He was dreaming.
She had red hair, long and flowing unbound. The breeze swept it back, and lightly tangled it in invisible fingers. It took up part of her red gown as well, so that it ballooned out behind her. She laughed.
Naraal tossed and turned under the blanket and furs that covered him. The place in which he lay was not conducive of sleep.
She was laughing merrily, but she was running away from him, towards the edge of a dark forest, towards the edge of a cliff.
“No!” he awoke with a start, and sat up, one hand reaching out to stop her.
“What is wrong, Commander?”
In the dim light of the tent he could just see the outline of the dagger clutched in Azrazôr’s hand. His King, his sworn Lord, had been disturbed. He could not lie to him, for Azrazôr would see straight through it. But the true explanation would be folly to hear from the lips of the one who slept nigh the tent flap to give his life in protection of Umbar’s true ruler.
Not that Azrazôr could ill defend himself! He had seen the King quell all manner of creatures, many from this world, some from another. He was not to be underestimated.
Truth it had to be. “A foolish dream, alas, my King. Not a useful one.”
“Foolish? Useless? Do not speak so lightly of dreams, for they oft portend the future. Return to your slumber, and let me drown in the depths of my own dreams, else you find yourself sleeping in a snowbank.”
He knew that he had the King’s favour, and was one of the few trusted ones. But even so, Azrazôr would brook no inconvenience, and the gnawing, unrelenting cold would test the temper of the most mild-mannered man. Naraal was simply thankful the King did not ask after the content of the dream. Weak indeed would he appear if he had to answer.
Azrazôr settled down again on his pallet with his back to the sea-farer. Naraal sat facing the tent opening, restless, pulling his furs tighter about him. “I was dreaming of two women, both with red hair,” was the answer he could not reveal. “One with hair like crimson, (though originally dark auburn) the other a burnished copper. Both I have failed.”
The snowstorm was still raging outside. The camp at Zigilgund was far from ideal. It did have a good vantage point over the surrounding land, if there were no great storm nor any sea fog about. It was close to the mines. But it had almost nothing of comfort. Even the Dwarves slept outside in tents, or sat huddled about small camp fires. The few rooms behind the stone walls were for officers and engineers. Naturally, Azrazôr could have ordered them to vacate their accommodation, but as a Black Númenórian, he had no intention of acting as less hardy and capable than the children of Aulë. Naraal respected that.
The land about the small stronghold was white and rocky. The Bay itself was just out of view, and the Shakilgimil could not have safely moored there because of sea ice. So the ship and crew had been left further south, while he and the King had made the trek across the snowfields to meet with the Dwarves. There was little threat. Azrazôr alone was more than a match for the bears and great cats that roamed the land. They kept well away. The forty-odd Dwarves at Zigilgund were mostly miners, with just a few trained warriors. Besides, the King was here to ‘barter’ of sorts. He wanted them alive. And to turn up with just one ‘guard’ of his own showed his courage. A deal would be brokered, to both side’s advantage, but the sooner the better. Naraal’s fingers and toes were bitten by frost more than he cared to admit. The last thing he wanted was any necessary amputation of the blackened flesh that could result. Oh for a warm beach in the Shield Isles, or Umbar itself!
She had been a prisoner, the Elf. He had been told to ensure she and the High Lord reached the King’s Aunt unharmed. He had seen the way some of the men looked at her, but Balkumagan was well-placed. His First Mate was an honest enough Man, and loyal. He had seen no harm had befallen her, and minimum harm had befallen her elven companion. And when Naraal had finally come face to face with her in the Ram Duath, having only espied her in secret and from afar when he dwelt in Bree, he was all but overcome by her otherworldliness. Standing still, and from a distance she may have just passed as a daughter of Men, but as soon as she moved, the natural grace and elegance were beyond any woman he had known. Utterly unobtainable he had thought then, but the challenge to obtain the unobtainable engulfed him.
She had struck him, a blow that had almost sent him reeling. ‘Touch me not, as you value your life,’ was her message. It was not hatred he felt emanating from her. It was indifference. He mattered not one jot.
But he took her warning blow to heart. He was uncertain if he could overcome her in a struggle, and knew that in no way would win her admiration, her attention. As an ancient Queen from a warrior race she appeared, then she had turned to speak words of reassurance to…two small Halflings trying to make themselves unseen. He understood. She had no regard for any Man of that group, but would be biddable for the small one’s sake. Standing to one side of her was a thin-faced elf with unkempt black hair. Bowed with heavy iron chains though he was, his eyes darted with defiance. Naraal gave him a good look up and down.
“Who is that one?” he asked. “Is he Estarfin?” He spoke aloud the name his King had mentioned to him. The Elf his Aunt had dreamt would kill him. Not that Azrazôr likely took that to heart, as he never spoke of it as a matter of concern.
