Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[piosenniel]

A heavy, grey sky hung over the capital city of Westernesse. Rain had fallen for the last three days and the air was thick with moisture. The white walls of Arminalêth shone dully in the semidarkness and the late Ivanneth trees clung stubbornly to their last brown leaves. The land trembled; the island had shifted several times in the recent past, and now she gave another quick heave as though irritated by the tall Men who walked on her shores. As the ground quieted the skies stirred, and the boiling grey clouds which hovered over Armenelos began to drop hail. A dark haired woman looked up at the sky as pea-sized bits of ice began to bounce off the ground around her feet. She grabbed the hands of two small children and ushered them inside. As the door closed loudly behind them the hail began to fall in earnest, egg sized hailstones hammering on the rooftops of the unnaturally quiet city. As the hailstorm passed, the grey clouds blew east on a brisk wind and a billowy white cloud shaped like a great eagle cast its shadow across the land.

Abârpânarú Karíbzîr and Kâthaanî, his daughter and only child, rode along the southern faces of the fir and larch covered moors of Forostar. They could afford to ride as fast as the wind, with seven Kariborim between them. Abâr was afraid that word of their route had reached the King's Men. Abârpânarú was riding night-black Lômi while Kâthaanî rode chestnut Izri, the youngest foal of Khibil and Kali, who with their other foals, Nitirú, Rûki, and Mani galloped close at hand.

Word had reached them before they left home, that the King's Men were looking for Abârpânarú as a traitor to the King. It was true enough, if being one of the Faithful amounted to betrayal. The Forostar, the least fertile of the Númenorean regions, was least populous, and Abârpânarú had deemed it the way that would give them most shelter from the eyes of the King's Men. The ground was stony, which would give greater difficulty to other horsemen, but not the sure-footed Kariborim.

Suddenly the land dropped and the air cooled, and they came among fertile fields of grain, which were the beginning of the Orrostar. They rounded a final hill and must stop of a sudden. They were faced by twenty horsemen.

"You may go no further, traitor!" called one man whose black helm rose taller than the others.

"Go back, Kâthaanî! Make haste!" Kâthaanî obeyed immediately, calling the barebacked Kariborim as she turned her mount and charged back around the hill. Khibil, Abârpânarú's usual mount, did not follow. Abârpânarú hollered and slapped Khibil's rump and sent him chasing after the others.

"Do not let them get away!" cried the leader of the King's Men.

"You have me! Let them go!" Abârpânarú bellowed. The ears of the horses of the King's Men laid back, such was the force of his voice. He took the eyes of their leader and held them. The two strove, and at last the leader gave way.

"We have our quarry."

Abârpânarú dismounted from Lômi. "Go find Kâthaanî." Lômi stood next to Abârpânarú, unmoving. He looked in Lômi's deep brown eyes. "Go!" he whispered. She breathed on his neck, looking straight into his eyes. "They will do you harm!" She nickered. He sighed. "May I prove worthy of your love, dear one."

Kâthaanî paused on the far side of the hill. The clatter of hard hooves in the stones fell to silence all around her as five of the Kariborim joined Izri in the dell behind the hill. Five. Lômi, then, had remained with her father; though whether she was kept by her own will or Abârpânarú’s, or by some design of his captors, Kâthaanî could not tell. Dismounting quickly from Izri, she left the horses and crept down through the brush and boulders to where she could see the road.

Cursing herself inwardly for her clumsiness, she stood behind a cluster of fir and looked out toward the place where her father had been taken. As she caught sight of the men gathered on the road below, Kâthaanî breathed a sigh of relief. She realized they were yet far enough away that her pitiful attempts at stealth would not have been heard, and cloaked in brown as she was, she judged herself unlikely to be seen. She watched as Abârpânarú’s hands were bound roughly behind him and Lômi’s reins were tied to the saddle of one of the waiting horses. The riders remounted, and the column moved along the road. South, toward Armenelos. Kâthaanî watched, unmoving, until the horses disappeared into the plains.

Turning back to where she had left the Kariborim, Kâthaanî ran to them, tying her dark hair into a tighter knot on her neck and pinning her cloak more securely. She paused as she reached the horses, the tension in their bodies evident. She kissed Izri’s soft nose before turning to Nitirú, the swiftest among them. “You must bear me now, friend; and we will run more swiftly than ever we have run before.” Although she knew that she would never find help in time to rescue her father before they reached Arandor and the Royal City, there was nothing else for her to do.

Upon mounting, Kâthaanî headed down out of the foothills toward the road. Once they reached the open lands of Andustar she could take to the fields, but for now great speed required great risk and they ran on the open road. Nitirú’s feet struck sparks from the gravel as the dark haired girl and the iron grey horse flew toward Andunië, the other five trailing behind them like so many leaves in the wind.


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-- Sophia the Thunder Mistress & littlemanpoet

[piosenniel]

TomBrady12's post

Marsillion sat quietly in a dark corner of an obscure Andunië inn sipping a pint of ale. The ale was poor, but that was the least of his trouble. He'd come to meet his cousin, Nusaphad Narâkmanô, who had summoned him here the night before. Nusaphad was fairly unskilled, had no taste for books or learning, nor for any serious forms of work. Luckily for him, he was born into a wealthy family, and had overachieving brothers to carry on the pride of his father. Nusaphad ran an Andunië inn belonging to his father as a pretense of work, but most who knew him knew that he consumed more ale then he sold. Marsillion, clever as he was, managed to find a use even for his lazy cousin.

Nusaphad's Inn, The Tîrevia, was a favorite gathering spot for the King's Men garrisoned in and around Andunië, and after a few pints of ale they were often more than willing to pull a slovenly underachiever into their confidence. Through Nusaphad, who was not a member of the faithful, Marsillion gained much information on the plans and movements of the King's Men.

When his older cousin at last slid into the semi dilapidated inn, Marsillion couldn't help but notice how little resemblance there was between them. Nusaphad's olive skin and thick black beard were a stark contrast to Marsillion's fair skin and clean face. Nusaphad took a seat across the table from Marsillion without a word.

“What then, cousin, have you called me here for?” Marsillion asked gingerly. News from Nusaphad was rarely good.

“Breakfast with an old friend not enough of a lure?” Nusaphad replied, with a sarcastic grin spreading across his bearded face.

“Aye,” Marsillion perked up, “the food in this dank hole is far from good, but I suspect it's a mite bit better than whatever news you've brought for me.”

“True enough,” Nusaphad said, the grin disappearing from his face. The smiling eyes that normally defined the otherwise drab man were devoid of light and rimmed in red. Dark matters he left to others when possible, preferring women and drink to matters of business. Marsillion could see that the role of spy was taking its toll on his cousin.

Nusaphad ordered a fresh pitcher of ale and waited for the waitress to leave. “The news is indeed worse than this ale, Nimilroth, a good deal worse in truth. Your mother's brother is in grave danger. The King's Men mean to arrest him on charges of treason,” Nusaphad said quietly, even though the inn was deserted except for the young waitress.

“Is that all you have for me cousin?” Marsillion asked, stretching his arms above his head and slowly getting to his feet. “Perhaps your ale has lost its potency, for we have known this for a fortnight. Besides, what proof is there? A serious charge requires serious proof.”

“Sit down Nimilroth,” Nusaphad replied with pity in his voice. “My ale is potent enough, and I've not told you all that I have brought you here for.” Marsillion sat down and stared hard into his cousin's unblinking eyes.

“Go on then,” was all he could say.

“The King's men have been watching your uncle for sometime and saw him and his daughter leave Andunië with his prized horses days ago. They know not only his destination, but also his intended route. A company of the King's Men lie in wait as we speak near the junction of Forostar and Orrostar. Your uncle is walking into a trap. And as for proof, it seems to me that Ar-Pharazôn needs none these days but that which his own mind can conjure.”

“Why have you not spoken of this before?” Marsillion demanded, the anger in his voice shattering the silence of the inn.

“I knew not until late in the evening,” Nusaphad said sheepishly, seemingly afraid of the strong armed young man he'd known for so long. “If I'd have ridden out myself to tell you we may both have been discovered.”

“I must go,” Marsillion nearly shouted as he jumped to his feet. He rushed to the door, knocking over a mug of beer on the way.

“You're gonna have to pay for that, mister!” the waitress shouted after him, but the words were meaningless in his ears. He had been there when his father was seized by the King years before. He had to get to Kâthaanî before it was too late. He could not allow her to undergo the same fate as he. The only sound to reach his ears was the beating rhythm of his young mare’s galloping footfalls, moving rapidly down the dirt street, into the east.

[piosenniel]

Himaran's post

Two swords crossed in overlapping fashion, drawing attention to the silver star located at the place of their meeting... The symbol of the House of Batânzâira. Abârzadan turned away from the treasured decoration adorning the wall of his large house. In reality, it was a thing of the past; there was no House Batânzâira... there was only him. The Númenórean man's ascendents were vast, but all had long since died out, persecuted by Sauron and the cult of Melkor. What that evil one so feared about letting it survive? Perhaps its strength, and the many warriors it had bred. Whatever the reason, all that was over. Abârzadan was the last of them, as far as he could tell. No one else remembered. No one understood.

Banishing the disparaging thoughts from his mind, Abârzadan forced himself to look on the positive side of the matter. He was safe, rich and secure; at least for the time being. The sole heir of a large fortune, the man was not stranger to the lavish lifestyle of the elite. But was there such a among the rabble of the Faithful? His father, Abâranâ, had never trusted them since entering their lands to escape the wrath of Sauron. They were outcasts, rebels, unfit to serve the King of Númenór. The old man's sentiments were never known publicly; he lived out his days isolated in his home, without making any aquaintices with the locals. After his father's death, Abârzadan had gradually come to accept the Faithful and did not hold them in a hostile light, but still he held on to the sometimes violent longing to see his true home. And then there was Abâranâ's last request...

No. That can never be accomplished. Never. Deciding that the acute loneliness of the house was becoming oppressive, Abârzadan pulled on a, coat, opened the door and hurried out into the street, allowing the wooden frame to fall shut loudly behind him. The refreshing tinge of cool air met his face, and the sound of the waves lapping at the shore met his ears. Abârzadan's home was near the docks, for he loved to look out at the sea from his bedroom window... somehow, although it was not the way back to the King he still felt loyal to, the water was strangely attracting. Perhaps it was the sense of mystery it held, for doubtlessly there were unexplored regions beyond the simmering edge of the horizon.

Even the sea could not give Abârzadan's mind the rest that it longed for. His thoughts went back to six years before, when his father lay dying from disease. "Hear me, Abârzadan," he had rasped, before breaking into another fit of coughing. "And never forget. Keep the House of Batânzâira clean from the Faithful. Only marry..." the sick man's voice trailed off again. His eyes opened wide, as if he was seeing a vision. Then he had struggled back to reality, and made one last, desperate effort to finish his last statement. "Only marry... a woman of Númenór. I say this to you so that I know that one day, you will indeed go back there, to see the place where our ancestors lie. Never forget, Abârzadan, please..." The man had then gone unconcious, and died during the night, as silently as he had lived.

Enough reminiscing! Abârzadan decided that if he were to get any work done that night, he had better get a drink and clear the disturbing memories from his distraught mind. The man hurried down the street, soon finding a small inn that he rarely visited. Abâranâ had seen the place when they first arrived, and snidely commented on its disrepair. Indeed, it was in rather poor condition, and not the sort of place that a member of the elite would go to dine. However, it was close, and though the ale was poor it still contained the kick that he needed. Besides, the gossip of those at this particular small establishment was far more interesting than that at any fine diner.

As he entered the inn, Abârzadan noticed that it was quite empty, almost deserted. The man ordered a drink and walked over to a table in the corner; slowly easing into the hard wooden chair. His ears immediately sharpened, and he began to pick up snippets of conversation from a booth near him. When he heard "the King's men have been watching your uncle," his ears perked up. The King? Ar-Pharazôn? As he continued to eavesdrop, his suspicions were confirmed. "Your uncle is walking into a trap," one of the men said. Prized horses? And uncle and his daughter? As Abârzadan left the inn later that evening, he promised himself to keep his ears open for any more information regarding the strange tale that he had been exposed to.

Especially if it dealt with Númenór.

[piosenniel]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir let the arrow fly, and the deer fell to the ground. He was about to walk over to it when three riders on black horses rode up.

"Well, well, if it isn't Sakaladûn," said their leader, getting off his horse. "Finally found you, eh? The King's been looking for you for quite a while now."

Thoronmir, formerly known as Sakaladûn, answered him. "I stopped listening to that man when he started going mad. If you want me to come with you, you'll have to force me."

The man laughed and reached for a weapon. Thoronmir reacted faster, leaping up onto the leader's horse and kicking it hard. The black stallion rode off at full speed. The other two riders drew their spears and pursued Thoronmir as he fled, but Thoronmir managed to lose them in the forest.

Thoronmir rode into the hiding place of the Faithful that was nearby. He was met at the entrance by one of their guards.

"Thoronmir, I'm glad you got back here. Where did you get the horse?" the guard asked curiously.

"I ran into some old friends from Armenelos who really wanted me to come back with them," the Thoronmir said. "I declined the offer and borrowed one of their horses to escape with."

The other man didn't smile a whole lot. "Good thing you escaped, because we're really going to need your help here." he said. "You see, there's been a problem. Mabalar has been taken captive and they said we need to act now..."

[piosenniel]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

The rain poured from the black clouds like so many thousand tears. Lightening lit the tormented sky as another wave shifted the ground. Inzillomí Elendili moved quietly through the shadows of the awnings, coming in from the stables. From cosseting her black mare, Alya, the mistress of the house had been startled by the sound of pounding hoofbeats. Reaching the house before her unknown guests, Inzillomí went to her sitting room and settled quickly, picking up a piece of embroidery on her way. To a stranger, it would look as though she had been sewing quietly for some time. A fist pounded on the oaken doors, echoing through the large house. She rose gracefully, gliding delicately to the entry way. Meeting a maid in the hallway, she waved her off silently. Opening the heavy doors, she was faced with a full guard of the King's Men. Briefly she wondered where her own guards were, until she saw a flash of silver in the doorway of the stables. One man stepped forward.

"To what do I owe this honor?" Inzillomí asked cautiously. She knew this man; they had been childhood companions. These days, however, it did not pay to trust those you once knew. The uniformed man hesitated as streams of water ran down his cheeks. "Officer, it is raining and my floor is getting wet. Either state your business or come in for a cup of tea, but I will not tolerate the warping of a perfectly good door frame because of carelessness."

The officer nearly laughed, quickly hiding his smile with a well-timed cough. He had been sent to escort the out of favor families to Rómenna but he felt compassion for them. He had known Inzillomí for many years. "Inzi--" he caught himself. Standing up taller, his smile vanished. It was one thing to be compassionate, another to be soft. He had his orders. "Mistress Inzillomí, the King offers you the honor of relocating your family to Rómenna. You will please pack only what you can carry on one horse. You will please be ready in one hour. Your escort will be waiting outside your doors to ensure that you do not lose your way to the front garden."

Hiding her panic, Inzillomí smiled at her childhood friend. Snake! her mind screamed. "No." she replied calmly.

"You must excuse me, Mistress, but I thought I heard you say "no". You are please to be aware that you have no choice."

"I am and I do. I have business today that will not wait, as I am sure you will quite understand. You will have to return tomorrow when my family is all together and prepared. I will not leave without them, and I will not leave my belongings behind. May your day be as peace-filled as my own." With that, Inzillomí politely shut the door in the officers' faces.

Hoping her audacity would not serve to get them all killed, Inzillomí spared a fearful moment wondering at the whereabouts of her family. She peered out the window, seeing the King's Men clustered in a small group. Suddenly the men scattered, mounting up and set off down the road. Short-lived relief filled Inzillomí as the rain slowed. As quickly as the storm had begun, it was over. Within a short time, the sun shone brightly, drying the land. A brisque wind pulled crimson leaves from the trees and Inzillomí, tired and worried, walked alone through her garden admiring the last dark blossoms of the season. Azarmanô was due with tidings from Elendil any hour; Marsillion had gone to meet his cousin; Abârpânarú and Kâthaanî would not be returning. Inzillomí's family was scattered and she was left to lead the remaining Anannost to whatever end. It was her responisibility to get her people safely to the East. Suddenly, heavy hoof beats filled the air once more. Turning quickly on her heel, Inzillomí Elendili ran, skirts billowing in the wind, her hair streaming out behind her, hurrying to meet unexpected visitors for the second time in so many hours.

[piosenniel]

samsmyhero's post

Tiru hummed softly as he came out of the stall. He had changed the old bedding for new and refilled the manger with fresh hay. The water trough outside the stable was full of water pulled from the well. All was taken care of. Not that there was any sense of urgency. His master and the little mistress were not due back for some days. Tiru closed his eyes for a brief moment, silently offering a prayer for the success of their venture. He smiled at his own absurdity; he didn't even believe in the gods, although his master had spent many hours instructing him. Well, he shrugged his shoulders, it couldn't hurt.

So much was riding on their journey, though. The very existence of the Kariborim was at stake. If Abârpânaru was not successful in getting the horses to Rómenna, if they missed the sailing for the east . . . No! Tiru shook his head vigorously. He would not even think such thoughts! Besides, there was still much to do before leaving for the harbor to meet Captain Azarmanô, who was arriving from Rómenna with supplies and news from Elendil. It was being said that the time for the departure for the east was coming upon them quickly.

Tiru stroked his beard thoughtfully. Even if his beloved six came safely to the ships, there were many others who would not be going. Tiru worried about these others, the Karibi. He knew there was no room for them on the ships. It was fortunate enough that his master and mistress had been able to secure a place for him, being only their servant. Still, the thought of leaving the Karibi almost broke his heart. He had already lost one family; and, now, to lose this one . . .

The horsemaster's thoughts were interrupted by the, as yet, distant sound of thundering hoofs. This sound was one so familiar to him that it was like unto his own heart beat. "The Kariborim!" he gasped. "What . . . how?" Tiru wasted no time, but flew himself, as fast as his legs could carry him, across the stable yard and down the broad path that led to the road. Even as the swirl of dust accompanying them grew larger, he could make out Kâthaanî, the little mistress, and Marsillion, her cousin, with five of the six steeds which had left Andunië eight days ago. But he could tell at a glance that his master, Abârpânaru, and the mare Lômi, were not with them.

Tiru's heart raced and his mind seethed. Disaster! Some sort of catastrophe had befallen his master and now . . . and now, what? He must calm himself and be prepared; the mistress and her daughter would surely need him, and he, at least, was reliable, unlike those so called gods!

