Naraal let himself drift in the dream world. She was looking appreciatively at him, as she held a piece of the armour Tazakr had found. Then she was running away through the deep snow towards the edge of a cliff. He gave chase. But he was only wearing one of his Umbari tunics and his feet were bare. It was freezing. Then, thankfully, she halted. Something large and dark had climbed up the cliff, and now stood beside her…protectively.
“Estarfin?” He reached for his sword, but only held a hard bread slice. What was that about?
In his mind, he saw two things clearly. First, that Balkumagan had spoken true to him, back in the Ram Dúath, regarding the demon Elf. He could never best Estarfin, nay, not if he trained for six thousand years. Skilled though he was, he knew few of his race would be a match for the ancient warrior. But even worse, she had wrapped her arms around the Elf’s neck, and was whispering in his ear. He leant forward so that she could reach, carefully stroking back her hair while his eyes flamed fire. It was he who she wanted to be with. Naraal had known it almost from their first encounter. There was nothing he could do to alter matters.
He awoke with a start, biting his tongue as he saw the large snow drift that had blown against the partly open tent flap. No wonder he was shivering. He rolled silently further into the tent, talking his furs with him. He could hear Azrazôr’s breath, deep and steady. All was well.
As he looked up at the steep roof overhead, he trembled slightly. He had encountered Estarfin in the Nan Wathren, riding with her and the golden-haired soldier. They had exchanged words. The memory brought a smile to his face. Had the elf charged him then and there, he would not have survived. Naraal was quick on his feet, probably quicker, but he could see that once Estarfin had a hold on him, his fate would be sealed. The elf was the winner, the survivor of hundreds of encounters. He wore very fine armour. No sword Naraal knew of would cut into it. He decided then that he would only ever address Estarfin from a considerable distance. And he had the next time he met him. For the powerful elf had fortunately fallen through a hole in the ground, and was around sixteen feet below him. He did laugh then, immediately clamping a hand over his mouth lest he woke his King. That would not do. But his thoughts calmed as he silently reaffirmed his decision. There was no way in Middle- Earth he could take her from Estarfin. And if by some strange chance he ever managed it, she would despise him. Slay him even. But he would have the satisfaction of her actually seeing him, even if it was just once. He wanted her to see him as the noble he really was, an honourable man, who would have given her the best he could. Only then could he walk away in peace. He would bow to her, and wish her well, and admit his defeat, but in an honourable manner. That he could live with.
But the second woman, how that situation was to end, he was not sure he could live with?
The second was his sister, Narryd.
While he had sent Tazakr to fetch something that should, he hoped, meet with Danel’s approval, and so raise him in her esteem and lessen his obsession with the unobtainable, he had sent Balkumagan to slay his sister. He had been ordered by Zairaphel to kill her for her impudence in trying to end Danel’s life against the Lady’s wish. A test of his loyalty, perhaps? A rebuke for his lack of response to Zairaphel’s undoubted charms? The Lady Zairaphel was indeed beautiful, but he only had eyes for the elf-woman. He was also well aware that becoming ‘romantically’ engaged with his King’s Aunt could cause future issues. And so he had been ordered to kill the sister he had only just realised was alive.Not that he had been in any way happy about her attempt to burn the she-elf in the house. If his sister had succeeded, he may have felt like slaying her anyway.
Much of his own pain came from what he believed was Narryd’s loss. He had been fourteen when he lost her the first time. A brother and younger sister who had always been close friends and companions, torn asunder by their parent’s well meant but ill-advised arranged marriage choice. Narryd had pleaded with them to free her from such an obligation, her own desire being to join the Abysmal Order, those sorceresses who served Lord Sauron. But they had not listened, the elderly suitor being of high status and wealth, who was able to offer her a grand life if she did but see it. She had run from the house, through the back streets of Umbar Baharbêl, until, cornered on a cliff, she had willingly thrown herself onto the rocks below, calling on Sauron himself as she fell. Her body had never been found.
She was gone of her own will, and that had torn him from his comfort of family. His parents descended into grief. He set out for adventures at sea, eschewing his heritage and embracing the life of a corsair. He had never returned to his family home.
He had honestly thought she died on the rocks, and the sea had swept what remained away. But he was mistaken. He had ridden back to Azrazôr from the Ram Dúath, believing Balkumagan and Pharazagar more than able to escort the two elves to Lady Zairaphel. It had been his intent to return, once Zaraphel had them for a few days, and claim Danel, as his King had given him permission to do. But when he did ride to the house, it was but smoldering ashes. He had searched thoroughly, not knowing what he would find, nor who had caused the conflagration. There was no one alive. Then he found the hoofprints, three horses and two ponies. It was his only clue. He followed it. They had headed south, towards the North Downs, and had split up. The ponies had, he realised, been carrying more weight after departing Zairaphel’s home. They had found some remaining goods of worth, no doubt. But he had followed the horses. The ponies probably carried Dwarves from Othrikar, the horses, men or even Elves? And they had slain Danel and Parnard in the fire, thinking them perhaps traitors? It did not seem right. No answer he thought of seemed right until he recalled that Estarfin had not been that far behind them. Had he and his companions caught up, and slain Danel thinking her to have run off on her own accord?
Hah, how stupid that thought had been. But he hadn’t realised that until he caught up with Estarfin and his companions in Nan Wathran. To his relief, Danel was with them. It seemed Estarfin and his friends had walked into the inferno to save her and a small Halfling. There had been some talk, Estarfin was spoiling for a fight, but Naraal knew it was not the place nor time.
