
Parnard adjusted the long black velvet surtout around him, unable to sit comfortably due to the knife poking him in the small of his back. “And where is that lovely Zairaphel and her attentive dwarf servant?” he said.
Balkumagan shrugged. “She went out earlier with the others. I know not what she does; I am but a servant, too -”
“As am I,” interrupted Khahaynd, sitting primly on her chair. “For now. As for Duzir - you do not need to concern yourself about the dwarf. My Zîr watches over him, and you, too, High Lord.”
“Where is Zîr?” said Balkumagan. The big black panther was no longer lounging on the floor under the table, and was nowhere to be seen. “Nothing ails him, I hope?”
Khahaynd frowned as if the question annoyed her. “He is himself. Little affects him. Ugh! This wine tastes like water! Elf, just wait until you drink the spiced wines of Rhûn, distilled from the richest grapes grown under a brilliant sun -”
“I do not wish to drink your wine. What I wish for is my freedom. Can you bring me that?”
“Alas, no,” replied Balkumagan.
“If you crave freedom, you must show that you can be trustworthy, and then your restraints will be lessened,” Khahaynd told him.
Parnard pushed his chair back, his face coloring as he tried to repress his rising ire, and taking a deep breath, said, “Very well, I will do everything you say, but only on one condition - as a proof of faith, you will free Cousin Danel, unharmed!”
Balkumagan averted his gaze. “Your offer is too late. You should know that Danel is no longer with us. We left her leagues behind. Do not worry! Captain Naraal will treat your cousin well,” he said, and tore a hunk of bread from the loaf, his eyes dark and unhappy.
“But she was to be wed to Estarfin! What will he do? You have kicked the hornet’s nest!” Then Parnard gave his raw opinion of Naraal’s assured fate, once Estarfin got his hands upon him, describing what the furious Noldo would do to him in the plainest of terms, concluding, “Each moment of the last days of his life will be pure and utter agony, drawn out to the fullest. And then he will find you! Did I not warn you of the wrath of the Noldor? You have provoked my people, taken my friends away, and you will suffer terrible consequences for your detestable folly.”
Khahaynd threw her head back and laughed. “You have wound the elf up again, Magan! Fear not his ceaseless blather. I shall protect you. The Noldor may be strong of will and arm, but they have not the arts of the servants of Lord Sauron. It is we Sorceresses that you should fear, High Lord. We are more than your match in matters of the mind.”
Balkumagan eyed the woman. “Perhaps. What is lacking there is more than made up for in dignity and grace.”
“You, too, Magan? Even one as wise as you has fallen under the glamour of the simpering Elves?”
“You speak of what you do not understand,” muttered the corsair.
Parnard adopted a serene smile (a smile that some men have interpreted as a coy smugness endemic to the Elven race) and said to the two glowering Haradrim, “It is quite natural to be jealous of the First-Born: many are the gifts given to the Eldar.” Sitting on his chair, with his smiling serenity, ever-fresh complexion and shining eyes, the elf reminded Balkumagan of Danel, and he thought of her skin that shimmered like white satin, and her voluminous mounds of lustrous red hair, which he longed to caress.
“I need some fresh air,” he said, rising from his chair. “Be wise, High Lord, and do not speak overmuch, lest you anger this ‘lady’ during my absence. She will make you regret it, believe me.”
“I do not bargain with slavers!” Parnard called out, after the corsair had already left. Then he took up a piece of bread, even though he did not feel much like eating, and as he nibbled the crust regarded Khahaynd with a look of sympathy.
“Balkumagan is a fool full of false hope,” she spat. “A complete waste of my time!”
“Hmm, yes. Oft is love given and not returned. In that way we are alike, Khahaynd of Harad.”
Her face flushed an angry scarlet. “Love? Ha! I would not waste love on a man! My love is for my Master only.”
“Well, if not love, then friendship.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she said in her scornful way. “If a man catches my fancy then I spend a little time with him, that is all. No more and no less: no love, nor friendship.”
“Of course, of course…that is your custom.” His hand disappeared underneath the velvet surtout, fingers wrapping around the wooden handle of the knife.
“What companionship can they offer me? None, once I tire of them! Magan seemed different, somehow, more - learned, I suppose, but he still chases after Danel's skirts, as does my brother, as does every man -” Khahaynd broke off and raised her head. She could hear a horse’s hoofs ringing on the earth. “What is it now!” she cried, springing up from her chair and peeking through the curtains. “If it is that Demon-Elf I shall turn him into a boar and grind his fat head into souse meat!”
Her lips trembled; her nostrils quivered for an instant, and, as he gripped the knife, Parnard thought she would burst into tears, and he hesitated. The door banged open. A tall man stood silhouetted against the pale winter sunlight for a moment. “Why did you do it, witch?” he yelled, stalking inside. “You burnt the house down! Danel did nothing to you to deserve that fate - nothing!”
Parnard sat like one in a dream, then his eyes grew round. It was Naraal, Captain of Umbar, leader of the brigand group that had captured him.
“A fitting end to the elf whore,” declared Khahaynd, already recovered from the surprise of her brother's unexpected arrival. “Turnabout is fair play. You abandoned me to be married to one I abhorred, against my wishes: so I took away the one you most desired!”
“But I never wronged you,” Naraal protested. “I searched for you for weeks, along the shore - then I went to sea, unable to face our parents’ grief day in and day out -”
“She was nothing! Nothing but a bland, boring elf that you and Magan desired - help me, Zîr!” she screamed and twisted away as the Wood-elf lunged at her. The great black panther bounded into the room, ready to pounce. He looked at Parnard, then at Khahaynd. High on her shoulder the table knife's handle protruded, the blade stuck fast, driven through bone like a nail through rotted lath. Zîr sniffed approval, then turned tail and skulked away.