Within moments, the two cousins had drawn up to him. Dirt and sweat covered Kâthaanî's face and her hair looked as if she had been in a high wind off the ocean. Marsillion looked shocked and angry. Breathlessly, Kâthaanî leaned over Nitirú's neck and in a rush, told Tiru what had occurred on the unlucky journey to Rómenna. Tiru's face belied little of the anguish that churned in his stomach. Captured by the King's Men! The very worst that could have happened! Poor Lômi! She would be so upset and unhappy if strangers were to take her. And the master too, of course.

"What must we do, little mistress?" Tiru gasped, as Kâthaanî stopped to take a breath.

"This was the day appointed for Azarmanô's arrival was it not?" She rushed on, not waiting for a reply. "You must go to the harbor and meet him there as planned. But tell him of my father's plight. Ask Azarmanô to render what assistance he can – I'm sure we will need every man available to rescue him. Hurry back!" With that she and Marsillion were urging the horses forward once again, racing, Tiru was sure, to her mother, to let her know the grim tidings and alert the other Annanost.

Tiru ran back to the stables and quickly saddled up the grey mare he had waiting, already anticipating the trip to the harbor. Hoping that Azarmanô would be at the harbor, which, with sea voyages, arrivals were always an uncertainty, he went into the field beyond and caught up another mount for the Captain. He saddled her too, and was off down the road, just as Kâthaanî was at her mother's side, relating her sad news. With a brief moment of regret that he could not tend to the needs of the five Kariborim which had returned, Tiru focused on his task and set off for the harbor at a break neck speed.

[piosenniel]

Regin Hardhammer's post

Azarmanô stared at the cove, which was surrounded on three sides by towering cliffs of sheer granite. It was a tight fit for the Gwan, but the ship slipped through the narrow opening just as it had done countless times before. The journey to the western part of the island had been placid, something that could not be said for many of his trips. Azarmanô marveled at how this group of the Faithful had been able to flout the King’s decree and refuse to move eastward as he himself had done some while ago. Of course, he was not often at home, but on board his ship engaged in various trading missions. He frequently traveled to the colonies with a shipload of goods from Númenor and traded these items with his fellow countrymen and whatever local merchants he could find who were still willing to deal with a man of Númenor. Despite his love of the sea and the joy he felt doing honest work, he often chafed at the length of these voyages, yearning to return to his radiant wife Eirien and his young son Thorin.

But today was no ordinary supply mission. Elendil had commanded him to sail west and pick up the last remaining Faithful and bring them back to join the others who had gathered at Rómenna and would soon be fleeing Númenor to sail across the oceans. It was with a heavy heart that Azarmanô prepared to bid farewell to his homeland. Despite persecution from the King and those who followed his lead, he still felt a strong attachment to the land of his fathers. But the departure from Númenor could not be avoided. Disaster and doom were fast approaching the land, punishment for man’s insolence. For many years, the kings had shunned the friendship of the Eldar in their greedy quest for immortality. Azarmanô understood the Faithful must depart across the sea before all was lost. Besides, he thought, he would still have the sea.

Azarmanô went down on the shore and waited for Tiru, the contact from the local Faithful who usually met him and took delivery of the supplies. Today Tiru did not look pleased. His face was wan and nervous and he was moving fast. Azarmanô called out in anticipation, “I have news for you. You must gather the others and tell them that the time has come for us to leave Númenor. Elendil gathers the fleet in the east for the Faithful to depart. We can wait no longer. Tell your neighbors to gather in this cove and I will take them to where Elendil’s ships are gathering in the eastern bay.”

Tiru replied in a rushed tone, “My friend, I’m afraid that we can not yet go. You see the King’s men have captured Abârpânarú Karíbzîr, my master. We have just found out the sad news, and people are needed to help in the rescue." Tiru looked up expectently and added, Perhaps you would be willing to come with us. We have need of another strong bow.”

“I would be honored to rescue the lifeblood of such a noble leader. But we must not tarry. Speed will be needed. Elendil’s ships wait for us to arrive so that they may depart. Every moment they delay is another chance for the King’s men to find the Faithful. My family also is on a ship that will cross the seas and I long to return to them soon. We must be swift and relentless in our search and then go with all speed to the harbor of Romenna. Let me tell my mate to guide the Gwan back east and then I will join you.”

Azarmanô returned to his ship and told his mate to steer the craft eastward and have it wait for his arrival when he returned with the others. “Don’t fear,” he added, “I will return soon.”

Azarmanô turned to Tiru and mounted the chestnut brown horse that had been brought for him. “Let us go to gather the others. Away.” He flicked the reins and clipped his heels to the steed's side and began to ride with all haste.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî was nervous and tired. Her frantic ride had taken barely more than three days. She had slept little, her hair and clothes were caked with dust, and her muscles were sore. She had changed mounts frequently, to save their strength as much as possible, but still on the third day they had slowed. She also had slowed, until Marsillion met her outside the city. Mounted once more on Nitirú with Marsillion riding Mani, the two of them pounded homeward.

Now she nodded to Marsillion as she gave him Nitirú's reins; he was still mounted on Mani, having left his mare to find her own way home. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and briefly rested a hand on her shoulder before swinging down and leading the sweating Kariborim toward the stables and a hard earned rest. "I will talk to Mother." Kâthaanî called back over her shoulder, already setting a brisk pace for the house. Her head was swimming with the intricacy of this problem. The fact that her father had been taken was desperate enough, but together with the brief time left before their departure... rescue seemed nearly impossible.

As she neared the room where Inzillomí often spent her mornings, Kâthaanî ran a hand over her matted hair, dragging her fingers through it in attempt to force it into some kind of order. Pushing the doors to her mother's sitting room open, she found her mother at the table with a small sampler in one hand and a needle in the other. Only the smallest tremors in her fingers and the lines around her mouth gave away Inzillomí's nervousness. For a few seconds Kâthaanî simply stood in the doorway her hands at her sides, fingering the edges of her sleeves; then she rushed forward unable to keep calm any longer.

"Mother, they've taken him away... the King's guards, they arrested him and they took Lômi too. And Tiru's gone to meet Azarmanô already, and it's time... it's time. But they took Father. By now he's in Armenelos... and the ships... and I rode..." she dissolved into tears. Kâthaanî stiffened momentarily as she felt her mother drop down beside her and put her arms around her shoulders. She had long considered herself too adult for coddling, but she soon relaxed and her hysteria passed. She breathed in deeply and looked up at Inzillomí. Her mother's face was pale and her eyes ringed with shadows, but she was calm and composed. Kâthaanî quickly composed herself and stood up.

"The treasure you carried, is it safe?" Inzillomí asked quietly, sliding back into her chair and picking up her embroidery. Kâthaanî nodded. She'd checked the moment she'd remembered; her mother's palantir, the precious seeing-stone and heirloom of Elendil's house was still safely in Khibil's saddlebags where it had been through their whole journey.

"We must send men to find him." Kâthaanî whispered. "We cannot leave him behind."

"No, we cannot. Perhaps my son, Nimilroth, could go?" a voice said from the doorway. Ziraphel, Abârpânarú's sister, walked into the room. Neither mother or daughter had heard her approach. She looked at them appraisingly. "Inzillomí, was that Gimilnar I just saw? A King's guardsman here can mean nothing good." Kâthaanî's eyes widened as she and her aunt listened to Inzillomí's news. It seemed that things were going to become more complicated still.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomí caressed her daughter's hair as she would a frightened foal, feeling Kâthaanî relax under the gentle touch. She looked up at Ziraphel, gazing deep into her eyes. "Gimilnar indeed, sister. The King has offered us the 'honor' of relocating to the East. His Men will return tomorrow, mid-morning, to escort us. I fear what Gimilnar will say when he does not find all of my family together."

Kâthaanî glanced at her mother, fear in her eyes, anger in every line of her face. "Mother, I will go to Abârpânarú. I will save him." Inzillomí caught her daughter's chin, tilting her face toward her. Kâthaanî read her mother's expression, drawing away abruptly. "You would have me stay!" she cried, angry. "You would leave your own husband at the hands of a crazed King and his men!"

Inzillomí let her daughter go, unfathomable hurt showing in every motion. Ziraphel spoke. "Cerveth, child, you must never speak to your mother so. You cannot conceive the responsibilities that she has shouldered. You cannot understand the pain you have just caused her." Inzillomí thanked her husband's sister with a glance, looking sadly at her daughter. She spoke coldly.

"Cerveth, if the Valar hear my prayer, you will never know the burden of my work. There is more here than you know. Your father will not be left behind. Elendil would not sail without us, but there is so little time, and so much danger." She softened, eyes asking for understanding. "Without your father, Cerveth, it is my task to lead the Faithful safely East. How am I to do this if you would have us all ride to his rescue, trailing the King's Men... and his wrath?"

[samsmyhero]

Tiru's thoughts ran faster than the swift mare carrying him back to his master's house. By now the little mistress would have told Lady Inzillomí the terrible news and he could only imagine the anguish and alarm that must be gripping both mother and daughter. But Tiru had not served the family for these forty years past without discovering the core of steel that lay at the heart of his mistress. Was she not the daughter of Elendil himself, leader of the Faithful now that his brave father had sailed into the west? Even in this moment of greatest crisis, Lady Inzillomí would not wilt and succumb to despair, like some hothouse flower. She would know what needed to be done, and make sure it was accomplished.

Glancing briefly over at the man riding knee to knee with him, Tiru replayed in his mind his brief exchange with Captain Azarmanô at the harbor. It had been both encouraging and troubling. That the Captain would be willing to assist in a rescue attempt was a hopeful sign. At least it would not only be Abârpânarú's family which believed that rescue was possible. But the news which Azarmanô brought from Rómenna now made the situation acute. There would be so very little time in which to accomplish so daunting a task All the Annanost should at this very minute be packing their most treasured belongings and making ready to sail back east to Elendil and the waiting boats. Instead, at least some must venture to Arminalêth , the very last place any of them would wish to go at this black hour, and walk right into the lion's den. What a disaster!

Finally arriving at the house, Tiru was on the ground before the grey mare had even stopped. "Captain, I'll take your horse, if you'd care to step inside. I'm sure my lady Inzillomí will want to hear your news and will want to talk of what to do about my master's arrest." Tiru stepped forward and grabbed the chestnut's reins, and Azarmanô deftly slid from her back.

"My thanks. . . I'll see you inside then?" From the tone of uncertainty in his voice, it was clear Azarmanô was unsure as to Tiru's further involvement in the situation. As the sea captain strode towards the house, the servant realized that perhaps he was mistaken to assume so blithely that he would be sent as part of the rescue. Oh, to be sure, he was going, with their blessings or without. The Kariborim were his family now, and he would not scuttle away to Rómenna with his tail between his legs, leaving Lômi to her fate! But surely . . . his mistress would know his heart, and would understand. They could not refuse to send him. Servant he might be, and his hair, what was left of it, was now streaked with grey. Yet he was still fit, stronger even than many men much younger, and larger, than he. And his skill with a bow was known, if only in the hunt. No, his mistress would never deny him his right to a place in whatever plan she would set in motion to rescue her husband. But, what if others thought differently?

Hurrying to tend to the winded horses, Tiru resolved to go straight on to the house as soon as he was finished. He tarried just moments to check on the other Kariborim, and, seeing they had been well cared for, he hurried out of the stable. Whatever plan the Annanost might come up with, Tiru knew one thing with absolute certainty – he would be going to Arminalêth, to rescue Lômi, and his master!

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion slowly walked the sweat soaked Kariborim toward the stables, wondering why he hadn't thought of riding to the harbor himself. Tiru would have prefered to stay and tend to the horses, Marsillion did not doubt that. When it came to the care of the Kariborim, Marsillion knew he was not above the rebuke of the dark little man, despite their obvious class difference. It was well known that concerning the Kariborim, Tiru had authority over all save Abârpânaru. Marsillion himself had been on the receiving end of more than one tongue lashing at the hands of the passionate foreigner when care that, while good, was not quite adequate to satisfy Tiru's standards. Today; however, Marsillion would risk the little man's wrath. He quickly removed the ornate saddles and bridles, and turned the magnificent animals loose in the paddock alongside the roadway.

Marsillion's ride had been a difficult one. The weather had been enjoyable throughout the morning of his departure, but that afternoon he encountered a wild hail storm, incomparable to any weather he had ever seen. Hail stones the size of his fist were hurled from the bubbling sky, leaving both Marsillion and his horse bloodied. The weather streaked between warm sun, and dangerous storms throughout the duration of the journey, weather that would baffle even the most salted sea captain. Sleep was a luxury too rich for Marsillion's purse, and food was difficult to gather quickly, so it was quickly forgotten.

Marsillion's long strides carried him quickly across the distance to the house, where he was encountered by his mother, Ziraphel, before he was able to eat, bathe, and dress, as he would have liked. Marsillion could see lines in his mother's face which he had never noticed before. Where they new, or had he just been too preoccupied to notice them before? Marsillion opened his mouth to speak, but found no words willing to come forth.

Ziraphel saw pain written across her hulking son's face, and saw an unformiliar sag in his broad shoulders which discomforted her.

“Nimi,” she said, almost to herself. “You're bleeding.”

“Nimi,” Marsillion muttered aloud, recalling the name his mother had called him throughout his childhood. He had not heard it for years, but hearing it now somehow brought hope. “I was battered with hail,” this time when he spoke, the words were strong and powerful. “Do not trouble over mere scratches. They make good reminders that bones could have been broken.”

Ziraphel smiled slightly to see her son back to himself. She felt almost as if she were speaking with Azaruth, as she had years before. The thought of her murdered husband, coupled with the capture of her brother and the imminent departure into the east was too much for even wise Ziraphel to handle. Her lips trembled and she wept openly. Marsillion hadn't seen his mother cry since his father's capture, and was taken slightly aback. He quickly recovered and pulled the quaking women into his arms. “Do not worry,” he said in the sturdiest voice he could muster. “I will fix this, I promise. I will go to Armenelos and bring Abârpânaru home. I will bring him home for you mother. For you, and Kâthaanî, and aunt Inzi. I'll bring him home because I could not bring home father. I will bring him home,” Marsillion assured her, as he pulled one of his long finger across his eyes, wiping away the fear and doubt that must be kept hidden.

Ziraphel slowly let go of her son's muscular shoulders, and managed a slight smile. “Oh Nimilroth,” she said, no longer feeling the need to speak to him as a child. “You remind me so much of your father sometimes. Come, let us go find Inzillomi and Kâthaanî. You must be hungry, I'll have food brought into the sitting room where we can begin to make plans.”

Hungry as he was, Marsillion insisted on washing and putting on fresh cloths before he did anything else. When the dirt and dried blood was cleansed from his fair skin, and a fresh light blue tunic was belted comfortably around his waste, he went and joined the rest of the family in the sitting room.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô bade farewell to Tiru and walked directly toward the door of the house. After knocking, he paced and waited in front for someone to answer. Usually when Azarmanô came to the west to deliver supplies, his contact had been Tiru. One time, however, when Tiru had been very ill, Inzillomí herself had met with him at the secluded cove. He had been intrigued to make the acquaintance of the daughter of the great Elendil, his leader and close friend. They had talked at length about the day they both dreaded and yet knew was close at hand, the day when they would have to leave Númenor and sail east. Now that day had finally arrived, and it felt no better than Azarmanô had suspected it would. And to add to the sting of sailing away, he now must rescue Abârpânarú from prison. Azarmanô would not stand for the blood of a fellow Faithful to be spilled on the vile stones of Sauron’s altar. He was glad to make the acquaintance of the Lady Inzillomí again; however he would have rather done so under more pleasant circumstances.

Eager as he was to help, Azarmanô was determined to embark on the mission soon and complete it swiftly. The ships were ready to leave with his wife Eirien and son Thoron on board, and they could not wait long. Azarmanô approached the door and pounded the large bronze knocker on the thick wood three times. He waited for several minutes, pacing back and forth anxiously, before he heard a reply from inside.

A cautious voice spoke steadily, “Who is there?”

Inzillomí , thought Azarmanô. It must be. I remember her voice as clearly as the tranquil sea on a calm day. She must be worried about the king’s men; I can sense the fear in her voice.

“Do not fear, my Lady Inzillomí . It is I, the traveler of the seas, Azarmanô. I come with news from your father. I pray that you find it in your heart to let me inside.”

The door swung open to reveal Inzillomí , just as Azarmanô remembered her. After greeting her, the two went to the living room where her daughter, Kâthaanî sat in a cahir. Azarmanô spoke with a friendly warmth in his voice.

“My dear friends, I am deeply grieved to hear about the imprisonment of Abârpânarú in Armenelos. I swear to you by the Valar that I will do everything that I can to get him back. However, we must hurry for your father has assembled the rest of the faithful in Romenna and plans to leave very soon. He sent me to gather up the remainder of the faithful, but after I learned the news I sent my ship back, for I could not leave while your husband sits in chains. How may I serve you now my lady? I beseech you, act fast, for time is a luxury we do not have.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

A heavy silence weighed upon the air of the room. Inzillomí looked at the delicate needle-work in her lap, waiting for her daughter to speak. With Abârpânaru's capture, it was Inzillomí's responsibility to safely remove the Faithful to the East. Now, with the King's Men to return in so few hours, Inzillomí needed one thing she did not have: time. She could not leave her husband to torment and death while she sailed away in safety. She also could not order rescuers to sacrifice themselves in order to save him. As the weight grew heavier, Ziraphel slid quietly out the door. A faint knocking reached Inzillomí's ears. She removed to the front doors, leaving Kâthaanî.

Passing Ziraphel and Marsillion, she motioned for their already given silence. A cautious hand on the razor sharp fan tucked discreetly in her sash, Inzillomí spoke. “Who is there?”

A gently familiar voice met her ears. “Do not fear, my Lady Inzillomí . It is I, the traveler of the seas, Azarmanô. I come with news from your father. I pray that you find it in your heart to let me inside.”

Inzillomí unlatched the door, swinging it open. "Come, friend. You are welcome in the house of Karíbzîr." Taking the captain's arm with the confidence of one who belonged there, she passively led him into her home. "We shall speak more openly where my daughter awaits."

Waving to Ziraphel and Marsillion, Inzillomí led the small group into her private sitting room. When all were seated, Inzillomí looked with expectation at Azarmanô. "What news, traveller, does my father send? I feel that Tiru has already told you some of what you shall soon hear. When you have spoken, you shall hear it afresh."

"My dear friends, I am deeply grieved to hear about the imprisonment of Abârpânarú in Armenelos. I swear to you by the Valar that I will do everything that I can to get him back. However, we must hurry for your father has assembled the rest of the Faithful in Romenna and plans to leave very soon. He sent me to gather up the remainder of the Faithful, but after I learned the news I sent my ship back, for I could not leave while your husband sits in chains. How may I serve you now my lady? I beseech you, act fast, for time is a luxury we do not have."

