The heat from the hearth did nothing to thaw the freezing silence inside Steward Denethor’s private study. High in the White Tower, behind a polished, pitch-black lebethron door and guarded by stone walls that had deflected the winds of the East for centuries, the small room felt like a tomb. A single cluster of melting tallow candles flickered on the heavy lebethron table, casting long shadows across the faces of the three men gathered in the dark.
Parthadan, the Warden of the Green, did not wait for an invitation to speak. With a hollow thud he dropped a leather satchel onto the center of the desk, scattering a pile of official state ledgers. From the bag he pulled a single, stiff piece of parchment.
”Captain Bangion has broken”, Parthadan said. His flat voice carried the raspy weight of a man who had not slept in days. He looked directly into the shadow where Denethor sat. ”He has signed the ledger. He has confessed everything and named his co-conspirators.”
Boromir leaned forward into the candlelight across the table, his knuckles whitening as he slammed his massive hands onto the dark wood. His breathing was heavy, and his blunt warrior’s features contorted into a mask of righteous fury.
”You dare bring this slander before my father?” Boromir growled. ”Bangion is a son of one of Gondor’s great houses! He has served Tham Pethgyl with flawless honor since the early years of my father’s rule! If this is some scheme to blacken the name of a rival house, Warden, I swear you shall answer for it with your life!”
”He is not lying, my son.”
The voice drifted from the high-backed chair at the head of the table. Denethor II did not move. The Ruling Steward sat perfectly still, his long, pale fingers resting loosely on the arms of his seat, his deep-set eyes reflecting the candlelight like shards of obsidian. He did not look at the document nor his eldest son’s outburst.
”Tell him, Parthadan”, Denethor said. ”Tell him what Bangion did.”
Parthadan did not flinch under Boromir’s wrath. He slowly took his hand off the leather satchel, his worn features remaining entirely composed as he looked into Boromir’s eyes.
”I do not speak of petty rivalries or courtly slander, Captain-General”, Parthadan said. ”And I know exactly how long Bangion has held the Steward’s trust. That trust is precisely what allowed him to build a shadow-kingdom within Tham Pethgyl.”
Parthadan leaned over the parchment on the table.
”Years ago, Bangion discovered a cancer festering upon our southern borders. The Corsairs of Umbar had devised a brilliant, patient game. They raided Haradrim villages along the River Harnen, dragging women and children into the dungeons of Umbar Baharbêl and holding them as hostages. Mothers, fathers, husbands, wives: all were forced to act as spies for the South. The bargain was simple. Serve Umbar in the lands of Gondor for two years, and your loved ones are returned to you. Betray them, and they die.”
Boromir’s brow furrowed. He clenched his fist but remained silent as Parthadan continued.
”The Corsairs needed a way to plant these Haradrim spies in Pelargir, and they found one: Captain Fangnir of Anfalas. To the world, Fangnir is a proud privateer, a merchant loyal to Gondor. In truth he had made a pact with the Corsairs. Fangnir would stage ’heroic’ raids against Corsair vessels found near Gondor’s shores, ’rescue’ the captive Haradrim and sail them straight into the docks of Pelargir as freed souls. With no coin of their own and no means of crossing the desert to return home, many entered the households of Pelargir’s noble families as servants. It was the perfect spy network, disguised as an act of Gondorian mercy.”
”If Fangnir is the traitor, then arrest the mariner!” Boromir snapped. ”What has this to do with Bangion?”
”Because Fangnir was not working for Umbar”, Parthadan revealed. ”He was working for Bangion. The Captain of Tidings found the nest, but instead of bringing the truth to this table, he decided to play his own game. He allowed the Haradrim spies to settle in Pelargir. He used them as conduits, feeding them carefully crafted secrets – false information – to send back to the Corsairs.”
Parthadan leaned forward, pressing his fingers flat against the stiff parchment.
”But Bangion’s true obsession was not Umbar, Boromir. It was the enemy within. He used this network to track a shadow that has been creeping through our own cisterns – a gathering of treacherous Gondorians calling themselves The Withered Tree. They hold their secret assemblies in the deep cisterns beneath this very city, whispering sedition and dealing with the servants of Mordor. Bangion wanted to use the Haradrim spies and the Corsairs to root them out and destroy them.”
The Warden of the Green turned his face slowly toward the head of the table, where the Ruling Steward sat unmoving.
”Bangion believed he was saving the realm”, Parthadan whispered, the tragedy of the truth finally bleeding into his voice. ”He thought himself a master strategist, weaving a web to catch both the pirate and the rebel. But he worked in darkness. He forged pacts with cutthroats, allowed foreign spies to walk our streets and kept the Throne blind to his machinations. He knew permission would never be granted for methods so devoid of Gondorian honor, so he chose to rule the shadows alone. And in doing so, he became the very thing he fought.”
Boromir stared at the parchment, his chest heaving under his dark wool tunic, but his stance was rigid with denial.