“Nay, Captain. That’s High Lord Parnard, the one the Lady Zairaphel wants. He is difficult to keep under control. He killed several of the Breelanders, and tried to escape several times.” Then Balkumagan inclined his head respectfully to the she-elf. She nodded in reply. That had astonished him. She actually acknowledged Balkumagan.
“The warrior Estarfin is likely over a day behind us. You should have been with us at the Hillmen village before the Ram Dúath. Three Elves there were, the demon himself, a fair-haired soldier, and a raven-haired she-elf archer. They slew almost everyone, trying to rescue the Lord and Lady we escort.”
Naraal did not like what he was hearing. “Oh, really? We will deal with them before we reach her house.”
The she-elf laughed. “If you encounter Estarfin, you encounter your doom.”
He had forgotten about the superior hearing of the Elves.
“She is possibly right, my Captain,” Balkumagan added respectfully. “This Lady is his woman, and he will tear you apart should you attempt to stand in his way. Why, even Pharazagar, who has little to no caution, would not challenge him.”
There was a snort from the nearby group of Men, amongst whom Pharazagar of Harad, Master Swordsman, stood out like a fine gem.
Balkumagan felt it was his duty to give one final caution: “Captain Naraal. Know that she will only bring you death, and the crew and I would rather you remained alive.”
Tazakr left the Rothgimil at the Cape of Umbar. It had been drawn nigh the coast by Jax Phanâl, and he had slipped overboard and swam ashore. The plan was to reacquaint himself with the same ship in ten days time, in Umbar Baharbêl, where it would have docked to unload trade goods, and possibly taken on some cargo for the return voyage to the Baranduin. He had his own mission.
Now Naraal had tasked him to find the armour that had been stolen from High Lord Parnard, at least two parts of it. He had found out by his own methods those had been sold to a wealthy merchant for his son’s use, and that family dwelt in Jax Phanâl. Why Naraal wanted the armour back, he was unsure, but he strongly suspected it had something to do with the red haired she-elf. It mattered not to him. A job was a job. No one knew he was in the Cape of Umbar. No one would know. He sat on the beach in the afternoon sun long enough to dry himself. Then he had pulled his cloak around him, raised his hood, and set off at an affected slightly stooped walk towards the city, to the north.
The guards at the gate could not easily be avoided. So he waited some distance away until a group of over a dozen travellers arrived, with carts and donkeys. He lowered his hood, looking less suspicious, and acted in a nonchalant manner, as if he knew some of the folk he was travelling with. His business in the small city was obviously trade. When asked about weapons he drew back his cloak to show the sword at his belt. One rather ordinary sword, it was not unusual. He was not searched, else the gate guards would have found the daggers in his boots and the twin knives tucked inside his bracers. The whole group was waved through. He left them unloading in the first square, muttering ‘Zebulo’, as if he was going to speak with the Magistrate on the group’s behalf. Instead, he raised his hood again and walked through the second square and into the third. It was there, in one of the fine tall houses, the ‘purchaser’ dwelt. Ubraan was a very successful trader. He did not enjoy life in the main city though, and had moved his family to the Cape. The shipping link was good, but there was less hustle-and-bustle. A quiet man. A thoughtful man?
Tazakr walked straight past the house, only looking at it from the corner of his eye. He went and stood on the wall overlooking the beach as if he were sunning himself, and taking in the sights. At one point another guard approached, asking him his name and business. “Ja’ mayel of the Shield Isles,” he responded. “My business is to look for possible trade partners here and in Kutra.”
“You travel alone. With no horse or examples of your goods?”
“My first visit. I did not want to advertise my intent in Halrax, or carry any product, less others copy my ideas. I want to keep it all quiet until I have my trade secured.”
The guard was not sure. “What will you trade that we need?”
“Ah,” Tazakr tapped the side of his nose. “That should not be spoken of lest others hear, but as you are a guard of this place, and have its well-being at heart, I will say it is fine jewellry made by my wife and her sisters. They use pearls and shells and other sea-found treasures. If there is interest here, I will bring some samples on my next visit and show you. Perhaps a gift for the love of your life?”
The guard was still unsure. “Cause no trouble, and do not become a bother to our merchants,” he said. Then, with a glare of warning, he went back on patrol.
Tazakr watched him leave with a warm smile. But he had faced the square as they had conversed, and memorised the layout, the positions of windows and balconies, and possible routes of escape. He was satisfied he could do what he must. He did not intend to kill Ubraan, nor meet him at all. No, this job was more suited to a thief than an assassin. A thief was usually better off working at night. He just hoped he could find enough pieces of armour to impress upon the red haired she-elf Naraal’s inherent nobility.