Inzillomí rose, an aura seeming to grow about her. She spoke with no art but the eloquence of haste. "It is for the ears of all present that I do now speak. My husband has been arrested under orders from the King. My father has sent word for us to travel swiftly to Romenna. The King's Men arrived here only hours ago to award my family and those near and dear to us the honor of relocating. They shall return in the morning, and it is then that I and my household must leave." She looked at her audience, feeling again the weight of her responsibility to them all. Her cheeks, pale as the face of the moon, were flushed.

Kâthaanî, introspective until now, spoke. "Mother, we cannot leave him." She met her mother's eyes, pleading.

With a smile, Inzillomí looked at her daughter. "No indeed, we cannot. But I will order no man to ride in his rescue, nor will I permit haste to overcome rationality. Where time is not, there it must be made. We shall think as though we had all the time in the world, so that when we act, it will not be in vain." A sound startled Inzillomí, although only Kâthaanî noticed it. Azarmanô rose, shifting his weight to his advantage, as the door gently pushed open. Tiru stepped inside as a collective breath was released. Inzillomí spoke again.

"I spoke that no man would be ordered, for I will condemn no man to a fate that he does not choose. Were it possible, I myself would go to my husband, but with the King's Men returning tomorrow, it would be disasterous to even attempt. If a discreet party can be arranged, and discreet it must be, for with lack of discretion comes many sorrows, not least the loss of life... If a party can be found, they shall ride with my blessing."

[littlemanpoet]

They led Abârpânarú inside, his hands tied behind his back and his ankles chained. They were taking him away from Lómi, who was being led by her bridle to the King's stables, no less a prison for the Kariborim than the dungeon to which they led him.

"Take care with my Karibor. She is precious." They led Abârpânarú down the dark, dank corridors of the King's dungeon; with the King gone to sea, more accurate to call it Sauron's dungeon.

"Fear not, anúphnimir," said a guard, "be assured your mount shall receive treatment at least as kindly as yours." The other three guards laughed.

Fool of the Elves, is it? They may say what they will. "Better anúphnimir than Anúpharazón."

The guard landed a blow on Abârpânarú's head with his mailed fist. "Núph! You shall never see your precious Karibor again. She is the King's now."

Which meant that she was Sauron's. Never. He vowed silently to free her if not himself. Somehow.

They threw him into a cell with a mere chink in the wall through which sunlight passed. They did not unlock his hands or ankles. He sat against the walls, his rage building at the injustice. He schooled himself to calmness. It would do no good to waste his strength on impotent rage. He knew the fate they had in mind for him. This island of the West was no longer ruled by Men. It was Sauron's now, who would see Abârpânarú on his blasphemous altar. He was willing to die if it would save his family and friends. It would fall to Inzillomí now to see that they achieved Rómenna. He wished them luck and all the wit they would need to avoid the watchful eyes of Sauron's Men.

They had better not try to rescue me. If Kâthaanî so much as shows her face here, I shall give her a proper scolding. He smiled a ghost of a smile. He knew his daughter, and his wife, knew what they would do. Take care my dear ones, take care.

[Himaran]

Abârzadan sat quietly in his study, reviewing some papers regarding the state of his inheritance. The news was far from pleasant; the Inheritance Tax, which had never affected the Faithful, was being revised. Even those living outside of the King's sphere would be forced to pay. That, combined with the fact that his father was labeled an exile, meant that much of Abârzadan's estate would be reposessed. He shook his head, leaning back in the elegant chair. He had heard rumors about the Faithful sailing away from the island, but had thought little of it; never expecting that he himself might want a place one of the departing vessels. And that holds true. I need to go deeper into Númenor, not flee from it.

Again Abârzadan thought about his recent visit to the inn, and the story that had reached his ever-alert ears. If the informant there had been accurate, trouble was brewing. A member of the Faithful had been kidnapped, or perhaps urdered, by the King's guards. Or, perhaps, he had been a criminal, and the men he had overheard were accomplices. Whatever the scenario, a man was missing; taken away in chains or in a casket. Now what was his name? Abârzadan pulled an old, dusty book out of a nearby drawer and paged through it, looking for a familiarity. The names flew by him as quickly as the pages, but nothing seemed to stick. Then, suddenly, something caught his eye.

Abârpânarú.

Was that it? Had he been the one mentioned by the two secretive men at the inn? Abârzadan wasn't sure; the conversation had been held in such low tones that nothing was certain. The man looked for the location of the residence, memorized it, and put the book away. Should he trust the hunch and investigate? While it was quite possible that everything he had just surmised was a complete load of hogwash, Abârzadan decided that he needed a break from the tiresome duties of paperwork as it was. If nothing else, he might be able to find out a bit more about Númenor; and that in itself would be worth the journey.

Without bothering to clean up his desk, Abârzadan left the study in its current state of disarray and hurried down the curving set of stairs outside the room. He pulled on a light coat, strapped on a pair of boots, and grabbed a short knife from the countertop. He then made for the door, but paused; surveying the symbol of the House of Batânzâira as he had done so many times before. The one thing the man wished more than anything was to bring pride back to his family's name, which had been diminished for many years. Perhaps this very trip will help you to reach that goal. With that final, optomistic thought, Abârzadan tucked the knife into his belt and left the house, locking the door behind him. One could never be to sure, these days.

__________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ ___


Abârzadan had reached the house. It was a fair distance from his own, but the man was far from tired; hours of endurance training had made him surprisingly immune to exhaustion. Looking around, he noticed a large set of stables; obviously, Abârpânarú was a lover of horses. Abârzadan walked quickly up the stone steps and took hold of the bronze knocker; pounding several times on the heavy wooden door. He waited, and it eventually opened, revealing a woman who had a distraught look in her tired eyes. "Who are you," she said curtly. Knowing that his unexpected arrival deserved such a remark, Abârzadan merely smiled and asked, "Is Abârpânarú Karíbzîr here? I would like to speak with him."

The woman's look darkened. "Abârpânarú is not here as this time. May I ask who you are, and why you are interested."

So, it was this man that was taken. Abârzadan scrambled for a reason to be at his house, and then remembered the stables. "My name is Abârzadan Batânzâira. I used to sell horses to Abârpânarú. Good business partner. Recently, I have heard rumors that something might have happened to him. I came here hoping to find that I had been misled...

The woman paused, and slowly her suspicious look faded. "Please, come inside, Abârzadan. My name is Inzillomí; Abârpânarú is my husband." Abârzadan followed her into the house, hoping that the mystery might finally be solved.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô waited as Inzillomí went to answer the door. Things did seem to be developing rather quickly since he had arrived. He was worried for her and hoped that the King’s men would do her no harm. He could not imagine what it must be like for her to leave her home and travel east while her husband lay bound in chains. His thoughts wandered to his own wife on the ship who eagerly awaited his return. If her life was in peril, he would do everything in his power to save her, no matter what the consequences. Azarmanô vowed that he would try his utmost to ensure the prisoner’s freedom and safety. He knew that the mission must not fail, if Abârpânarú was to survive the bloody blade of Sauron.

Inzillomí returned leading a strange man with shoulder length dirt colored hair and large blue eyes. Startled by the unexpected appearance of a newcomer, Azarmanô stood up, hastily straightening his lax frame. The Captain did not remember the man from any of his missions, nor could he remember him from any of the meetings of the Faithful. Although they hoped for men to go on the rescue mission, he personally did not feel comfortable asking a complete stranger, not with all the questions that he had. Who was the intruder, and why was he here? His ready explanation had come off his tongue too glibly.

The man’s hair looked greasy and ruffled, as if he had not combed it for days. He carried himself with a hint of arrogance, a trait that Azarmanô did not regard with fondness. Although suspicious of the stranger, he did not think it wise to do anything further now. This was not his house; it would not be proper for him to welcome the guest with a series of piercing questions. Lady Inzillomí, Azarmanô reasoned, must have trusted him enough to let him in. Still, this thought did not greatly ease his misgivings; the king’s agents lurked everywhere nowadays, and many were well disguised. For now, Azarmanô bowed politely toward the guest, slowly and deliberately, while reminding himself that his bow and knife were nearby if he needed them.

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion stood in the corner of the small room, with his eyes fixed on the newcomer. The man stood near the door, his large blue eyes darting side to side like wolf on the hunt.

He looked nervous, standing like that, gnawing on a misshapen bottom lip, but he had an air of arrogance surrounding him that Marsillion found disconcerting. That lip, Marsillion thought to himself. I have seen this man before. But where?

Marsillion had a great deal of trust and respect for Inzillomi, but he would not stand by while this potentially dangerous stranger stood unexplained in his family's home. He stepped forward into the light, in full view of the stranger for the first time. He stood as tall and wide as he could, intentionally showing his muscular frame to the slightly smaller man. In this moment Marsillion first noticed the youth written across this face. This man is no older than I, he thought, yet he is scarred as if from battle. What weapons might he be carrying now, I wonder. Marsillion felt the reassuring feel of cold metal on his lower calf. He could pull his ivory handled dagger from his boot in an instant, if need required it.

The stranger stared at Marsillion. The two pairs of improbably blue eyes locked. Marsillion thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in those eyes. Aye! We have met before, Marsillion assessed stepping forward. But this man is not a friend.

Having made the impression he had hoped for, Marsillion deemed it time for questions. “Stranger,” he spoke as deeply as he could, “what brings you here in this most perilous time?” Marsillion regretted those last words. I have given to much away already! I must be more careful.

“That is not the formal greeting I might have expected,” the stranger said in a flat, unconcerned tone. “I am Abarzadan, of the house of Batanzira. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

“I have,” Marsillion stated, trying his best to sound unimpressed. “There were many of that house in the east at one time,” said Marsillion, in an attempt to demonstrate that he was well schooled, as well as well built.

“There were,” Abarzadan restated. Marsillion caught the faint hint of nostalgia in his voice, the first hint of emotion he had given. “As for what brings me here, as I have already told the lady of the house, I came to investigate rumors that reached my ears these past days. Rumors telling of the capture of an old business partner, Abârpânarú Karíbzîr .”

Marsillion was not satisfied with the answer. “You say you know my uncle through business, do you,” his eyes again locked with those of the young man. Marsillion had a gift for reading eyes. He had developed it durring his time in Middle Earth. He had read the eyes of wizened old kings, he could certainly read Abarzadan's.

“I do indeed,” Abarzadan spoke abruptly. His face remained impassive, but as he spoke his eyes darted quickly from side to side. Too quickly. He is lying, or giving a half truth. “You dealt in horses with my uncle then,” Marsillion spoke softly, feigning understanding.

Abarzadan appeared to relax slighlty, “I did,” was his reply.

“Repeatedly I assume,” Marsillion said flatly, nailing Abarzadan down.

“More than once, yes.”

“Then I am sure you would recognize Abarpanaru's stable master, for he accompanies my uncle on all his business ventures,” Marsillion stated with growing volume. He wanted to make sure all in the room could hear him. “The man I speak of stands in this room now. Please identify him if you would.”

Marsillion's trap was set, but the outcome was still in question. Marsillion judge Abarzadan to be arrogant, and proud. If correct he had no doubt the man would overlook Tiru, and choose Captain Azarmano. Marsillion waited briefly while Abarzadan surveyed the two men.


Himaran's Post

"Please identify him if you would."

A cleverly laid trap. But I have not fallen into it just yet. Abarzadan smiled casually, and glanced around the room; trying his best not to show the inward fear circumventing his heart. Slow down! If he were to get out of this one, it would have to be by sheer luck - Abarzadan had never seen any of these people, let alone Abârpânarú himself. He decided to stall for time. "It was quite a few years back since the last trade we made - and people change over the years. Now let me see..." He kept looking, judging each guest individually.

There were several men and women standing or sitting around the room, carrying on personal coversations but secretly listening since Marsillion's loud outburst. Abarzadan used this to his advantage; as the words "stable master" left the accuser's lips, one man in the room shifted and turned his head. He was small, quite small, and of a wirey frame. Surely one such as Abârpânarú would not have had this undersized and unattractive man as his stable master; that position would require one of greater social stature. A field hand, maybe, but not one with authority. Perhaps, though, that was what Marsillion wanted him to think. The man was clever indeed.

Abarzadan's gaze then shifted to another man. This one, in comparision to the other, was tall and strong; with fair features. Surely this one would be more fitting for the role of a stable master than any in this room. He opened his mouth to give an answer in this effect and then stopped - what was he doing? Going against his first insticts, and using the belief system of his father to judge others (that only those of the right physical attributes could ever lead), would not win this battle of wits. The one that moved had to be the one discussed; it was that simple. Why can't you accept that?

Putting on the best face he could, Abarzadan chuckled openly, having made his decision. "A strange request, Marsillion, a strange one indeed. However, why keep you in suspense? The man you refer to is that one there, although his name escapes me. Perhaps now I can give you a riddle, just to keep things fair..." He waited for Marsillion's reaction. The man seemed to grimace, and than caught himself.

"That is he, Abarzadan - his name is Tiru. Come, we must now discuss this matter with the others, for time is short." As he moved off, however, Abarzadan caught a glimpse of lingering distrust in his eye. You're in deep now; and there is no going back...

[Meneltarmacil]

Having been briefed on where to go for more information, Thoronmir saddled his horse and rode off. He reached Abârpânarú’s house after a short time. Upon entering, he found that everyone appeared to be worried about a man who had just arrived.

Thoronmir recognized him as someone he'd seen before from time to time, although the only thing he knew was that the man did not support the king and was suspicious of most people.

“I wouldn't worry too much about this man. I don't know him that well, but I can tell you he's no friend of the King,” Thoronmir said.

“Council member Sakaladûn?” he asked, eyeing Thoronmir suspiciously. “I had always heard you were going to be executed. Is that really you?”

“I was lucky enough to have good connections elsewhere,” Thoronmir explained, though the other man still did not appear to trust him. “So what is going on here?” Thoronmir addressed everyone else, whom he mostly knew already. “I heard a little about the situation earlier, but I still don’t know exactly how everything happened.”

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî’s face burned at Ziraphel’s less than gentle rebuke. It was her father who had been captured by the King’s Men. And she had been there to witness it. She knew well her mother’s fear and her responsibility, and it shamed her to be thought ungrateful and childish. Yet she would never leave her father to the mercies of Sauron while she sailed to safety with Inzillomí’s kin.

As her thoughts slowed, she watched the men assembling in her mother’s sitting room. She kept in the background, letting Inzillomí and Marsillion do most of the talking, but she watched attentively as each of the men came in, all drawn by the news of her father’s capture. Here was Tiru, faithful Tiru, and a handsome blonde man who must be Azarmanô, the captain often sent by Elendil with tidings from Rómenna.

Next to enter was a stranger who gave his name as Abârzadan of the House of Batânzâira, who had traded horses with her father. Abârpânarú had bought and sold Karibi from many different men, so it was no surprise to Kâthaanî that she didn’t recognize this one. Marsillion’s reaction, however, surprised her greatly. Her tall cousin stiffened and his eyes narrowed.

Last to join the assembled crowd was Thoronmir. The lanky man was familiar to Kâthaanî, he had been a frequent presence in the Karíbzîr house for years; and as one who was sometimes with Elendil, Kâthaanî had always looked forward to his visits. She loved to hear him tell about her grandfather and her tall uncles Isildur and Anarion. Thoronmir also seemed surprised by the presence of Abârzadan, but he greeted him cordially if a little hesitantly and took a seat close to Ziraphel.

Gazing silently at the group, Kâthaanî realized that here were five able men; all of whom, despite the latent tension between them, seemed willing to act to save Abârpânarú. Drawing a deep breath, Kâthaanî stood.

“As my mother has said she will have no man bound to do what he would not freely do, I say this: I will ride to find my father, and I know that with me, my cousin Nimilroth will go. Any man who will ride with me I will have as companion.” She turned to her mother. “I know you would have me stay, mother. But were our places exchanged, you know that Abârpânarú would ride to rescue me. I can do no less.” The sound of astonished men shifting uncomfortably in their chairs filled the room. Marsillion stood and placed his hand on her shoulder. Kâthaanî closed her eyes and waited.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô balked in astonishment as he listened to Kâthaanî’s impassioned speech. No woman that he was aware of had ever pledged to take up arms before. Warfare simply was not a matter of concern to women. If it had been his daughter who yearned to fight, Azarmanô would have certainly forbid it. Such undertakings were too dangerous for a young and inexperienced maiden. The king’s men were seasoned veterans of war, trained to ruthlessly kill or capture those who opposed Sauron. The father had already been slammed into chains; the daughter must not be allowed to suffer the same fate. Inzillomí could not bear to lose both a husband and a daughter. No, one so unaccustomed to the techniques and cruelties of warfare must not be allowed to fight.

Yet something in Kâthaanî’s eyes, a fire blazing with determination, told a different tale. No, she might not know how to wield a deft sword, but her determination exceeded that of all the other men present. This ire burning inside of her shone through so clearly, that Azarmanô could not help but be impressed. Azarmanô could not imagine how it must feel to know that at this moment your loved one was rotting in a jail cell. If she had a chance to do something about this, to participate actively in the freeing of her father, would it not be cruel to deny her this? Would it not be a direct effrontery to her valor to scorn her efforts so? Azarmanô could infer from the way she spoke that she was indeed ready to risk her own life to save her father. He wondered whether her mother felt the same way.

Azarmanô chose his words carefully, for the matters of risking one's life and the well being of family members are complex in themselves and together confounding. He was acutely aware that he must not exacerbate the already stressful situation any further. The imprisonment of one family member was vexing enough.

He spoke slowly and with an air of distinguished importance, “Lady Kâthaanî, I consider your spirit in this situation valiant and commendable. I challenge not your resolve, for I know it is tenacious, nor your constitution, for I know it is strong, but only your judgment. You are not knowledgeable in the art of wielding the sword and know not the horrors of warfare. On this rescue, we will most certainly encounter the king’s men in combat. Are you certain that you wish to oppose them? If you choose to accept this task, you must show no mercy to our enemy, for neither Sauron nor the king shall show any to you. For my part, I have already stated that I will gladly join the rescue party. What say you?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomí watched the growing hostility with a calm eye. This must be settled... now rather than later. Just as she made to intervene, Kâthaanî spoke. As her daughter's will became unchangably clear, Inzillomí felt something inside of her disappear. Her eyes dimmed at the thought of losing husband and child. For a second that seemed an eternity, Inzillomí felt utterly hopeless. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Aule give me the strength of the land beneath me. Feeling her resolve returning, Inzillomí opened her eyes and ears to observe the captain question Kâthaanî. Inzillomí stepped forward, taking center stage, and spoke. All eyes turned to her.