”A web of lies”, he muttered, trying to find a thread of martial logic to hold onto. ”A dangerous game, yes. Arrogant, certainly. But if Bangion did this to feed lies to Umbar and hunt down the rebels of The Withered Tree, it was done to shield the White City. It is a matter for the Steward’s discipline, Parthadan, not a scaffold for high treason!”
”Shield us?” Parthadan’s voice cut through Boromir’s words like an icy wind. ”You still think of him as a misguided patriot, Boromir. You believe a man can wade through a swamp of secrets and emerge clean. Look at the ledger. Look at what Bangion did when his precious web began to unravel.”
Parthadan pointed a sharp, accusing finger at the dark parchment.
”The Corsairs sent their own thugs, disguised as guardsmen of Pelargir, to harass and interrogate Lady Meldis of House Orchaldor. When my own agent, a kinsman to Lady Meldis, learned of this outrage, he rode south to investigate. He wrote to me. He sent regular reports through the couriers of the Hall of Errands, seeking my counsel.”
Parthadan rubbed his chin pensively.
”But those reports never reached my office. Bangion’s men intercepted every single parchment sent by him. And more than that – they forged replies in my own hand, using my name, telling my man that all was well and I was looking into the matter. A foul mockery of the Steward’s peace, yet the least of his crimes.”
Parthadan’s finger slid further down the ledger.
”When my man realized the snare he had stumbled into, he fled Pelargir to seek me out in Minas Tirith. To smoke him out, Bangion turned the eyes of Tham Pethgyl upon a young woman of Minas Tirith: a respected scholar of the Houses of Lore, and the woman my agent loved. Believing her to be his only link to my agent’s whereabouts, Bangion’s men stalked her, loitered outside her home and listened to her private conversations through walls. He was hunting my agent, Boromir. He sought only to discover his whereabouts and hand him over to the Corsairs, so that the enemy might dispose of the problem.”
Parthadan clenched his fist and frowned.
”When the surveillance failed to reveal his hiding place, Bangion did not stop there. He sent his hired brutes to break into her private chambers, violate the sanctuary of her home and beat her bloody in an effort to terrorize her into speaking. And when the Corsairs murdered a Haradrim woman, a servant of Lady Meldis who had dared speak with my agent in hopes of escaping their grip, the Captain of Tidings knew of it and did absolutely nothing. He allowed them to strangle her in the dark and cast her body into the Anduin, content to let the harbor-watch dismiss it as a simple drowning, all to protect his precious network.”
Boromir’s jaw tightened. His eyes darted toward his father, but Denethor remained as motionless as a statue in the shadows.
”It grew even worse”, Parthadan continued in his dry, dispassionate voice. ”The Corsairs and their allies from The Withered Tree attempted to murder Lady Meldis in her own estate. Bangion’s watchers knew the blades were coming, they watched the assassins gather in the shadows of Pelargir. And Bangion ordered his men to stand down and let a noblewoman of Gondor be slaughtered, all because saving her would risk exposing the fragile secrets of his arrangement.”
”No”, growled Boromir, his hand instinctively dropping to the pommel of his sword as the golden illusion of noble honor shattered around him. ”A commander of Minas Tirith would not abandon our people to the blades of the Enemy! He would not...”
”And finally”, Parthadan interrupted mercilessly, ”when the agents of the Corsairs and The Withered Tree repeatedly failed to hunt down my man and end his life, Bangion had one of his personal executioners slide a dagger into his throat in the dark.”
Silence fell into the room. Parthadan stared directly into Boromir’s pale, shocked face.
”Bangion did not save Gondor, Boromir. To save his own skin and preserve the web of lies he found himself entangled in, he became the very thing he was fighting. He sold the honor of Gondor to buy more time for his game.”
”What of Captain Fangnir?” Denethor’s voice interrupted him from the shadows. ”Was he not somehow involved in the murder of the Haradrim woman?”
”Not at all, my Lord”, Parthadan lied smoothly. ”It was the Corsairs and their Haradrim network who killed the woman. Fangnir may have been involved in Bangion’s scheme, but he believed he was serving Gondor. He believed Bangion acted with your approval. His actions may have been dishonorable, but he played no part in Bangion’s later attempts to conceal the Corsairs’ tracks or hunt down my agent. Put to better use, Fangnir’s talents and connections might yet prove valuable to Gondor. In fact, I could use a man like him.”
Denethor’s lips pursed with disgust.
”So, just another spy then?” Denethor said, shaking his head. ”A shame. I had such high hopes for the man. I was even considering granting him a knighthood next summer. But very well. Add him to your collection of rogues. I have no wish to hear that wretch’s name again. Speaking of wretches, what of that prisoner from Mordor? What was his name? I understand you made use of him during this affair.”