“Even Zîr does not obey you any more, Khahaynd!” said Naraal, drawing his sword. “And now, I must end your life.”
“Lord Sauron, protect your servant!” she cried, and ran from the house.
“She will not get very far.” Naraal regarded the elf with a steady gaze. “High Lord Parnard, you have attacked my sister. Such an act is dishonorable, and it demands redemption, but Khahaynd is already dead to me.
“You see, she died many years ago when she threw her body from a precipice and commended herself to the Dark Lord. Since the sister I knew is dead, no dishonour was committed here. I will have you know, despite Khahaynd’s perfidy, Danel still lives, and at this very moment rides to find you.” Naraal turned away to stare into the fire. “I met my first mate on the road outside. Balkumagan will stay away for a while. It seems that you have been left here alone, unguarded. The dwarf Duzir is crafty, and the Lady Zairaphel is wily as a serpent. If I were you, I would -” and turning back around saw that he was speaking to empty air. He sheathed his sword, shut the wide-open door, and sat on a chair to wait for the other Umbarrim to return, a strange smile appearing on his brown face as he reflected over recent matters.
After his visit to the decrepit house in Angmar, he returned to Azrazôr's lair, a series of twisting caverns in the northernmost Misty Mountains, tunneled out mostly by Dourhand Dwarves and a few corrupted Longbeards. The hall grew more crowded by the day with petitioners, mercenaries, merchants and tradesmen, all waiting for an audience with the would-be king. Rumor had spread of the bold, ambitious man from the south with gold-filled pockets deeper than the Great Sea.
A dark-robed man with copper coloured skin and strange eyes, one colored like a cracked silvered mirror, and the other as yellow as a ripe mango, nodded to him, and for a moment Naraal wondered if they had met before, but he would have remembered that face. Beside the man, in the shadows, stood a tall woman wearing a crimson hood, her features partially obscured by a half-mask of tooled leather. She wore just enough clothing as was necessary and did not seem to mind the chillness of the air on her bare well-muscled arms. A piece of grey fur cut from some shaggy creature’s hide stretched across her shoulders and was secured with a thick gold pin of Khandian make. Naraal inferred that she was new to the place, and that his close observation of her was evidently not distasteful, nor unwelcome, when she winked at him.
Then his name was called out with all the éclat befitting his new rank of Commander, in charge of Azrazôr's Shadow Fleet, which was at that very moment being constructed in the Haven of Umbar. Stepping forward, Naraal made his way from the back of the line to the front, feeling every eye in the place turned upon him, and was shown through the ponderous double doors that gleamed with fresh polish.
In the center of the expansive chamber was a dais draped in red, and on the dais was a broad desk where Azrazôr sat reading. As Naraal approached, his tall boots making little noise as their soles swished across the plush carpet, the Heir of Castamir laid aside his work, greeting him in his respectful, easy manner. Azrazôr was not one for small-talk, and had just finished reviewing plans for his future underground palace fortress in Mount Gundabad, and was now looking over a report of last month's rock samples from the Icereave Mines. Knowing his mind, and how busy he was, the corsair immediately gave news.
“Firstly, Sire, I handed three men over to the Guard.”
“Only three?”
“There were thirty, at first. They slew each other on the journey, squabbling over the spoils.”
“It is of little consequence. There are many more Bree-landers to mine mithril.”
“Yes, my King. They must mine, as they are unsuited for doing much of anything else.”
“And what of the Elvish problem?”
“That is my second point of interest. Both are still with Lady Zairaphel, alive and unharmed, save for a few bruises. The High Lord, despite his bonds, keeps escaping, but never gets very far. Magan told me he will not give up. It is quite admirable, really.”
“Elves are ever willful. It is nothing to marvel at.”
“Yes, my liege. They are determined and willful, but not as much as yourself. Although I found the High Lord to have a noble bearing, and seem full of courage, he lacks a certain force of presence necessary to command obedience.”
Azrazôr frowned. It made no sense. If the elves were so dangerous to him, as she claimed, why were they still alive? “We do not like this, Commander. What is Zairaphel doing?”
“That is my third point, my liege. Your Aunt does not confide much in me,” Naraal admitted, “but I believe her purpose with the elves involves a different fate for your bloodline than what she told us. She wants the High Lord to sire a suitable wife for you, a half-elf wife.”
The Black Númenórian did not even blink. “Does she think she is breeding cats?”
Naraal knew better than to laugh, and although he did not have a ready answer, offered, “The Númenórians of old had longer life spans due to the elvish strain. Your aunt believes this will renew the bloodline and restore it to its former glory.”
“She will restore nothing. Return at once and stop this foolishness: we command it.”
“What shall I do with the elves?”
“You know what to do.”
The Commander bowed low, glad to hear that he could return to claim the elf-woman sooner than anticipated. If it were up to him, he would have used a diplomatic approach, or at least the pretense of one, and once the Elves were buttered up, and lowered their guard, that is when he would strike. Nevertheless, when he liberated their High Lord and his cousin from the house in the swamp, the Noldor would see just how generous and reasonable the Umbarrim could be. Danel would be grateful to him for their deliverance, and she might even view him as her savior. “On your order, Sire,” he said, eager to set off, “but what if Lady Zairaphel refuses to obey?”
“Kill her.”
Naraal's heart skipped a beat. Surely it would not come to that.
And he had been proven right.