"Friends of my House, we are gathered today under the worst of circumstances, and yet I rejoice to see you all. Elendil's ships sail when we reach Romenna. With luck, I could hold his departure for a day... perhaps two. Whoever leaves today must leave knowing this: you must ride lightly and swift. The least mistake could mean the lives of self and comrades. You must reach Romenna before me!" Inzillomí paused, looking around. "However, I would have you go not for thought of duty, but for love of Abârpânarú. Any now who wish not to go, leave now, but know that my love and understanding stays with you."

Kâthaanî looked in wonder at her mother. "You would not stay me?"

"To do so would be as trying to stay the River with a sieve. Your wrath is strong, your will stronger, and your love surpasses all. I would rather you ride having my blessing than ride, perhaps die, thinking you did not. My dearest, I only wish I could ride beside you."

The men looked in wonder at the brief exchange, wondering what the next word would be.

"Think, Men of the West. Think of your lives and your loves, and choose your fate." Marsillion stepped forward. "My sister-son, you go with my love. I will be most disappointed if you come back dead." He smiled, kissing Inzillomí's cheek. Azarmanô stepped forward. "Beloved captain, your wife and son are blessed. I thank you." He bowed, eyes never leaving his leader.

Abarzadan hesitated, thinking swiftly. Eyes on him, he stepped forward. "M'lady, I too shall ride."

"Friend," she spoke. "I do not know you, yet now you have my love. If Thoronmir will vouch for you once more, you shall go with my good will upon you." Thoronmir nodded, speaking.

"I speak for him. I shall ride beside him, if it please you. I have much to learn."

Inzillomí nodded, smiling. "Tiru, am I correct in assuming that you would trot behind on your own legs, should I deny you a mount?" He nodded, sheepish. "Then, my friend, you shall complete the party. Please look after my daughter, and the kariborim." Eyes widened all around. Chances of success multiplied with the kariborim factored in.

"My friends, may Manwe bless you with the speed of his winds. Ride now. Ride swiftly, and save my husband!"

---------------------------------------

As pounding hoofbeats faded into the distance, Inzillomí fell into the arms of Ziraphel, sobbing. Holding her sister, Ziraphel cried as well. They both had so very much to lose.

[littlemanpoet]

"Up with you!"

Abârpânarú blinked his eyes open, rudely interrupted in the middle of a good dream in which he was with dear Inzillomí. It was dark and it stank. He coughed.

"What is the time?"

"The time no longer matters to you, for your life is over. Up!"

Abârpânarú clenched his teeth. He was fully awake now, angered. The insolence coming from this prison guard set him on edge. The quavering in his voice betrayed his words as mere braggadocio in one who had nothing to be proud of: an obsequious fool full of ambition, no doubt.

He placed his fists on the cold stone and pushed himself to his feet, and stood straight, standing a half a racca taller than the gaurd.

"Unlock him!" ordered the querrulous one. "And bring him out."

Once the two guards had unlocked his chains from the wall, the querrulous leader turned and began walking down the corridor, apparently expecting to be followed.

"'Tis a few hours before dawn, lord," murmured the guard holding his left arm. The other one shushed him.

Abârpânarú nodded. "Lead on."

They passed through a maze of dimly lit corridors until Abârpânarú had lost all sense of direction. At last he was brought up a long flight of stairs. When it leveled off, they entered a large drafty hall. Abârpânarú raised his chained hands to his squinting eyes against the brightness.

The querrulous one spoke. "We have brought the traitor, my lord."

"Accused traitor, fool. But never fear, the accusations shall be proven soon enough. Bring him before the seat of the high priest!"

The two guards pushed him not ungently forward, and he walked to the center of the hall, before the high priest's seat; a throne it was, really, though empty. His eyes adjusted to the brightness, which as it turned out, was not so bright; many torches in many sconces, brighter than his cell and the corridors below, but dim compared to how home was lit. Home. He could never return there, even if he somehow escaped, for they must leave the island. Abârpânarú's throat tightened. He raised his chin and looked forward as impassively as he could.

The high priest sat in the throne, regarding him. Abârpânarú blinked. Had he fallen asleep? Or was this some sorcery?

"Bring him forward to me," said the ice cold, coiled voice of the high priest in slow, slow tones. Abârpânarú looked into the high priest's eyes. They were dark and snakelike in their steady malice. The high priest leaned forward, watching him with naked hunger. "One of the Faithful, are you?" the high priest sneared.

Abârpânarú did not turn his eyes away from the high priest. "Are you leveling an accusation against me, Lord Sauron?"

Sauron's eyes narrowed. "Do not bandy with me. You are doomed. Unless you foreswear the star lovers, and those supposed godlings they bleat to in the west, with their needy love. Foreswear them and live! And maybe then I will let you serve me."

Abârpânarú knew the choice. Serve Sauron and become one of his evil henchmen, learning and wielding all the sorceric power he offered ... or die. But to become a servant of Sauron was death, a worse death than to die a sacrifice on his blasphemous altar. Abârpânarú cleared his throat.

"I am thirsty. May I have a drink?"

"I would hear the eloquence of Abârpânarú Karibzir." The high priest made his name sound like an insult; but he waved an arm, gesturing that his request should be fulfilled. A pitcher was brought and lifted to his lips, and poured in the general direction of his mouth, most of it pouring down his neck and shoulders, running down his chest. But his thirst was slaked.

"Speak, oh grandiloquent of the Faithful," the high priest jibed.

"Now that my name has been sullied by the lips of this blasphemer who sits before me, I shall never use it again. From now on I am Mabalar Melethroch, and all my kin and kind shall be known in the same speech. That is my answer."

The querrulous guard rounded on him and landed his fist on his face, knocking him out of the two guards' hands, sprawling on the cold stone floor. He was lifted to his feet by no visible force. He looked up. Sauron's hand was raised toward him, closing around open air. Mabalar felt his throat being squeezed.

"You have condemned yourself, fool. You shall die. Add him to the list!"

The throne went dark and was lost to sight. It was as if all the malevolence in the room had suddenly evaporated. Sauron had left.

Just then, Mabalar noticed a velvet curtain close off to the right. He had not noticed that it was open, but its closing made him realize that it had been.

As he was hustled unceremoniously back to his cell, he wondered who had been standing there.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

A dark line of horsemen wound through the green-brown fields of the Andustar. The Kariborim, only half rested and lightly laden, moved at a moderate pace through the fields, far from the sight of any curious eyes. Their riders seemed unnaturally sober, barely speaking to one another as they rode.

As she left her home further behind, Kâthaanî's head spun. It seemed she had made this identical journey only minutes ago, although it had been more than a week. Her mother's sudden acceptance of her intent to ride with the men shamed her. She had expected to be elated, had imagined herself as a bold leader in the journey. Now, with Azarmanô's unanswered challenge repeating itself in her mind, she didn't know what she could bring to such a quest.

She had imagined herself as the expert on the care of the Kariborim; but she was not needed for that, either Tiru or Nimilroth could easily handle any emergencies on that front. She had imagined herself as the leader who alone knew the site and manner of her father's capture; but there was no need for a leader in this group either. Nimilroth, stone faced, rode near the front with only Thoronmir ahead of him. There was no need for the leadership of a young girl here.

What was her purpose on this journey?

I challenge not your resolve, for I know it is tenacious, nor your constitution, for I know it is strong, but only your judgment. You are not knowledgeable in the art of wielding the sword and know not the horrors of warfare. On this rescue, we will most certainly encounter the king’s men in combat. Are you certain that you wish to oppose them?

Kâthaanî rode silently at the end of the line, twisting her fingers in Ruki's mane, knowing she wished to oppose the King's men, but wondering how she could do so and why she'd come.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fragmented thoughts chased themselves through Inzillomì's concentration as she cried into Ziraphel's shoulder. If they should die... what would I do if they should die? As if reading her mind, Ziraphel stroked her long hair, murmering soothing words into her ear. My darling Abârpânarú, alone... he will believe there is no hope... he will believe they will not come... he will believe I ordered them not to. She sobbed harder, cradled in the arms of her husband's sister. It was too much for her. She had always had Abârpânarú to share the burden of leadership with. Now, she felt that burden and could not pretend not to. She opened her eyes, drawing away from Ziraphel. The letter! Quick as lightening, Inzillomì had written her daughter a short letter, tucking it into Cerveth's bag. Her usually thin and graceful script was choppy and perhaps difficult to read. She only hoped that her daughter would find it. She heard her own words reverberating through her head as her tears slowed.

My Cerveth, they have experience,
and they have will, but only you have
the passion. Only you, dearest, have
the love of a daughter. Be brave,
little one, and I will see you again.


Composing herself slowly, Inzillomì looked wryly at Ziraphel.

"Well," she said. "If we are to have such noble visitors come dawn, we had better get to packing." She wiped her eyes softly. "What think you, sister, of their quest for speed? I think, perhaps, that our charming escort should learn some patience."


Seeing Inzillomì's thoughts, Ziraphel set off to her chambers with a small laugh, to perform a last check of her belongings. Tucked to her body by her sash, Inzillomì could feel a small vial. She smiled, thinking of what fun it would be to see her guards forget orders. With a gleam in her eye, she thought of ways to bide time. She must give the rescuers time. With a satisfied grin, she walked to her garden to pick the last of her herbs. Surely they would not deny a disgraced woman cuttings from her gardens? She smiled once more.

[TomBrady12]

Step by step, Marsillion could feel himself draw closer. Closer to Armenelos, the shining capital of the West. Closer to Abârpânarú, his strong minded uncle, the lover of horses. Closer to the seat of the King, the man responsible for the deaths of so many. Closer to the final betrayal. Irreversible and immense. Treason. Traitor. Permanent seperation from my homeland. From my people .

Not my people , his inner voice reminded him. My people are here with me. My people wait in Romenna, and in a dank cell in Armenelos. It's values that make men brothers, not blood. Tiru is my brother. Tiru is my blood . Such were the thoughts of Marsillion as the rescue party worked steadily into the east.

A crow called, it's loud, eerie caw stealing Marsillion's thoughts, and bringing his mind back into the present. Ahead rode Thoronmir, behind the rest of the companions. Marsillion checked Mani to a halt, the first instructions he had given her since they set out. Azarmanô cantered past, followed by Abârzadan. Marsillion waited for these two to pass before joining Tiru and Kâthaanî at the rear of the party.

Marsillion rode quietly alongside Tiru for a time, casting a look of distrust on the young man riding a few paces ahead. “Tell me Tiru,” he whispered, leaning close to his friend, “why a man, whom none of Abârpânarú's closest confidants profess to know, would be willing to throw his young life away for a man and a cause he knoweth not?”

“That I do not know,” Tiru responded earnestly. “Some men of that age seek glory, do they not?”

“Aye, they do indeed. But this man is not a member of the Annanost. Nor a member of the Faithful at all. For such a man, there would be no greater adventure then sailing defiantly into the West. Loyalty to the King brings great adventure in these days. The King and his dark priest have infiltrated our group before, taking first my father, and now my uncle. And there were others Tiru, do you remember the others? Fair, Adunîbal, and his beautiful wife Izrebâth. There was Sulumazad, Tiru, do you remember noble Sulumazad?

“I do, of course,” Tiru responded with sad eyes. “Brave and strong the lot of them.”

“Aye, they were. The King took them all, and could yet take us. Whether Abârzadan dealt horses with Abarpanaru I know not. But the man is dangerous, Tiru. A danger to us all. Whether a spy of the dark one, or a seeker of glory he is dangerous, and he is a liar.”

“Perhaps yes,” Tiru conceded, swatting a fly from his mount's glossy neck, “but this mission is a danger to us all with or without him.”

“Indeed,” Marsillion spoke, his voice changed from a whisper to a normal conversational tone. “Let us be vigilant brother. We shall do our best and trust the Valar to aid us. Let us flush these dark thoughts from our minds. Tell me my friend, will you seek your former people when we arrive safely in Middle Earth?”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô, seated high atop his horse, a white mare whose name he did not even know, cantered past Marsillion and behind Abârzadan, the strange one. He had not gathered any more information about the strange man than he had known back in Inzillomì's house, nor had he a great desire to. If Inzillomì trusts him with rescuing her husband from prison then he must be reliable enough. And yet a pit of caution lay deep in Azarmanô's stomach. There seemed to be something mysterious about the stranger, even ominous. Why had no one recognized him? Mysterious horse breeders did not inspire Azarmanô with confidence.

Yet he did not have time or energy to contemplate deeply his ambivalence toward the man. Azarmanô was more concerned with rescuing Abârpânarú and safely reaching Rómenna with the party intact, which was no light task with the king's men on the hunt for Faithful. The journey was not a pleasent one, nor one Azarmanô had wanted to make, especially with his family waiting for him at the harbor, but honor and duty compelled him to undertake the task with sincerity. He owed this much to the leader of his group, those who had shared his hope that somehow, someway, Amandil would return and bring the help of the Valar. Now, when that hope was gone and the only option left to them was to flee Númenor, the bond that Azarmanô shared with the group was not diminished, but strengthened. He must assist his companions in any way tht he could, especially in so dire a situation. They must not tarry or lag for any reason, but proceed with alacrity toward Rómenna. There was no time, no time for Elendil's ships to tarry and no time left for Abârpânarú, not with the moment of sacrifice drawing nearer and nearer.

He held back steed to ride beside Kâthaanî who sat deep in thought on top of her mare. Azarmanô wondered where her thoughts wandered, whether to her beloved father in chains or to the words of caution that he had given her regarding the hardships of battle. Turning toward the woman, he spoke,"Lady Kâthaanî , have you thought more of my warning? Are you certain you are ready to face the king's seasoned troops in combat? It is not too late to return home. If you wish, you may journey straight to Rómenna. I would offer to lead you, but I fear my bow cannot be spared. It is better to go now then to be killed by the hand of the enemy. I do not question your valor, but worry only for your safety."

[littlemanpoet]

Inzillomi had shown them maps of Númenór before they had left. The main road led due east to Ondosto, just within the borders of Forostar, from where it tended southwestwards toward Mount Meneltarma and Armenelos. Kâthaanî and Abârpânarú had left the road at Ondosto and headed northeastwards, as far away from Armenelos as they could travel safely with the Kariborim. Neither way would be open to them this time. They must needs stay away from Ondosto, and off the main road between that town and Armenelos, for fear of being caught by the King's Men. On the other hand, Armenelos was their destination. The only way was to pass north of Meneltarma, through fields and hedgeways and forests, as much out of sight of roads and tollways as possible. Then they would have to make a circle around Meneltarma until they were within sight of Armenelos. Sauron's foul Temple to Melkor would be the first indication they would see. At that point they would have to decide what to do with the Kariborim, as well as the precious item that Kâthaanî carried, unbeknownst to all but Inzillomi. It was indeed the greatest reason why Kâthaanî had to be part of the rescue party, for the eyes of the King's Men would be upon Inzillomi and the Faithful she traveled with over the main roads to Rómenna.

These things were on the mind of Kâthaanî when Azarmanô asked his question. Kâthaanî was about to answer when not twenty furlongs ahead of them, a dozen mounted King's Men appeared before them from both sides of the road, closing off the way ahead of them, just a league shy of Ondosto.

"Halt! And make an accounting of yourselves to the King's Men!" cried one of them. "Who are you and why do you travel? Who is the leader among you?"

[Himaran]

Abarzadan could almost feel the shock run through the party. They had expected an easy journey, followed by hardship; but not this! Not the terror of being captured before they were close enough to do some good. At this point, they were just throwing their lives away. No one spoke. Something had to be done immediately, and the man decided to take action. If he failed, they were dead - if he succeeded, perhaps he could finally gain their trust. He eased his horse to the front of the group, and addressed the captain with eloquence and tact.

"Hail the King's men! My lord, we too serve your master loyally. One amongst our party is a prisoner, who commited crimes against the King. He has been entrusted to us to transport to his Majesty, to be tried and consequently... punished." The captain of the riders brooded for a moment. "Why were none of our scouts told to expect you?"

The man thought hard again. His answer had to be perfect. "My lord, our journey was supposed to be one of secrecy. We were, of course, told that all the appropriate authorities had been informed of our coming. Perhaps the messenger made a mistake and missed you."

"State your names, then." The captain's stare was one of cold steel.

Abarzadan wasn't sure whether or not to lie about this particular issue, but as no one else stepped in, he merely told the truth. "My name is Abarzadan; I am the leader of this patrol." The man went on and listed the other members, including the alleged 'prisoner.'

The forthcoming answer from the captain was less confrontational this time. "Ah... well, we are returning to the great city tonight as it is. Since there are other patrols like us out there, we shall ride with you so that your passage shall not be further molested." He watched Abarzadan's eyes, but they remained impassive.

"We would not want to interfere with your business; there are other criminals out there that need catching. Besides, there are those among of that are well trained. We can take care of ourselves." He glanced around, smiling casually, but then noticed something rather disturbing.

Thoronmir was gone.

[littlemanpoet]

Though yet a league west of Ondosto, the area where the King's Men confronted the party was not unpopulated. On each side of the road were manorial vineyards, owned by families with heritage as lengthy as the years since Elros. The confrontation has caught the attention of field hands that had been working within hailing distance, and these had now drawn near the road, watching curiously.

One of them pointed at a figure moving amongst the vines on his own side. He called to the group. "Is this your prisoner, sneaking off?"

The leader of the King's Men heard him and called for his men to move up and surround the party.

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion sat like stone upon Mani. He listened with contained disgust as Abârzadan concocted a far flung accounting of the company's business. Fool, Marsillion thought to himself. He was about to kick Mani to the front and intercede when he saw a sight that froze his blood. Thoronmir had slid from his mount and was moving stealthily around behind the patrol. Folly! Screamed Marsillion's inner thoughts at the sight of the former statesmen crawling hand and foot through the tangled vines.

By this time a crowed had gathered, finding the commotion a much needed break from a mundane morning's work. If the fellowship were to attack now they would surely throw away any opportunity of freeing Abârpânarú , or even reaching Armenelos. If they could even survive the initial combat.

Seeing the situation spiraling quickly out of control, Marsillion nudged Mani forward, while keeping a careful eye on Thoronmir. Just before reaching the spot where Abârzadan and the patrol leader were talking the unavoidable happened. Thoronmir was discovered. Spears were lowered and the party was enclosed. The situation had grown deadly.

“Who is this insolent buccaneer hindering my progress!” Marsillion boomed, as he kicked Mani directly at the leader of the king's men, sending his inferior horse backpedaling foolishly in fear. “Is there a commander among this rabble of poverty?” Marsillion sneered, spitting in the direction of the known commander.

“I command this patrol, as I've already informed your counterpart,” was the reply. The words were spoken loudly, but Marsillion noticed a slight hesitation in the delivery. The arrogance was gone from the tone, replaced instead by confusion.