”The man in question goes by the Sindarin name Damon these days, and I believe he has truly turned his back on the Dark Lord. He wishes only to serve Gondor now. His assistance proved crucial in uncovering Bangion’s schemes and bringing that knowledge to me after my agent was murdered in Pelargir. He could have fled the city, and Gondor with it, but instead he chose to do what was right, though he had nothing to gain from it.” Parthadan paused, letting the words sink in before continuing:
”We have held him prisoner for three years and drawn from him all the knowledge of Sauron and Barad-dûr that he possessed. I believe his talents, too, might be put to better use in Gondor’s service. It is true that he once served the Enemy, but having been born beneath the shadow of Mordor, he was given little choice in the matter. Damon is hunted by the Dark Lord and all who serve him. There is no road by which he can return to his former master, nor any profit in betraying our trust.”
”I do not like traitors, no matter which master they have betrayed”, Denethor growled. ”Such men are never to be trusted. Yet I will grant your request. The prisoner shall be released into your custody, and from this day forth I shall hold you responsible for every unlawful act he commits.”
Denethor waved his hand dismissively, as if the matter was beneath him to dwell upon any longer than necessary.
”Have you lost your senses, Father?” Boromir’s voice boomed through the chamber. He glared at Parthadan, his fists clenched white upon the table. ”And you, Warden! First you ask us to harbor a turncoat smuggler like Fangnir, and now you would have the Citadel grant freedom to a creature of the Black Land? A slave of Barad-dûr?”
He turned fiercely toward his father, his eyes pleading for the straightforward judgment he usually shared with the Steward. ”Father, you cannot allow this! The blood of our people has barely dried in Pelargir, and the Warden would unleash a viper from the East into our streets! There is no such thing as a servant of the Shadow who has truly abandoned his master. The Dark Lord does not loose his hounds so easily. If this... this Damon was so vital in gathering this information, it is because he knows the ways of deceit and shadows better than any honest man.”
Boromir snapped his gaze back to Parthadan, his blunt warrior’s features contorted with contempt.
”You speak of him as though he were the victim of his birth, a stray wolf to be tamed and put to the leash! I have fought the soldiers of Mordor on the blood-soaked borders of Ithilien, Warden. I have looked into their eyes. They know nothing of mercy, and nothing of Gondorian law. If you take this creature into your custody, you do not serve the White Tower. You invite the Enemy’s malice into the very heart of the City!”
”Enough, Boromir!” Denethor’s voice cut through his son’s rising fury like a sudden frost. The Ruling Steward leaned slowly forward, bringing his pale, hawk-like face out of the deep shadows and into the dim amber glow of the candles. He regarded Boromir with a cold, weary gaze that seemed to bear the weight of a hundred unrecorded burdens of state.
”You speak with the hot blood of a captain of the field”, Denethor said. ”You see a clean shield-wall and a bright blade, and you think that these alone keep the Shadow from crossing the Anduin. But the glory of Gondor has grown dim since the days of our fathers, my son. We are an old house whose walls are crumbling, and we no longer possess the luxury of fighting only upon fields of honor.”
Inwardly, Denethor felt the same twisting disgust that burned in Boromir’s chest. The thought of unleashing a slave of Mordor upon his realm, or relying upon the twisted tapestry of lies woven by Parthadan and his collection of rogues and cutthroats, sickened his ancient Dúnedain blood. It was a vile degradation, an admission of weakness that the Kings of old would have answered with an executioner’s axe.
Yet Denethor was old and profoundly disillusioned. He had spent decades looking out from the White Tower, watching the borders shrink, the population dwindle and the malice of the East grow stronger with every passing year. He knew the terrifying truth that Boromir’s noble pride refused to accept: Gondor was starving, and an honest kingdom could not survive beneath the growing Shadow using only honest men.
”I am sorry for your loss, Warden”, Denethor continued after a brief silence. ”I was never fond of that man, nor of your habit of employing such characters in your schemes, but it is always a sorrowful thing to hear of a brave man dying in the service of Gondor. He deserves a hero’s burial, at least… but as I understand, there is no body?”
”No, my Lord”, Parthadan replied. ”His body was cast in the Anduin. It has not surfaced.”
”A shame”, Denethor said, letting out a long sigh. ”See to it that Lady Meldis of House Orchaldor and the scholar of the Houses of Lore are properly compensated from the treasury for all the mistreatment they suffered at the hands of the servants of the Throne. Settle the matter with the Warden of the Coffers. I shall personally write letters of apology on behalf of the Throne. A proper Council meeting concerning this affair will be held at a later date. Is there anything else?”
”No, my Lord”, Parthadan said.
”That will be all then”, Denethor said. ”Leave us, Warden. I have things to discuss with my son in private.”
Denethor lifted his long, pale hand and gave a swift, dismissive wave toward the door. Parthadan offered a low, formal bow of his head, his face a tight mask of exhaustion and heavy resolve. The Warden of the Green slipped out of the room silently, and the massive slab of polished black lebethron clicked tightly shut behind him.