“Who set the House alight? Where is Lady Zairaphel and Lord Parnard?” he had asked.
“As to Lord Parnard, I know not, save he seems to have been taken south in a wagon, which we pursue. As to who set the house alight, it was your sister, Khahaynd.” Danel had said. Those words were as sharp as a knife to him, for he knew well that Danel was no liar.
“My sister’s name was Narryd. She died long ago,” he had stated flatly.
“She calls herself Khahaynd. She is a Sorceress, and is very much alive. She named you ‘brother’ in my hearing, though seemed little pleased with the fact you would return to take me with you. It was she who set fire to the house, after Zairaphel and Parnard had left. It was she who drugged me, and she who cursed me as Gaisarix and I lay in the basement, awaiting our deaths.”
That knowledge had hurt him. Narryd was alive, and she hated him so much she had tried to slay the she-elf? He really did not feel his usual self. Then Estarfin advanced, and he fled, knowing many of the paths through the area well. He had thought of leading the elves into an orc encampment, but Danel was with them, and already quite shaken from his sister’s machinations. Nay, entrapping Estarfin could wait until Danel was recovered. It was then that he first understood his own wish to have Danel’s affections was impossible. He was thinking of her well-being before her capture.
So he had escaped them, and went to the Greenway beyond Trestlebridge after them. In that situation it was better he followed. It seemed most likely Lady Zairaphel was heading home with Parnard. That would mean she traveled the Greenway to Tharbad, then to the coast - Dol Amroth most likely, to take ship. Was Narryd with them? He doubted so. If she had been she would likely be slain already.
Balkumagan had ridden for three days, after coming ashore at Pelagir. It was not a particularly challenging journey to Linhir, the location he had been given, but he wanted to cover his tracks all the same. Few if any in Gondor would be concerned with what he was about to do, but there were those in Umbar to whom it was a necessity. And there was his Captain, who had ordered, or was it asked him to assassinate Khahaynd. When he thought about it, he realised that he had volunteered.
He had two reasons for putting himself forward. Although he was no unnecessary killer, he could and had slain others. He knew what to do, and was swift and silent about it. In a straight fight he had never had any qualms. It was his life or his opponents. One of his fellow crew or another’s. He took no joy in it save knowing he killed cleanly. He thought that was why Naraal had let him go. His captain knew that he could deliver an easy death to Khahaynd. The other reason was that he had spent a short time with her at a boarding house in Bree. He had warmed to what he came to know. She was dangerous, of course. She was a Sorceress of the Abysmal Order after all. He knew he must keep that in mind as he approached her. He also recalled that she had a large black panther! But most of all he had seen her suffering. Behind the façade she put around her, behind her clever words and strong will, was a hurt child who wanted someone to listen. Alas, that it had been Sauron. Balkumagan was under no illusion that he could save her, give her what she desperately needed. But he could end her increasingly painful existence.
When he approached Linhir, he did not ride to the stables, nor ask after her or her friend ‘Jaelithe’. He rode about the small town looking for her horse, Tarih. The great cat was unlikely to be roaming the place at will, but the horse would be outside or stabled. The ‘friend’ was also known to be a herbalist, a worthy calling but one that meant she would likely dwell in the poorer part of town. He would not risk asking directions, but tied his own mount up in the yard of an Inn, and went for an ale and some stew. He was near enough, he realised, as folk at a nearby table started talking about the herbs they had been taking for heart pain. After mopping the bowl clean with a thick slice of bread, he paid his bill and took a walk.
Two streets to the left, then down to the end of the lane, and there it was, a healer's hut with several bunches of herbs tied to a support to dry in the warmish air. It was a very basic house, but not a hovel. The owner obviously made a reasonable living. He walked round the back, looking for Jaelithe. He found Zîr.
The huge cat regarded him with unblinking eyes and sniffed the air. He had prepared a steak with a sleeping draught for that very encounter. Balkumagan regarded the cat. “You know why I am here, what I must do?”
The cat blinked steadily, then yawned.
“You know there is no choice. Khahaynd must die. It is the only way she can be free.”
Zîr sniffed him again, then walked over to the fence about the yard, lay down, and went to sleep.
Balkumagan was astonished. He had expected the cat to be a problem. Did Zîr think of him as a friend of his mistress? Whatever the reason, Zîr was not going to interfere.
He walked across to the back door of the small wooden building. It was ajar. Slowly, slowly he walked in, curved dagger now in hand. If he was fortunate, Khahaynd may be asleep, though it was only early afternoon. Zîr asleep, Khahaynd asleep, Jaelithe away. And there she was, Naraal’s sister, sitting at the table with several bunches of dried herbs spread about her, her head resting on her crossed arms, the crimson coloured hair, now part grown out to the dark auburn of her youth, tumbling over her shoulders. She was garbed in a green dress, plain of style, a working woman’s dress, not a sorceress’s gown. A hand moved to take up a bunch of rue. Khahaynd did not look up. From her position she looked exhausted. By the sun and the moon, he was fortunate. He moved silently to stand by her, his blade moved to her neck….it was too easy…
Had Balkumagan slain her yet, Naraal wondered? It did not sit easy with him at all, but what could he do? He could not disobey the King or his aunt. He had sent the kindest of his crew to do what he could not. Curling up into a ball, as he had done when a young child, he pulled a fur over his head, and tried to shut out his thoughts. It was warm, he began to relax.
Somewhere outside, a large wildcat roared.