“Counterpart!” Marsillion roared with all his being. “I'll inform you to spare you any further embarrassment, that you have directed your inquiry to a slave. Is that your normal practice?” Before the man had a chance to respond, Marsillion began again, this time mockingly quiet. “I suppose I should expect no more from the dregs of our King's army.” Growing louder now, so the gathered throng could hear, “everyone knows every soldier worth that title is sailing now with the King toward another great, nay the greatest, victory man has yet seen!”

Mani snorted, sending the small shaggy horse, now a few paces away, into a panic, nearly throwing the commander to the ground. By the time he had regained control of the scruffy animal, his face had gone from an enraged red to an embarrassed crimson. When he had gathered himself, the commander questioned, “who are you, who insults a soldier of the king? Why is it that your man here tells a far different story then you?”

Marsillion sent the commander such a glare that he had to turn away from those piercing blue eyes. “My man?” Marsillion questioned softly, those dangerous eyes still at work. “This is my slave, you dimwitted fool,” Marsillion cried, roaring again as he grabbed Abârzadan's stout jaw in one powerful hand and jerked his head around toward those eyes. “What story did you spin this time, you miserable leech?”

Marsillion sat, clutching Abârzadan by the jaw, as the stunned man attempted to spit out his previous story through Marsillion's strong grip. Upon it's completion, Marsillion spit squarely in the young man's face, a gesture he regretted having to perform, and would need to apologize for later. Releasing Abârzadan, Marsillion turned Mani, and rode up along side Azarmanô , who sat erect, a look of understanding on his salt weathered face. “Why did you not see fit to keep this lying brigand under control? Do I pay you a charitable fee, or do I pay you to tend my slaves?” Marsillion asked condescendingly.

“The latter,” Azarmanô confessed shamefully. “I am most sorry, my Lord, may I serve you better in the future.”

“If you do not serve me better you will have no future!” Marsillion barked as he turned Mani back toward the King's Men.

“Do you truly expect me to believe this man is your slave,” the soldier asked, pointing sheepishly toward Abârzadan. "His dress is more fitting of a king.”

Marsillion boiled over with laughter, some of which was authentic. “Have you seen many kings? I am the Lord of Andunië , and I am the closest you will ever be to royalty,” Marsillion shouted for all to hear. “I see you gaze at my mount, as well you should. This horse is worth more then the homes of your ancestors as far back as memory reaches. The cape on my back is finer than all the riches you will ever posses. Tell me, why should I not dress my slaves in any attire I deem reasonable? Clear this path, business presses, and the hounds need not tarry speaking to the fleas.”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô froze as he saw the king’s soldiers appear and block their path. A confrontation with them meant certain imprisonment and probable death. Abârpânarú would be taken to the altar and offered as a sacrifice. Azarmano watched in apprehension as the stranger explained that he was the leader of the group, which was on a secret mission to deliver a prisoner. Oh, we shall deliver a prisoner indeed---out of Sauron’s jail. Thankfully, the captain seemed to accept the validity of their alibi.

Suddenly Azarmanô noticed that Thoronmir was missing. Before he could even speculate where he had gone, the troops discovered him in a dense patch of vines. The soldiers drew their spears and pointed them menacingly at the Faithful. They encircled the party completely, leaving no escape. The apprehension that Azarmano had experienced before turned to terror: he believed death was imminent. His heart beat still heavier in his chest, his breathing quickened, and he stood still as a stone, waiting.

He was reflecting upon his family, who were waiting for him in Rómenna, when Marsillion broke the tension with a commanding exclamation. “Who is this insolent buccaneer hindering my progress!” Azarmanô instinctively understood that if any of the party hoped to live, they had better follow Marsillion’s lead. Azarmanô flashed several reverent glances towards Marsillion as he proceeded to chastise Abarzaban for his insolence. Every now and then he interjected a glowing “Oh yes, master". Azarmanô imagined that he would be able to badger his “master” about the whole ordeal sometime later. He had partially emulated this manner of servitude from the comportment of his own men when they moved about in his presence on shipboard. He found the whole situation quite distasteful, but put up such a façade gladly if it meant saving his life and his companion's as well.

Azarmanô was taken aback when Marsillion turned an eye of admonition in his direction, “Why did you not see fit to keep this lying brigand under control? Do I pay you a charitable fee, or do I pay you to tend my slaves?” Marsillion quipped condescendingly.

“The latter,” Azarmanô confessed shamefully. “I am most sorry, my Lord, may I serve you better in the future.”

Don’t count on it, he thought. But in his face a look of painful embarrassment told a different tale, one of disgrace and dishonor. After all, he was addressing the Lord of Andunië. Azarmanô hoped that this charade would be credible enough to satisfy the prying examination of the guards. For the sake of the party’s survival, it had better be.

[littlemanpoet]

The leader of the King's Men bowed his head. "Forgive us, lord. In these dire times appearances may deceive. We have done our duty." He turned to his men and cried, "Lower your weapons! Let them pass!"

As the company filed between the King's Men, who watched them from either side, the sky filled with clouds in a matter of moments, and congealed above them, as if very heaven turned in upon itself.

Lightning struck the ground with a crash in the very spot where they had been confronted. The vineyard workers fled from the road, and the mounts of the King's Men careered, carrying their riders far afield. The eyes of the Kariborim were wide with fear, and their ears were laid back against their manes; but they did not lose the mastery of themselves as did those lessers.

The company passed into the fields north of Ondosto, and stayed away from that town, and off of the road. By nightfall they had gone well east of the town and settled in a camp without fire, far in a back field of a great manor owned by who they knew not. They discussed the watch for the night.

[littlemanpoet]

The rattle of a key in the lock of his cage woke Mabalar. He felt at his throat, swallowing again and again. He could still feel the hands of Sauron around his neck; it was as if those evil hands would always choke him, scald his neck. It was hard to breathe.

"Shhh!" whispered the guard; he recognized him. It was the one who had earlier told him the time, only to be shushed by the other guard.

"It is midnight, my lord," whispered the guard. "Sauron is in his temple offering sacrifice to his evil god, so we are somewhat safe."

"Would you help me to-" His voice came out ragged, as if forced across sandpaper; it hurt to speak.

"No, my lord, I have not the means. But there is someone who would speak with you. I shall leave you now."

Someone who would speak with him. Who? Someone who desired secrecy. He thought of the curtains that had moved with the presence of someone who had watched his mock trial. The cell door stood ajar. He would try to get away this instant, except that he was still chained to the wall by both hands and feet. Even if he was not bound, he considered, it would be foolish to try to escape. If the young man had not the means, knowing the lay of the prison, what hope had he?

A tall, hooded figure approached his cell, its dark robes flowing as if hovering on a cushion of air. The figure held a thick candle before it in unseen hands. As the figure passed through the open cell door, Mabalar could see that it was someone of noble bearing, very tall, taller than most Númenórean men; and that it was a woman: no man walked with such grace.

"I greet thee, Mabalar Melethroch." Her voice was as silk, deep and rich. She knew his name, and used the speech of the Eldar!

"I am sorry, milady," he said in a gravelly tone, "you have me at a disadvantage."

"More than one," she said, and drew back her hood. She was indeed fairer than silver or ivory or pearls, as had been said by those who had seen her. She looked at him with cool eyes and a face of patient sorrow.

"Tar Miriel!" His throat hurt, but he could not hold back his words in his surprise.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî twisted uncomfortably where she lay in the thick grass of the field. Distant stars shone intermittently above her as the night winds drove waves of thick cloud toward the capital. It was late, and her watch had passed, but still she could not sleep. Travelling was nothing new to her, but sleeping in the cold on the ground was something she had done only rarely and had never enjoyed. Her one thin blanket was spread on the ground, and she pulled her dark blue cloak closer around her for warmth.

The lightning that had driven the King's men away in terror had left Kâthaanî unnerved as well. She shivered, wondering again why she had come on this journey. She had been useless in the confrontation, hoping only to pass unseen or to be taken as a family member and left alone. She had no skills to offer this group, only the desire to see her father again and to help him safely reach Rómenna and her grandfather's ships. She thought again of the lightning, perhaps she should have stayed with Inzillomí and Ziraphel.

She glanced in the direction where she knew the blue shadow of the Meneltarma would be if it were daylight. The gods were angry in the West, that was why the Elves stopped coming out of Tol Eressëa; her father had told her, now she had seen for herself. The black clouds and the angry hail, these were the signs that their defiance had not gone unnoticed. Their defiance, not mine, she corrected herself silently. Soon we will be gone from this place, and we will begin again. Without their defiance.

As though seeking comfort she reached one hand into her nearby saddlebag to skim her finger lightly across the surface of her mother's palantir. She traced the smooth surface, thinking of the home she would never see again and her family. She sighed heavily.

"Wakeful, Little Mistress?" The voice behind her startled Kâthaanî and she sat up quickly, yanking her hand from the saddlebag. A sharp pain in her finger made her cry out softly and Tiru dropped to his knees beside her, the look of concern on his dark face visible even in the dim starlight.

"It is nothing, you startled me," she reassured him. She put her stinging finger in her mouth and tasted the salt of blood.

"It has been a long day," Tiru replied, "and not one that lets me rest easy, either. But you will need your sleep, Little Mistress, tomorrow will be hard day of travel, and there may be many days like it. Do not worry, we are watching." Kâthaanî nodded and lay back down, her bleeding finger still in her mouth.

As soon as Tiru was gone, Kâthaanî thrust her hand back into the saddlebag in search of whatever had cut her finger. She pulled out a small piece of folded paper, wrinkled where tears had fallen on it. Even in the muted starlight she could tell the handwriting was her mother's. She strained to read the hastily written words:

My Cerveth, they have experience,
and they have will, but only you have
the passion. Only you, dearest, have
the love of a daughter. Be brave,
little one, and I will see you again.

Crushing the note in one hand, Kâthaanî rolled over and began to sob softly into her blanket. She cried until she slept.

[littlemanpoet]

Tar Miriel stood before Mabalar in regal splendour; her face glowed eerily in the light of the candle she held before her.

"It has been long, Mabalar Melethroch," she said evenly, looking down at him with eyes that did not give away her thought.

He nodded and coughed to clear his throat of the lasting pain of Sauron's grip, in vain. "To ....what," he labored, "do I owe ... this honour?"

"Time grows short, Mabalar," she replied.

"Do I not ... know it?" he grated. "My life ... is forfeit."

She shook her head. "I spoke of Númenor."

"Aye," he nodded. "Ar Pharazôn is ... a fool-" he coughed. "Doubly, for his ... vain challenge .... of the gods as ..... well as pandering .... to Sauron." He succumbed to a fit of coughing.

"Târik! Bring him water."

The young guard who had unlocked the door came forward with a pitcher and poured a little into Mabalar's mouth. The guard stood, waiting for the Queen's next order.

"My thanks," Mabalar whispered after few cooling, soothing swallows. His throat still hurt in the two places where Sauron had invisibly pinned him, but he could swallow again, and his voice was less roughened.

"Mabalar," Tar Miriel said, "I think that of the two of us, you shall live the longer."

He frowned. "What mean you? You will not take your life!"

"Nay," she shook her head. "'Tis a foresight. I do not think you will succumb to the machinations of Sauron. Do you not have hidden friends in this city?"

"Maybe. What of it?"

"Ah, Mabalar, you trust me no longer." Her tone held amusement, but hurt lingered in it as well.

"You are the wife of Ar Pharazón."

"Not by choice, as you well know."

"Well I know it."

"Târik, unlock his chains and leave us."

"Milady, I-"

"Do as I say." Her tone was mild but held command that brooked no objection or disobedience; nor hesitation. Târik unlocked Mabalar's chains. "And leave the pitcher there." Târik left. Mabalar rubbed his wrists and ankles.

"'Tis dangerous to remove my chains, my Queen."

"Stand, Mabalar."

He looked up at her, measuringly. "You are my queen." He stood; he was no more than two inches taller than she.

"You have changed little, Mabalar." Her voice was soft; and carried upon it the hint of something wished for.

"Nor have you, except for the despair I see in your face ... Miriel."

"Would that you had challenged him, Mabalar!"

"You know that I would have died at the hands of that overwheening wretch."

She nodded. "I often dream of what might have been. You know that you would have been my consort, Mabalar!"

He sighed. Never so tragic a figure had he ever seen. Her life was ashes.

"You live in the past, Miriel, and little do I blame you, for it is not of your doing. I have a beloved wife and daughter now, and we shall flee this land if ever I get free."

She looked closely into his eyes, saying nothing for long moments. At length, she spoke; in a deadened tone.

"You must escape. There is something I must give you. I will give it to you when you assure me that you have the means."

"How can I assure you?"

"Make plans. If and when those plans are ready, send word through Târik, and I will come with my gift."

"Can he be trusted?"

"He chafes to leave this land, and would with you, if you would have him."

"If he proves true, and both of us come through alive, I will have him."

"Fare well then. Târik!"

She left him. Târik gave him another drink, then locked him in his chains, and closed him in his cell again. Mabalar thought long into the night before sleep took him.

[Meneltarmacil]

Standing watch for the night, Thoronmir thought about what had occured earlier. They had managed to bluff their way past the King's Men this time, but they may not be so lucky again later. They had vaguely recognized him, Thoronmir knew, and the only thing that had saved them was the fact that they hadn't put all the pieces together yet. Sooner or later, they were going to be discovered.

He gazed at the lights of Ondosto off to the south, wondering if the people there had any idea of the catastrophe about to befall them. Numenor was great once, Thoronmir thought, but pride and ambition have corrupted the minds of many of the kings and is going to destroy Numenor, probably for good. If we could just be grateful for what we have instead of continually trying to grab for more power and wealth, this world would probably be a better place. I hope we can learn from our mistakes this time.

Thoronmir sighed and continued to watch for danger.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô twisted on his pillow, unable to sleep. Doubts flooded into his mind stemming from the group’s perilous encounter earlier that day. They were able to escape the king’s wrath once, but would they be able to do so again? And how would they rescue Abârpânarú form his cell and transport him to Rómenna? Azarmanô’s close encounter with death brought these haunting questions to the front of his mind. What real chance did a small band of faithful have of rescuing a prisoner form Sauron’s iron grasp? Yet he knew he could not permit himself to think that way. They must complete their mission and they must do so quickly. He only hoped that the next encounter with the king’s men, inevitable though it might be, would go as smoothly as the first. Yet somehow, Azarmanô felt that he would need to brandish his bow before their journey was done.

Azarmanô reviewed the events that had transpired that afternoon carefully in his mind. The party surely would have been slain if it had not been for the quick thinking of Marsillion. Abarzadan seemed to have placated the men by telling them that he was the leader of a group delivering a prisoner to the dungeon when Thoronmir, the fool, had tried to sneak up on them from behind. He must have thought himself incredibly clever until the troops had discovered his presence and the situation turned fatal. Perhaps it was better that he was discovered, for had he been successful in launching an attack of some sort, the party would all surely have been killed. Now if only I had thought of appointing myself Lord of Andunië first, Azarmanô thought whimsically. Azarmanô had planned to pester his “master” and apologize mockingly for failing to “keep the lying brigand under control.” But, instead, he felt as though he owed it on his honor to thank Marsillion. He did not know much about any of the men, but perhaps he would take the time to make closer acquaintance with Marsillion, since he held him in such high esteem.

It was late, but Azarmanô wanted to talk to Marsillion now and not wait till the morning. The matter pressed inside of him, and he did not want to forget about it or become preoccupied with something else. He rose from his tent and traveled the short distance to that of Marsillion. Azarmanô feared that he had already turned into his tent for the night, but, seeing a light inside, lifted the flap and peered in.

“Marsillion,” he began “I come to offer deep gratitude for saving our lives. I commend you for your quick thinking and superb acting skills, although I think that I did a fine job as your incompetent servant. Do you think I was reverent enough? In any case, thank you. I hope that someday I can return the favor. Do you have any idea what Thoronmir was planning? He almost got us killed.” He stood in the door of the tent and waited for a response.

[Himaran]

A cool wind whistled across the campsite, but it was not enough to cool Abarzadan's heated temper. He had not spoken a word to anyone in the party the rest of the entire day. The man had even considered deserting, and striking out on his own; why was he out here anyway, risking life and limb to save one of the lower classes whom he had never even known. The anger in his heart slowly melted as he lay there in the uncomfortable saddle-bag - it was far too rough, and was not properly stuffed - but it was turning into something else, just as destructive: bitterness. What had Marsillion been thinking? Abarzadan's story had been far more believable, after all; just not quite as animated. The King's men were not preparing to slaughter them all, and yet the little hero had felt it necessary to not only save the day, but humiliate another party member in the process. It was amazing that the King's Captain had so willingly swallowed his tale, in direct contradiction to the previous one. Furthermore, Marsillion had yet to apologize for spitting in his face; an act that, under any circumstances, Abarzadan felt worthy of the harshest retribution.

The wind was interrupted, after a while, by the sound of muffled voices. Curious, Abarzadan slid out of his bag. Peering outside, he saw Azarmanô holding up the flap of Marsillion's tent and speaking rather quickly. Straining his ears, the man could pick up most of the words; as expected, Azarmanô was heaping lavish and almost servant-like praise on his 'master.' "Do you have any idea what Thoronmir was planning?" Master and servant, eh? No, Thoronmir's acts remain a mystery, but I would prefer to be tortured by the King's men than ever so much as speak to either of you again.

And he meant it.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì looked sadly about her stable yard, taking in the sight of her companions in the mid-morning light... and of all of their sizable load of personal items. She smiled at the thought of mischief to come. Her brothers remembered fondly her childhood tricks... Inzillomì had never lost her spirit.

She rode a placid gelding today, his finely kept tack gleaming in the morning sun. His sable coat shone as brightly as his mistress's flowing locks. She looked to her companions, meeting Ziraphel's eyes with an inconspicuous nod.

"No!" she called, riding over to the stable hands that were loading the last of her heavy trunks into one of the wagons. "Put that beside the other, not on top, you fool. If my belongings are damaged before this trip even begins you will not have a happy day, m'boy." Despite her words, her voice was pleasant and her eyes kind. A man with a small boy on his shoulders came over.

"M'lady, my family is gathered. What would you have us do?" His eyes held a small amount of fear, kept severely at bay. He would not frighten his son, Inzillomì saw. She looked at a small cluster of well-dressed but plainly frightened people. Of all, only the old woman looked completely unperturbed. Inzillomì dismounted, handing the reins to the man.

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" she asked with a bow before walking toward the group. "Grandmother," she addressed the woman with a deep curtsy. "I welcome you. Could you spare a moment?" The women of the group greeted the lady with curtsies as deep as her own, eyes wide.

"Of course." she cackled. "Where would you have my old bones take me, child of Elendil?"

"Not far, I assure you." she smiled. "Just this way?" They walked together, Inzillomì's arm around the old woman. "Grandmother, your message has reached me only this morning. You say you have special needs?"

"Special needs indeed." she winked openly. "These old bones of mine can't travel for naught but a few hours each day, and these few and far between. Would they have me in pain?" she laughed with the lilt of one quite used to getting her own way. Inzillomì smiled. What fun! she thought.

"Grandmother, the King's Men arrive soon. We should be prepared to leave ere they come." She led her companion back to the stables beckoning to the erring stable boy. "Young man, Grandmother Nîlozâira will require a comfortable position in the front of one of our wagons. I trust in your abilities."

She returned to the man, winking at him. "All shall be well, friend. I have but one request of you. Some of our younger companions are not yet used to their mounts. Could you watch over them on our travels?" He nodded, glad to be put to use, and walked away with his boy tousling his hair.

---------------------

When the King's Men rounded the final bend to the home of Abârpânarú Karíbzîr and his kin, their eyes met a large group of impatient travellers. Three heavily laden wagons with a respected grandmother enthroned upon their faces glared at the guards. Inzillomì held her mount steady and waited for the captain of the guard to find her. He rode forward, stopping a respectful distance and half bowing in his saddle.

"Mistress Inzillomì, I must object to the size of this party. My orders are to escort yourself and your family with as few necessary items as possible." He looked around in awe at his childhood friend's audacity.

"Captain," she spoke with polite disdain. "These people are my family. Do you see? This man," she gestured to he who tended the young ones, "is my husband's cousin. My sister Ziraphel rides beside me. Do you see these children? They are my relatives by marriage. Would you have me move to the further shore and leave behind those I have become so utterly close to?"

He looked at her, lost for words. "I... well... m'lady... as they are family, I am sure there will be no problem, but I may have to summon more escorts, and surely this entire load is unneeded?"

"You question me?" she asked with a sidelong glance. "There are a score travellers, which requires sleeping arrangements for each. Would you have a grandmother sleep on the ground with the dogs? I thought not. In my party are children. Would you have them leave behind all fond memories of their youth? Of our ladies, would you request that they leave their romantic letters of their courtship? The young men requested simply their hunting items. Shall I deny their only request? Also, we carry meals for ourselves, unless your men had planned to provide for us? Not to mention clothing and cloaks. Shall I have my people unload our carts and saddlebags? I was under the impression, Captain, that we were in a hurry, and you, m'lad, are keeping the King's orders waiting."

He nearly laughed at her unexpected argument. "My lady, it is unnecessary, but I am under orders to..." he paused, not wanting to continue. "I... must check your... bags." he finished lamely.

Inzillomì glared at him. "If you must know, my bags contain my womanly necessaries. Can a woman have no privacy?"

As he turned away flush-faced, she smiled mischievously. "My people!" she cried. "Our journey begins." With a final look at her home, Inzillomì rode, at the beginning of a long and slow moving line, into the bright sun, with the wind in her hair and the past at her back.

[littlemanpoet]

Mabalar woke to a familiar scraping sound. Târik was placing his food and drink before him; the door to his cell was unlocked and open.

"How are you, my lord?" the young guard asked.

"My throat burns," he grated. "Otherwise, I am well." Mabalar coughed from the effort of speech, which was becoming rare in the last few days.

Târik held the jug of water for him. He took it in his hands and lifted it to his mouth; but the chains caught him up before he could reach his mouth. An exasperated sigh escaped his lips.

"Allow me," said the guard, taking it from his hands and raising it to his lips. Mabalar drank.

"My thanks. How is my steed?"

"Well cared for. You may be prisoner, but your horse is treated like royalty."

Mabalar nodded, satisfied and not altogether surprised. "Tell me of Tar Miriel."

Târik looked over his shoulder. "Not now, my lord, others are near. I must go." The young guard was soon gone and Mabalar was again alone. He ate the meager food he had been given. At least it was not crawling with vermin. He had heard stories about the dungeons of Sauron; and maybe they were true; it seemed that Miriel must have something to do with his fare. So be it. He thought of Kâthaanî and Inzillomi, and wondered how they fared.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì thought longingly of her husband as she rode. His handsome face took up permanent residence before her eyes, leaving her to guide her mount simply by instinct. She listened vaguely to every sound in her vicinity, not taking much interest in them. Birds sang cheerfully at the heightening of the sun as tack jingled and children giggled. Adults were appropriately solemn as they left their homes for the unknown East.

Her eyes were bright, but she planned to blame it on the sun if she was asked. No sense in showing weakness, she thought cynically. She fell back to whisper in the ear of a tall man riding a fiesty stallion. He discreetly palmed the small bottle in her hand. Falling back farther, she rode beside the children and their watchers, taking a small girl into her saddle.

"Do you see, child?" she asked, directing the wee one's vision to a pair of bright birds dancing through the air. She kneed her mount into a prance, startling laughs from the girl. A cry broke through the air as a man fell from his saddle... the same man she had spoken to a short time ago. Passing the girl to the man next to her, Inzillomì quickly dismounted, running to the man. He lay on the ground clutching his ankle. He smiled weakly at the lady as she looked at him with grave concern. He moved his hands to show her a spreading bruise across his swollen ankle.

"You'll want to keep that covered with pressure," she whispered, motioning to the bruise. His purple palms went back to his ankle as he cringed against the swelling. An empty vial fell from his sleeve to be pocketed by Inzillomi. "Nîlozâira! We require your assistance." Inzillomi called as the party stopped, milling. The grandmother hobbled her way over to inspect the injury as the man lay stoically still. The guards kept a close watch as the old woman looked closely at the man, glancing sideways at Inzillomi.

"He'll need rest. No movement, that's for certain. Not unless you want to risk further injury." Standing, she looked down at Inzillomi and the man. "Get it bandaged and keep this man still. I'll need time to find my healing bag, buried as it is in those dreadful carts."

"How much time can we expect to waste?" asked a guard irritably.

"At least an hour." snapped the old woman. "Find my supplies yourself if you feel the need to hurry me, but don't blame me when this man never walks again just because you didn't want to wait a short time."

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion sat alone in his thin walled tent, quietly fingering the soft leather grip of his heavy sword. The thought of wielding such a weapon against a fellow Númenorean sent a shiver the length of his spine.

Tucking the sword back into his saddlebag, Marsillion, preparing to turn in, was surprised to see Azarmanô appear in his doorway. Before Marsillion could offer a greeting, the sea captain began. Marsillion listened carefully, relieved that the Captain harbored no grudge for the way Marsillion had handled the situation with the King's Men earlier in the day. The thought of alienating himself from the rest of the group had been wearing on him. He had considered apologizing to Azarmanô and Abârzadan, but had decided against it. After solving the situation earlier in the day, Marsillion felt he had thrust himself into the previously vacant leadership role in the party. It was a role that desperately needed filling, and grudgingly, Marsillion decided to take it upon himself. A leader must be strong. A leader must be respected, Marsillion had thought during the long, dull ride that afternoon. I can not apologize for actions that saved the lives of all, offensive though my actions may be. Pride can be regained, life can not. Very relieved was Marsillion to know that Azarmanô held nothing against him.

“Please come in and we can discuss these issues further,” Marsillion offered, waving vaguely into the tent. “Sit and be refreshed. I have some dried beef and smoked cheese if you will join me,” he said as the older man took a seat in the corner of the small leather tent.

“I greatly appreciate your company, as many of your concerns have been on my mind as well,” Marsillion stated, taking a bit of aromatic cheese from his saddlebag. “For your thanks I am grateful, no more so than for your convincing play of my servant." Marsillion said, cracking a smile. "You catch on quickly Captain.” Taking time to slowly chew a bit of dried beef, Marsillion thought on the matter of Thoronmir.

“Thoronmir is, as I think many political minds can be, a bit eccentric. Loyal to our cause he is certainly, yet I do wonder how long it will be before he pushes us back into the fire. He acted very foolishly yesterday, no denying it. Perhaps the two of us should approach him in the morning, for we can certainly ill afford him to endanger our mission so rashly again. Tell me, how did Abârzadan swallow the events of yestermorn? Do you trust him Captain? He is brave, almost to a point of admiration, but how can we trust him with our very lives? The time must soon come that the truth is wrung from this young drifter.”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô stared at Marsillion a while and thought about the questions that he had raised. When he answered, he did so in a low voice so as not to attract the attention of the other men, particularly those whom he was speaking. The party had many dangers that threatened it from the outside; they could not risk having an internal rift split it from within.

“Yes, we must certainly approach Thoronmir and warn him against making such an impetuous decision in the future. Our chief goal must be to complete our mission alive, avoiding conflict if possible. The easiest way to Armenelos is not through bow and axe but stealth and cunning. I worry that some members of our party seem to forget that.

As for Abârzadan, he is more of an enigma to me now then he was at the start of our journey. He seems always dower and bitter, rarely speaking to anyone or attempting to strike up any sort of camaraderie with the other men. He seems distant in a way, separate from the rest of the group, as though he does not belong. Surely he is not of the Faithful, yet still he risks his life trying to save our leader. I have not seen very much of his face since the Faithful incident, but whenever I do see him, his countenance has been filled with disgust. In my heart I do not completely trust him, yet I can not bring myself to confront him. Perhaps it would be best for us to leave his history undiscovered. I do not think he would betray us, for he could have done so already. He is not dangerous as much as he is puzzling.”

Azarmanô yawned and blinked repeatedly, the weight of sleep resting in his eyelids. The day had been a long and eventful one, perhaps too long and eventful for Azarmanô’s taste. He hoped sincerely that tomorrow would be much more boring and commonplace than today: one close encounter with dying had been quite sufficient. He would be happy if he did not see another man of the king’s guard for the duration of the journey, although he had a sinking feeling that they would meet quite a few of them before all was said and done.

He focused his attention back on Marsillion and said, “I grow weary from our long day. I will go back to my tent now and we shall approach Marsillion together tomorrow morning and speak to him about his rash actions. I think it best if we keep a close eye on Abârzadan for now.”

He bid Marsillion a good night and returned to his tent, falling asleep as soon as he had burrowed into his warm bag.

[Himaran]

The following morning was bright and sunny, but the pleasent weather did little to raise Abarzadan's spirits. After it was announced that they were moving on, he quietly began to pack his few belongings. His poor mood was further doured upon finding that an animal had left a small surprise on his axe case, which had formerly been a beautiful item. He swore, and kicked it across the tent, only to find that the still wet fecal material splattered over the rest of his belongings. This evoked further rage, but the spell lasted only a few minutes. "Probably something Marsillion set up," he mumbled, surveying the now collosal mess.

Cleaning up was no easy task, but Abarzadan was glad that the others did not seek to know the cause of the brief ruckus inside his tent. Despite his anger over various issues, the man was happy that they were leaving - he wanted to get out of this wilderness and reach the city. Once there, the group was not a necessity to him. The man could leave descreetly if he so wished, and never return; after all, the "Faithful" were sailing away. It did not matter, really. They didn't want him anyway.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The party had continued onward some two hours after the fall. Inzillomi gave her reins over to a willing hostler and rode in a cart beside the man. His leg was well-bound and his symptoms were uncomfortable. She felt bad about the rash, but they had washed the oils off his hands before it could spread beyond his leg. They had managed to bandage him before the itching had began, and so all that the guards could see was a bruised swelling. The swelling itself was impressive... she hadn't been sure if the liquid would work. Inzillomi had been rushed through her brewing of the three-leaved plant... she had almost splashed herself with the mixture more than once, but when finished, she had almost a half dozen vials of the deep purple stuff. She chastised herself over the rash... she needed to think of a way to separate out the effects of the plant... In the mean time, the man beside her was the very picture of hidden discomfort. She knew that he must itch like mad, given the expanse of skin that he had "bruised" for the sake of the cause.

She favored him with a smile, assuring him that the rash would clear up quite soon with the old woman's remedy and that his leg would stay swollen for awhile, but that he was quite brave and that he was quite deserving of praise. He smiled back and stretched out as much as he could in the cramped space. He longed to be back on his mount, but good actor though he was, it would be entirely too hard to convince suspicious guards that the recipient of a very recent broken leg was comfortable enough to ride.

Inzillomi stayed with him until the crushed herbs began to soothe him, speaking softly of sea shores and salty winds. As he dozed, she left him, walking for a time beside the children. Eagerly they showed her what they had found during their "break". As she praised them over the discoveries of shimmering black stones and delicate white blossems, small hands found their way into hers. A short time later, she found her mount once more and rode with the young ladies, gossiping about the handsome young men said to inhabit the eastern shores. Time passed slowly and all the while, her mind rested on her husband... she could only hope that the rescuers were making as good progress as she was.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî woke early, still groggy from her restless night. She took a long drink from her water bottle, trying to wash the sleep taste from her mouth and shook her head. Tiru still slept, curled in a ball in a mound of blanket and cloak, near the entrance to Marsillion’s tent. She could see her cousin’s shadow moving through the thin fabric walls of his shelter. Azârmanô and Thoronmir she did not see.

Abârzadân was up as well, Kâthaanî could not tell what he was doing, but he was moving jerkily through the grass muttering in a loud voice and a pile of his belongings lay on the ground beside him. She approached him uneasily and paused a moment before speaking. “Good morning, friend. Does all go well for you today?”

Abârzadân glanced up at her quickly, before turning back to his piles. “It is nothing.”

Kâthaanî raised an eyebrow at the man, but asked no questions and soon turned to wake the sleeping Tiru. The servant rose reluctantly, stretching and yawning in the mild morning. Kâthaanî could hear his joints creaking and snapping as he moved. Her eyes widened at the sound. Tiru, noticing her surprise, smiled wryly and commented, “You are from a long-lived people, Little Mistress, but I am no longer young among my own people. My limbs may be accustomed to long days, but they do not always like it.” She nodded in silent understanding and bent quickly to help the smaller man fold his bedroll.

While the two of them worked to pack their things, Azârmanô and Thoronmir returned to the camp with their wet hair plastered to their foreheads and full water bottles slung around their shoulders. The party finished loading the Kariborim in silence and, mounted once more on Nitirú, Kâthaanî slid back into place behind Azârmanô as they left their campsite behind.

The mood among the rescuers was somber, the haunting fear that had settled on them during the previous day’s mishap still lingered around them. There was no singing and very little speech among them during the day’s journey, but the travelling was fast and the roads were deserted and they made good time. Marsillion’s face was grim at the front of the column, and Thoronmir’s equally so at the rear; and the urgency that all six felt weighed so heavily that they did not stop riding for lunch, but ate plain bread and sipped water as they rode.

As evening fell and Kâthaanî began to feel Nitirú’s pace slacken, Marsillion called for a halt. “The ground is higher here, and this is as much cover as we will find tonight. I think we should stop here.” One head after another began to nod as the group silently dismounted, stretching their aching legs and unloading their mounts. Captain Azârmanô built a small fire, and prepared for the first watch while the others prepared the campsite. The grateful Kariborim, now unbridled, lowered their heads and began to graze, as one by one the rescue party unfolded their bedding and dropped wordlessly into it

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion awoke before sunrise and packed his gear for another long day of travel. As far as he could tell the rest of the party still slept, nobody was about. After taking a bit of food, Marsillion quietly slipped away to refill his canteen and freshen himself for the day ahead. The campsite sat in a small, but dense growth of woods atop an isolated hillock. From a spring near the top of the hill a bubbling brook ran careening through a rocky course onto the far sweeping plains below.

Marsillion stooped down beside the brook and splashed the cool water on his face. He took a large mouthful and reached for his empty canteen. As he did so, his attention was caught by a light in the woods above him, not far off. The sun, although still not risen was sending a pink glow sweeping across the horizon when Marsillion began to crawl hand and foot toward the perceived light. As he drew nearer he could see that indeed a small fire was burning a short distance off, and he thought he could make out the silhouette of a man sitting back to him. Marsillion crept closer, until he was only a few yards distant, tucked quietly behind a tangled bush of thorns. From this position he could clearly see three men sitting around a small watch fire and one dozing on the ground not far off. The men were unmistakable. Here, camped on the same hill as the rescue party, was the patrol of Kings Men that had confronted them the previous morning. Marsillion felt his stomach clinch in knots, his arms and legs falling simultaneously numb as he picked up the conversation around the camp fire.

“I suppose they think they are mighty clever. Why don't we just shoot 'em now and be done with it,” demanded a young soldier. “I've a quiver full of good arrows, the traitors would never know what hit 'em.”

“Because, you ignorant louse,” barked the captain, “our commander has a better fate planned for them. They are to be allowed unhindered to the capitol. The high priest knows of their journey. They will not succeed. Our mission is simply to follow at a distance, not to interfere. One of them has something the High Priest desires I think.”

Marsillion had heard enough. Willing himself to move he slowly inched back down the slope. I must get back to camp before the sun betrays me, was all he would allow himself to think about. When he reached the spot where he had bathed himself earlier, he stood and ran clumsily through the woods the short distance back to camp. He gathered the party, which by this time was fully awake and awaiting his return, hastily around and told of what he had learned. “A new plan must be constructed,” Marsillion stated plainly, pinioning his overwhelming emotions deep within. “The lives of many hang in the balance.”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô listened attentively as Marsillion informed them of the three men of the king’s soldiers that spied on the party, paying attention to every detail of his account. The news was devastating, particularly so because they had just escaped the clutches of this same foe scarcely a day before. His premonitions about future encounters with them had indeed been verified, although Azarmanô sincerely wished that this had not been the case. Their mission seemed to grow more perilous as it proceeded. And he was also sure that there would be more such tribulations in the days to come as they inched closer to Armenelos, Abârpânarú’s prison, and Sauron himself.

But how had the enemy gotten word of their mission? Azarmanô looked around at his companions with suspicion. Had one of their own men betrayed the party? Such a question had never entered his mind until now. There were strangers in the group, men whom he did not know well enough to be certain of their loyalty. Thoronmir, one such stranger, was rash and impetuous, but his quick actions seemed to be done for the benefit of the Faithful, if not with careful consideration. But Abarzadan loomed large in Azarmanô’s eye, especially due to his caustic, sour attitude, and a clear separation between him and the Faithful. He had been quite an enigma up until now, and Azarmanô still did not know his true motives. Although he had not been interested in digging up these secrets, recent events had caused him to view the situation in a different light. Why had the king’s men confronted them to begin with if their mission was one of espionage? The only reasonable conclusion, at least the only one Azarmanô could draw at the moment, was that someone on the inside cooperating with the king had staged the whole incident. And hadn’t Abarzadan been the first one to try and appoint himself as the leader of the group escorting the prisoner? Perhaps he had arranged the ambush so that he could win validity and trust from the group by saving the day. Of course, this was only a theory spun by the onset of shock, but Azarmanô’s suspicion of Abarzadan and his furtiveness nonetheless grew.

A new plan must be developed indeed. The party could not simply march into Armenelos, knock on the dungeon door and ask to speak to the leader of the Faithful. Now that they would be watched, an additional element of secrecy was needed for their entrance into the city. Azarmanô did not relish the thought of arriving at Armenelos and stepping right into the trap of Sauron, earning himself a cell next door to Abârpânarú’s. He spoke with a measure of authority because, he believed, the group was in need of strong leadership at the moment.

“Thank you Marsillion for alerting the group to the king’s spies. Although we scarcely need more dangers in our mission, we will have to deal with them. A new plan is needed. If we act covertly, we may be able to escape their detection, at least for a time. We shall have need of disguises, although I do not know where to obtain such raiment. Perhaps an opportunity shall present itself along the way. We must pose as ruffians whom the king allows to prey upon a group of hapless Faithful. We can boast how we slay them and stole their mounts. Perhaps at night we might hide in the Noirian, the Valley of the Tombs, final home to our kings and queens. I have even heard rumors that there are long, dark passageways within the underground labyrinth connecting the ancient tombs to the dungeon hallways, though I know not if they are true. How does this plan strike you?”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì woke with the dawn, smiling at the sight of silently sleeping children. She knew that the quiet would not last, but it was a small blessing to know that the younglings saw this trip as an exciting adventure. When they realized that they would not be going home after a few days away, things would change and the tension would rise.

"My lady, a word?" A young guard spoke to her. It was not so much a question as a command, but Inzillomì followed wordlessly a short distance away from the group. "They are precious, are they not?" He nodded toward the children and she allowed him a smile.

"Yes. They most certainly are. They do not understand this trip, and I would prefer that it long stay that way. There is no need for them to be afraid."

The guard bristled. Though he worked for the King with devotion, he was kind and compassionate. "Inzillomì Elendili, we guards are no fools. Any tricks and your mounts will be given into the service of the King and his men. Should any mishaps occur this day, we are on a tight schedule and will not stop. Care should be taken by your people."

She looked at the man shrewedly. He knew of the fall, that much was apparent. What she did not know is if he had seen fit to share that knowledge. His eyes were kind... he understood their reluctance, and knew that a certain number of tricks were to be expected. He was young, but he was one of the brightest. "Sir, I thank you for your words of wisdom," she said, revealing nothing. "I can only hope that no more unfortunate accidents will happen... we cannot afford time lost, and I would hate to see a good man such as yourself blamed for our tardiness."

She walked back to camp to take a crying infant into her arms. He calmed quickly as she walked slowly beneath the trees. There will be no tricks this day... she thought. We cannot afford to draw suspicion... I can only hope that my Cerveth is safe and travelling quickly... There is nothing that I can do now to help...

[littlemanpoet]

It was midnight. Mabalar had eaten his fill and soothed his throat with cool, clean water. Târik stood just inside in Mabalar's cell, informing him that the unholy temple of Sauron was engorging itself on victims sacrificed to Morgoth.

"I asked of Tar Miriel last we spoke. Tell me of her now."

Târik nodded. Sorrow came to his face. "She suffers. Not by Sauron's or any man's hand. But she endures a living death. Faithful she is, but cannot show it or say it."

"Are you then Faithful?" Mabalar asked.

Târik's face became eager. "Aye, lord! I would flee this accursed isle with the Elendili had I the chance!"

Mabalar smiled grimly. It could be that the boy spoke the truth. He exhibited a naiveté that suggested idealism; but that could be a ploy of a devious mind. He would have to search out this boy's heart and make his own judgment.

"Tell me of the Queen."

"She hides deep within her rooms each night when the Temple is ablaze with its unholy red light. But in the morning she climbs the Meneltarma and looks west over sea. It matters not what the skies let loose, weather hail or storm or portentous thunder.

"The black sails of Ar Pharazon have long since disappeared beyond the horizon, but still she looks, but not for the King. I think she looks for some sign of mercy out of the West."

"None shall come," remarked Mabalar. "Not now that the fool has gone on his blasphemous quest."

Târik nodded. "Aye. She looks without hope, for she cannot cease. 'Tis an evil time to be the faithful queen of an unfaithful land and lord. I do not envy her lot."

There was a clanging noise down the corridor. Târik looked back fearfully. "I must not be seen here, my lord!" He passed out of the cell, locked the door, and slipped away. Darkness closed in as his torch disappeared around a corner.

Another dim light from another torch came slowly toward his cell. There were five guards. "Open the gate," ordered one. "'Tis this rogue's night to join the line. We shall see how hungry the altar is, eh?"

The guards laughed as they forced Mabalar to his feet and reclasped his chains so that he could take small constricted steps, surrounded by guards bristling with knives.

[Himaran]

Abarzadan awoke with a splitting headache. He had gotten them often as a child, when many a night was spent crying himself to sleep with both hands clasped to his forehead in a futile attempt to make them leave. Now, the pain only increased his poor mood. Each morning, he found himself with a group of strangers that he was following for an unknown reason. Pushing the nagging thought to the back of his mind, the man poured some water from his canteen onto an old rag, and pressed it to his forhead. The liquid was far from cold, and did little to numb the pain. Cursing, he tossed the useless scrap aside and stomped outside the tent. Unwelcomed sunlight hit his unajusted eyes, furthering his discomfort.

Glancing around, Abarzadan saw Marsillion dash out of the woods and bend over momentarily, catching his breath. The man motioned to everyone nearby, and called out to those not seen. Once the party had gathered, the self-appointed leader proceeded to relate the short tale of his run-in with the King's men, who obviously knew a lot more bout the group than any of them had anticipated. "A new plan must be constructed," Marsillion boldly stated, and looked around the circle, searching for suggestions. Azarmanô answered his silent call, and talked briefly about hiding out in a series of tombs. Just what I've always wanted to do.

Suddenly, Abarzadan had the feeling that many sets of eyes were boring into him. What, they think I'm a mole? That I tipped the guards off, and all this was due to me? Actually, the idea was not that far fetched. The man realized that he did indeed fulfill most of the requirements necessary for being spy; he was relatively unknown, yet had showed up at the captured man's house and presented himself as an old friend. Furthermore, he had indeed acted rather strangely recently. He decided to keep his mouth shut for the time being. Better not act like I know anything about the guards and their operations. I'll just sit this one out.

[littlemanpoet]

Mabalar was led through a maze of underground corridors, the guards' torchlight the only means to see. He lost all sense of direction as they roughly forced him to walk faster than his chained feet allowed. He tripped often and his knees and shins were streaked with blood. Far ahead he could hear someone shreaking in pain.

At last he was brought into a great dome, the inside of which was lit with red glowing torches. In the center of the dome was an altar on a dais. Standing by the altar was a figure in black. Mabalar knew who it must be. There was a fire on the altar and a stinking smoke rising to the dome's zenith. The figure turned toward him.

Mabalar saw those eyes. They pinned him where he stood. He lost all track of time as Sauron's probing eyes studied him. He felt as if he was being flayed by the tyrant's very glare.

"Bring him forward!" Sauron commanded.

The guards shoved him toward the altar. This was the moment he had dreaded. He caught his balance and did not fall. But now the guards were not forcing him beyond his chains' pace. It was as if they were reluctant to go too near the altar, as if they might be the next victim of the Dark One's whim. Mabalar had dreaded this moment, but now that it was upon him, he found that he was clear of mind and not afraid to die. He feared the pain only.

He came to the dais and climbed the levels, which were just barely within reach of the limits of his chains. The guards did not follow him.

"Ah, Mabalar Melethroch," Sauron whispered, "you see your doom."

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion listened attentively as the respected captain articulated his plan. It was solid, so far as Marsillion could tell, and at any rate, something must be decided immediately. “Very good Captain,” Marsillion said at the conclusion. Feeling the eyes of the party on him in this moment of decision laid heavily on the young man's mind as he strove with all his being for wisdom. Father, send me your guidance, he prayed as he began to speak.

“Your plan is well thought out my friend, yet let me add more. With no objections, the party shall hence forth be split. Captain Azarmanô, you shall lead Thoronmir and Abârzadan west with all speed toward Rommena. The King's Men will see you ride. Let them. With luck, they might presume that you have abandoned the mission and have gone to seek refuge. Ride hard, and hide not. Circle the city before approaching from the east. Disguise yourselves and enter the city in secret. As for myself, my noble cousin, and the brave Tiru, we shall ride slowly and secretively through the Valley of the Tombs. Halting and hiding often, we may be able to occupy the soldiers long enough for the rescue party to find and free my uncle,” Marsillion said, clasping his fingers tightly around his heavy leather belt, hoping none of his comrades would see the shaking of his hands. “Once inside the city, seek out Monôizindu Igmizadan, he may be able to aid you. Gentlemen,” Marsillion said, facing the three proud men of Númenor, “you are still free to leave. Your stake in this affair is small, yet you risk death. Proceed only if you feel you must.” The faces of the three remained still, the solidity of their resolve showing blatantly. Even the mysterious Abârzadan's face shown with grim determination. Seeing their faces hard as stone, Marsillion knew they would go on. “The speed and strength of Tulkas I wish for you,” Marsillion said quietly. “With the grace of the Valar, we shall all meet again soon.”

With that, camp was hastily broken, and the Kariborim readied. Shortly before leaving, Marsillion pulled Azarmanô aside to speak to him in private. “Captain, I thank you for your dedication to my family,” he said in a low whisper. “I ask you now for one last favor. Keep both eyes on this Abârzadan. How the King's Men know of our plans I do not know, but be sure Abârzadan is kept close.” Azarmanô's sharp nod was all the confirmation needed. With that the two men clasped arms briefly, and led their two parties off down the slow descent of the lone hill in separate directions.

[Meneltarmacil]

The party discussed their options. It was agreed that part of the group would ride as fast as possible to Romenna while the others would stay in Armenelos to rescue Abarpanaru. Thoronmir listened until Marsillion was through, then spoke once he had the chance.

"Marsillion," Thoronmir said. "A word with you, please?"

"Yes?" the other man said.

"No offense, but I really do not find the idea of running away from this place while Abarpanaru remains here appealing. I request that I be allowed to stay and help in the rescue effort. I know the layout of the city well and could be of some service to you here."

"No," said Marsillion. "I'm sorry, but it really would not be best to have someone as conspicuous as you wandering the city here. The King has already declared you a criminal, after all."

"You're probably right," said Thoronmir. "I suppose I'll start leaving. I wish you luck. I hope we meet again soon!"

With that, Thoronmir walked off to get ready to leave.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi's eyes widened as she rode into view of the sea. Time was running short. Sails danced in the distant wind like captured clouds. The sea breeze tickled her face, teasing strands of her hair from her braid. Her skirts flickered gently about her ankles as she rode as slowly as humanly possible.

A guard trotted up beside her. "My lady, it is here that we leave you. Your party will continue on to Romenna... it is there, m'lady... just in sight. We will stay upon this ridge and watch... to make sure there is no trouble."

"I understand." she stated softly. He grasped her arm, looking into her eyes. Their horses danced, nervous to be so close.

"Inzillomi... may the Valar bless you and keep you in their sight." As her eyes widened in pleasant surprise, he blushed faintly and rode away, calling to the group.

"You will ride on! Our escort ends here. Romenna is there-" he pointed. "and you will reach it very swiftly. The lady Inzillomi assures me that arrangements have been made for your living. Ride straight to the shore. Farewell, and ride safely. I would hate very much to be forced to come after you."

With those final, seemingly uncaring, words, the guard of the King's Men gathered together, leaving the large group alone, and looking small and scared. Inzillomi dismounted, walking from family to family.

"We have made it, friends... In the distance you see Romenna... we will soon be in the company of my father, Elendil, and my brothers, Isildur and Anarion. Our trip has been long, and filled with unfortunate accidents... with luck, we shall find solace here. Come, my friends, and let us ride!"

With that, she mounted her mare once more, and rode onward to the city, the dignified head of a line of weary travellers. Varda may you light the path for my daughter, and the darkness for my husband. Aule, I pray for strength for us all... The time has come when our hastily conceived plans must come to fruition, or not. Eru above, please bless us and all of our endeavors.

[littlemanpoet]

"Ah, Mabalar Melethroch," Sauron whispered, "you see your doom."

Mabalar swallowed the bile in his throat and said nothing. If this was the end, there was nothing he could do. He raised his eyes and silently besought the good will of Eru.

"Bring the victim forward!" Sauron cried suddenly. Mabalar looked in surprise at Sauron as a young man in chains was dragged up the stairs of the dais to the altar. He begged for mercy, tears and spittle staining his face. Sauron grinned and faced Mabalar.

"I would have you watch your doom. And know, Faithful," he spit the word, "that I give you one last chance to turn away from the lies of the supposed gods of the illusory western lands, and swear your loyalty to me. If you do, I will promise you great power, for if you earn my favor I have a great reward. I see in you, Mabalar, a strength of will that I would not see wasted upon the sacrificial altar. I have Rings of Power, and I would give one to you, to be a lord of one of my realms, if you but foreswear the Valar. What say you?"

Mabalar was silent for a moment, allowing the evil one to stand upon a glimmer of hope, thinking that he would betray his family and friends, and the very gods. He opened his mouth.

"I would sooner die the death of a cursed dog than be a lord under the werewolf Sauron."

The evil one's visage turned into a mask of hate and malice.

"I will give you one more chance, fool." He turned on the guards. "Place the victim on the altar!" He turned back to Mabalar. "I will have you watch this fool's dying agony, powerless to stop it."

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô recognized immediately the brilliance of Marsillion’s plan. If the eyes of the guards were focused on the group that they thought was bound for Armenelos, Azarmanô could easily enter the city through a circuitous route and escape their detection. They would have to use deception if they wanted to reach the dungeon alive, since Sauron was undoubtedly waiting for them, waiting to strike and slay them all on his altar. And this plan offered the perfect solution for entering the city undetected. Azarmanô was still quite unsure, however, of how they planned to rescue Abârpânarú once they actually arrived in Armenelos. Surely rescuing a high priority prisoner from the dungeon of Sauron himself would not be easy. Although, in his heart, he felt that somehow they would devise a method for freeing their leader. But the group must solve their problems one at a time, and the first one they had was how to get into the city without getting killed.

Of course, they would need some sort of spectacle to dramatically announce the splitting of the party. Otherwise, the dim-witted guards might not understand what was going on and which section they were supposed to follow. It would have to be melodramatic and theatrical, for Azarmanô wanted to make a profound impact when he announced the group’s fissure. Besides, he rather liked trying his hand at acting a second time, although this go around he found the character he was to portray much more to his liking. Afterwards, he hoped, there would be no doubt to any guard within ten miles what the intentions of the group were.

He leaned forward toward Marsillion and whispered in his ear, “I want to make sure our guard friends know which group to follow. Play along”

Spinning around he assumed his character with an arrogant grin, he bellowed loudly, “I do not care you lout. I will not go another inch accompanying you on this folly mission to Armenelos. I value my life too greatly to throw it away on some crazy rescue mission. Come I am abandoning this quest and returning home. Let every man who wants to live follow me. There is too much danger in trying to continue and I do not wish to find my fate on the altar like our leader. We must leave immediately.”

After his harangue, Azarmanô leaned close into Marsillion again and whispered as softly as before, “The trap is set; let us hope that the mouse will bite. Thoronmir, Abarzadan, and I shall leave in a period of ten minutes. At which time you must find a hiding spot and keep quiet till nightfall. After we ride west for half a day’s journey we shall inspect to make sure we are not followed, turn around, and approach the city from the east. Fear not for we shall ride with speed and shall not stop to rest, though we may be weary. With regards to Abarzadan, I have suspected his loyalty for quite some time and will be sure to watch him closely. He shall not try any trickery on us without my knowledge, for I have a keen eye for treachery, one trained by many years of commanding crews on the sea. Far thee well.”

“Onward men,” he shouted and lead Abarzadan and Thoronmir away from the rest of the group. As he watched the others fade slowly in the distance, he wished fervently that they would unite once again with Abârpânarú free to lead them.

[Meneltarmacil]

After arriving in Romenna and having something to eat and drink, Thoronmir stood on the balcony outside his room, waiting for the rest of the party to return. Clouds of smoke blocked the stars from view in the west and obscured Thoronmir's view of Armenelos. Thoronmir felt uneasy, as if something terrible were about to happen. Was it his imagination, or were the seas and the mountain more restless than usual lately?

He continued to watch for any signs of people coming from the west. If the unnatural turbulence in the land and the sea continued, they would need to get away fast. If they waited too long, they very well might be killed. Either way, none of them would ever see Numenor again.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi walked alone through the streets of Romenna, her eyes fixed on the ghosted face of her husband. She saw everything, yet noticed nothing. She had spoken to her father just moments before, sharing a tear-filled reunion. Elendil was unhappy to learn of the capture of his son-in-law, and unhappier yet to learn that his grandchild accompanied the rescue party. Inzillomi had begged of him more time, but feeling the groaning of the earth beneath their feet, Elendil promised her nothing, stating only that they must hurry. Now she reflected, wishing that she could share her thoughts.

She had seen to the comfort of her travelling companions, unveiling small bags of sweets for each child. As their faces lit up with enthusiasm, Inzi could not surpress a smile, but now as she walked, a troubled look adorned her pretty face. Suddenly a familiar face snapped her from her reverie. Was it her imagination, or had Thoronmir just walked past her line of sight?

She sped up, half hoping, to meet the man whose seeming so matched the man she had known for many years. She was not mistaken... it was him.

"Thoronmir!" she cried, drawing him to a stop. She fell silent with a look of utter confusion. It changed to tenacity just as she opened her mouth, but he hastily covered her lips with his palm, drawing her into the shadows.

"My lady, do not fear. All is still well."

"Do not play tight-lipped with me, my lad." She spoke quietly and kindly, but every word was punctuated with an uncharacteristic sharpness. Why are you here? You have my forgiveness and my pity if you have left the mission, but I do not see the look of one such on your face. Where is my family?"

"My lady, I do not know." He silenced her with a raised hand. "I will lead you to Azarmanô. He will explain."

"Azarmanô is here?" she began, but he silenced her once more, taking her by the hand and swiftly leading her through the shadowed streets, avoiding the gaze of the curious.

"Azarmanô will explain." Thoronmir stated once more, performing a seemingly random series of taps upon a heavy oaken door before disappearing as quickly as he'd came into the crowd of people in the street.

[Himaran]

Abarzadan sat at a polished hardwood table, hunched over the series of maps spread out before him. No matter which entrance the group took into Armenelos, there would undoubtably be trouble. Even getting to the city itself was an issue, as random patrols of guards were still combing the wildnerness for signs of possible intruders. The man pounded his fist on the table angrily. There just had to be a way! Every city had weaknesses, every fortress had soft spot. Still, the weakness of Armenelos was doing an excellent job of hiding itself from Abarzadan's generally clever mind.

Then came the knock. A carefully-planned series of taps rang out on the apartment's heavy oaken door.

Abarzadan stood quickly. Thoronmir must have finished his errands. The man slid open several sturdy latches and swung the door inward. There, standing before him, was the last person in all of Numenor that he would have expected to see, save Abârpânarú himself: Lady Inzillomi.

Without saying a word, Abarzadan stepped inside and turned towards the apartment's single stairwell. "Azarmanô!"

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô was extremely surprised to see Lady Inzillomi appear at his doorstep in Romenna. The sudden appearance of a woman whom he had not seen for weeks struck him with astonishment. However his expression changed when he realized what a pleasure it would be to talk to her again. Although he had not thought often of her on his journey, he was undoubtedly pleased to see her. An amiable smile spread across his face at the sight of such an old friend coming to visit after so long an absence. She was someone he could trust, someone with whom he had worked for years as a member of the Faithful. He could confide in her the events of the journey and relay to her the perils that they had faced along the way. Such trust he could not share with other members of his group, particularly Abarzadan who was still as unfamiliar and cryptic as ever, although Azarmanô now no longer harbored the same suspicions against him that he once did. If Abarzadan had wanted to betray the group, he could have done so earlier with all the soldiers spying on the group. In that respect, Abârzadan had risen in stature in the eyes of the sea captain, although he still did not feel at ease with the stranger.

With a heartfelt greeting, Azarmanô directed Lady Inzillomi into his room at the small inn near the center of the city. It was one which many Faithful were using to lodge until the time came to leave for the mainland and forever abandon their ancestral homeland, something he too would have to do. As he escorted her to the main room, he saw her visage troubled and pulsing with questions about their journey and her still-imprisoned husband. She must wonder at my presence here more than I wonder at hers, he thought. How did she ever come to find me in this large city and how did she know even to look? No matter, I will answer her questions forthright and feed her voracious need for knowledge if not quell her vexed heart.

“My lady,” he began as soon as he sat down,“It is indeed good to see you again.” He briefly inquired if she had seen his family since arriving in the city, but she was unable to give him any further information as to how they fared. He waited for a short period of time trying to think of the proper explanation and carefully choosing his words before proceeding calmly. “We have not yet rescued your husband. The group drew near to Armenelos before discovering that the king’s men had placed spies on us and would surely kill us as soon as we drew close enough. Therefore, we decided to split the group into two. The other half was supposed to wait near the city and attract the attention of the guards while my group rode west pretending to abandon the task and flee to Romenna. We were to then turn around after half a day’s journey and approach the city in secret from the east to rescue Abârpânarú. However, after the appointed time for reversal arrived, I sensed that we were still being watched. After I rode a little further, my fears had been validated as I noticed a royal guard stalking our party as we moved. I gathered that the guards suspected some sort of staged plan and followed me to make sure that I was indeed abandoning the mission. I had no other choice but to ride all the way Romenna at great haste, reaching the city just over ten hours after we had started.

After I was sure that the guards had dissipated and disguises had been acquired, I made plans to leave for Armenelos under cover of darkness. I was finishing my final preparations to leave in a few hours when you arrived at my door. What brings you here my Lady and how did you find us? Fear not for we shall leave for Armenelos as soon as night falls to rescue Abârpânarú from the clutches of Sauron the foul. On my family’s honor, I will swear to you that we will return bearing your husband alive.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

“I do not care you lout. I will not go another inch accompanying you on this folly mission to Armenelos. I value my life too greatly to throw it away on some crazy rescue mission. Come I am abandoning this quest and returning home. Let every man who wants to live follow me. There is too much danger in trying to continue and I do not wish to find my fate on the altar like our leader. We must leave immediately.”

Azarmanô spoke both loudly and with great conviction, and Kâthaanî was forced to smother a grin as he said it. Her cousin’s plan was sure to lead the King’s men astray. She hated to give the task of rescuing her father into another’s hands, but at least she could play her part well in this diversion.

“If life means abandoning my family, I choose it not, Captain Azarmanô.” She spat the words at him, not as loudly as he had spoken his challenge, but still clear enough to be heard. “I will stay with my cousin and we will not degrade our good names by desertion and betrayal.” Angrily she beckoned to Tiru and he followed her away from the small group of bickering men.

Once they were close together and far from the much more interesting gathering behind them, Kâthaanî leaned close and whispered to the stocky man. “Tiru, I almost believed the good captain was leaving us for safety and home.”

Tiru nodded, a solemn look on his dark face. “Yes, Mistress, we have staged this well. If the King’s Men” – he spat as he said it -- “If the King’s Men do not play our game then they are not the fools I believed them to be.”

“They are fools.” Kâthaanî thought of their blindness toward the true nature of their King’s so-called friend and advisor. “They have all put their trust in the treachery of Sauron. They are fools indeed.”

As the afternoon neared its peak the three members of the Karíbzîr household stood in a row on the ridgetop, their shadows barely beginning to stretch out in front of them, as they watched their three companions ride east in a cloud of dust. Marsillion’s face wore a look of mingled regret and determination, so perfectly feigned that again Kâthaanî fought the urge to laugh. He spun on his heel and walked to where the three horses they had left were tethered, packed with their belongings and ready to depart on their own separate course.

“Well, Cousin Kâthaanî,” Marsillion tossed her a smile at last, “There is day left and still miles for us to cover. Let us hope that we can do this thing.”

“Yes, Cousin.” She returned his smile, but spoke dryly. “Let us hope that we can do this, but not too well.” She drew the short worn blade of her knife from under her cloak. “I do not fancy becoming my father’s cellmate and I put little trust in this to save my skin, so let us be cautious and fleet of foot.” With that they mounted their horses, turning their heads toward the North and Noirinan.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As this information flooded her ears so honestly and concisely, Inzillomi showed a brief moment of weakness, wiping dampness from the corner of her eye. It was so good to be with Azarmanô, a man with whom she could share her thoughts and worries. Though she loved each of her travelling companions, they were innocents, the lot of them. Not a one had the gall or depth of spirit to become a guardian, or a leader. They believed, surely, but it would never do to involved them in rescues, or burden them with information they could not understand. With Azarmanô, Inzi could spill her thoughts, relieving herself of the burden of stoicism.

"Captain, I should have said this at first sight of you today, but you have little idea how much a relief it is to see you." Inzi sat silently for a while, sipping the hot tea that Azarmanô had deposited into her hands. "So my daughter...?"

"Flourishing. I sense that she feels uncertain of her place among these men, but I judge that, when she learns it, it will make her stronger in spirit than ever before."

"And Marsillion?"

"A brave leader. Everyone is doing quite well, Inzi. Outside Armenelos, your family and your faithful Tiru draw the guards' attention. We here leave in a short while. Still, one thought plagues me. However did you know to find us?"

Inzillomi grinned impishly, the picture of youthful mischief. "Cannot a lady have some secrets, old friend? But if you must know... I happened to glimpse Thoronmir and he thought it best that he should bring me to you to learn the truth."

"Ah... that old rascal. Deposting ladies on doorsteps, is he?" Inzillomi smiled again before her face took on a more serious quality.

"Azarmanô, you've told me that Thoronmir cannot continue with the mission. Will it be possible for only two to complete a rescue? I have the utmost faith in you, but I still feel uncertain of Abarzadan. Has he yet shared of himself? We have shown good faith in letting him know our troubles, though obviously not all of them... Should not good faith be returned in good faith?"

To this Azarmanô had little to say. Their mysterious companion remained as such, but he could be trusted nonetheless. With her friend's words, Inzillomi dropped the issue. She trusted his judgement.

"Now... there is the issue of Kali. Whereas my usual mount can be stabled at need for days at a time, this lass... gets bored. I will take her back for my own ride so that her talents will not be overlooked, even by accident or unknowing. That would never do." Inzi fell silent for another while. This silence, Azarmanô felt, was more pensive.

"Azarmanô..."

"Yes?"

"I would like to ride with you. Without Thoronmir, you are only two, though two with kariborim. I would be an asset, I believe, to the mission. I can do nothing here save wait. With you, I believe I could make a difference. What say you?"

He stood silent in consideration. This was no small favor that she asked. She saw in his eyes that he required time to think, and as the appointed leader in this situation, there was no point in pulling rank. If he declined her request, she would return to Elendil.

"Think, Azarmanô, and I shall return shortly. If you decide yes, I will be prepared to ride upon return. If the answer is no... I will drink to your health, wish you luck, and pray for your swift return with my family."

--------------------

A very short time later she returned to the Inn. She doubted very much that any of the men on this complicated mission could have packed less, or as swiftly as she. Her packing, really, was more unpacking than anything. She had not yet managed to empty her saddle-bags before she took a walk and ran, fortuitously as it was, into Thoronmir, and so she was able, simply, to toss several bags into an unused corner and half empty one before tucking a few small blades into a pocket.

She had changed into an outfit far more suitable for this kind of work, tightly packing a soft gown into an empty space. One can never be sure when a bit of indignant nobility and sophistication comes in handy. she thought, as she belted a pair of gray pants. The legs were loose, seeming as a skirt when she walked, but for riding offered much more comfort. Over, she wore a loose tunic-length white blouse, with side-slits for mobility. Belting the shirt was a wide black sash, knotted to the side, in which was tucked a pair of daggers, several lock picks, and a vial of liquid she hoped she would not need. Foxgloves... she thought with a sigh... What a fascinating effect they have on the heart. Her hair was tightly plaited by a maid as Inzi tucked non-perishables into each spare corner of the one bag she rode with. Less than an hour after she had left, Inzillomi returned to the Inn, lightly laden, and ready to ride.

She knocked once more on the door, in perfect imitation of Thoronmir's earlier one. The door opened, and she entered.

[TomBrady12]

The sun sunk lazily behind the long southwestern spur of Meneltarma, sending shades of pink and orange shimmering across the western horizon. The small party moved slowly and solemnly east along the slightly rising turf. Cresting the slow rise, they stood upon the brink of a shallow valley. There, tucked between the roots of the mountain, lay Noirinan, the Valley of the Tombs. The silent vale shone eerily in the fading light, the last rays of sun glinting off the tall obelisks and wide arches of gold. “It is beautiful,” Marsillion whispered softly to himself. “Beautiful and terrifying.”

“How tragic it is,” Tiru said with tears welling in his dark eyes, “that these dead are treated with such reverence, while my people are butchered and robbed to provide this obscene overflow of wealth.” Kâthaanî took the swarthy man compassionately by the hand as they turned south and continued to ride slowly along the rim of the valley.

There had been no sight of the pursing soldiers since early morning, and secretly Marsillion wondered if he had taken the meandering to a bit of an excess. The group had planned earlier in the day to journey east to the brink of Noirinan before turning briefly south to bypass the sacred hollow. From there, they would pick up the main road leading east to Armenelos before making camp for the night. They had agreed that in order to be a believable decoy they should at last begin to progress toward their supposed objective. They had just reached the road connecting Noirinan and Armenelos and begun a few paces east when they heard a loud call ahead of them. Scanning the road, the three comrades saw to their dismay four of the King's Men, bows raised, deadly arrows fitted to the strings.

“This game has gone on quite long enough, indigent faithful,” the leader of the group bellowed. “You are under arrest by order of the King of Anadûnê.”

Marsillion glared at the soldier, the same officer he had encountered earlier. “How can this be,” Marsillion raged. “The King has sailed away from this land. He could not possibly have given such an order.”

“The High Priest has been granted the authority to carry out justice in the absence of the King,” the officer replied smugly. Turning toward his small contingent of soldiers he spoke with contempt, “Arrest them.” Dismounting their horses the three soldiers were momentarily forced to lower their bows. Not a word passed between any of the Faithful, the Kariborim were in control now. As soon as the bows were lowered Nitirú, Ruki and Mani spun on their heels and bolted west into the sacred vale of Noirinan. Marsillion heard the arrows, fervently singing, as they flew harmlessly by and clattered to the ground beneath the raging hooves. They had escaped, for the moment.

The three rescuers were carried at breakneck speed down the main street into the heart of Noirinan. Past elaborate memorials commemorating ancient victories, through the final halls of the mightiest politicians and generals the world had ever known. The Kariborim far outdistanced the horses of the King’s Men, but a greater problem was arising. The heavy pounding of the racing hooves throbbed throughout the valley, echoing off the great stone buildings, alerting all the King's Men ceremonially standing guard at the most sacred tombs and monuments. The three fugitives raced through the torch lit city, unaware of the gathering throng of curious guards in pursuit. The punishment for disturbing the peace in Noirinan was death, and Marsillion knew it all too well. They came flying at last to the very roots of Meneltarma, the holy precipice rose sharply before them. Ahead lay the tombs of the Kings, delved deeply into the silent depths of the mountain. Behind, a multitude of guards, their bright helms and intricate armor glowing red in the torchlight. Marsillion pulled Mani to a halt a few paces in front of the pillar of Eärendil, the great statue in the likeness of the heroic mariner. Marsillion dismounted, followed closely by Kâthaanî and Tiru, and walked slowly and reverently up the great granite steps to the very feet of Eärendil. He could feel the guards ebbing closer, yet kept his back to them, bowing briefly beneath the mighty statue.

“Who art thou who so arrogantly disturbs the slumber of the Kings?” one of the guards finally spoke. “Dost thou know thy punishment is death?” There was no response from the three still figures at the feet of the hero. “Declare yourselves, lest you feel the chill of our spears.”

Slowly Marsillion turned toward the guards, as did Kâthaanî and Tiru. They were greatly outnumbered, but it was with boldness and conviction that Marsillion spoke. “I am Marsillion of the house of Thoronfaer. These are my kinsmen, Cerveth and Arkrision of the house of Melethroch.”

The guards expression morphed quickly from curiosity to contempt. “Those names are not recognized here,” he spat viciously. “So you are members of that treasonous sect from Rómenna, aye? Elf-Friends you call yourselves? Fools! I tell you this as a last warning. The power has gone out from the Elves. The King of Anadûnê is the ultimate power now, and we are his right arm.” As he spoke this, the assembly of guards lowered their spears toward the Faithful. “Renounce your folly now and you will stand trial before the High Priest. Continue along your traitor's track and you shall die now.”

Marsillion was about to speak, but to his astonishment, Cerveth beat him to it. “We shall never turn from the path we have chosen,” she said with tears forming in her deep grey eyes. “Faithful we have been, and faithful we shall remain. Never shall we turn our backs upon the powers that brought us out from certain death in Beleriand so long ago. I know I speak for all of us,” she said as she knelt and kissed the stone foot of Eärendil, “when I say we would rather die here, knowing we serve the greater Lord, than die tomorrow at the abominable hands of Sauron the Manipulator.” She stood, reaching into the small sack that she kept on her back. Out from the sack she pulled a long bladed knife, the tarnished silver handle tight in her trembling hands. She held the rusted blade above her head and cried, “Now I give my own warning. Whether by my hand or another, none who would raise arms against the servants of the Valar, the true Lords of the Earth, shall survive to see Yestarë.” When she was finished she dropped her hands to her sides and waited for the reply.

“I see you have chosen death,” the leader of the guards said, with utter contempt. “Kill them.” With that the assembly of nearly twenty armed soldiers of Westernesse moved against the three silent patriots.

“Let us go from this world gloriously,” Marsillion said coolly as he withdrew his shining sword from its hiding place on Mani's broad back. Looking over his shoulder he saw Tiru, with almost a smile upon his time worn face, retrieve the long, elegant bow, borrowed from the family armament, and fit an arrow to the taut string.

“What I do now,” the dark swarthy man said, drawing the string to his ear, “I do for my master.” The long black shaft slid through his stubby fingertips. The arrow stayed true to it‘s target, puncturing the polished breastplate, and embedding itself deep within the chest of the bold spoken leader. The tall Númenorean commander dropped immediately to the cobblestones, his ashen face staring blankly into the west. The fight was on.

Marsillion watched and waited as the guards rushed up the cold stone towards him, the bowstrings of Cerveth and Tiru singing in his ears. Many of the guards, who were armed only with spears, fell victim to the ferocious hail of arrows as they raced forward, intent on combat. Marsillion felt the blood run hot through his veins as the first guard to the top went straight for him, hurling his spear with frightening speed just over the younger man’s shoulder. The spear struck the knee of the great statue, but even the brutal strength of the heave could not harm it. The now unarmed man raced onward toward Marsillion, only to be cut down by the arching swing of his heavy sword. On rushed another, with a great thrust of his long weapon, which was easily sidestepped. Momentum carried the stately guard on past Marsillion, who, with a lightning flick of his strong wrists, carved a great wound across the back of the retreating guard’s thigh, sending him flailing helplessly to the street below. Just then, Marsillion heard a scream that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He turned and saw his cousin, unarmed, in the grasp of a familiar man, his long slender dagger pressed firmly to her delicate throat. There stood the leader of the King's Men who had been following them for days, and who they had eluded only minutes before. His company had come quietly from behind in the mayhem and struck unseen.

“That is enough,” the Captain roared to guards and Faithful alike. “These three are to be taken as prisoners to Arminalêth. They shall stand trial before the great Lord Sauron. Bind the slave and the girl,” he ordered his men as he turned on Marsillion. “As for you,” he sneered, “you who would seek to make a fool out of me. Arrogance, young one, your father should have warned you against it. You wonder how we knew of your mission I suppose, and I don't blame you. Every family has a weakness Nimilroth, even the proud house of Narâkmanô can be cracked. You relied heavily upon your half-wit cousin for information on our movements, did you not? Well, what if I were to tell you we relied heavily on him for information on yours?” He paused, seeming to let the revelation sink in.

“That can't be so,” Marsillion moaned, tears filling his blue eyes. He knew it must be true, for what other source could have told them, but he hated to believe it. “Not Nusaphad,” he almost whimpered.

“Oh yes,” laughed the guard. “If it makes you feel any better, young one, the asking price was very high; but in the end he was convinced to see our point of view. Everything can be bought you see, even life long friendship,” he paused, “when the price is right. Now, Nimilroth, tell me, who has been made the fool in the end?” As he said this he struck hard across the face of the slightly taller man, his iron plated gauntlets tearing brutally across his fair forehead. Marsillion droped to his knees in agony, the sting of blood stealing his vision. “Bind him,” the assailant said casually as he turned and mounted his horse.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô opened the door for a second time. Now, however, he expected to find Lady Inzillomi on the other side and flashed her a warm smile. Her request required a long time to consider, but under the circumstances two hours of contemplation was all he had. He hesitated allowing the Lady to join the party because of the grave danger they would certainly encounter on their expedition into the Temple at Armenelos, layer of Sauron himself. The group was shattered, a mere fragment of the expedition that had set out some weeks before. After Thoronmir’s sudden departure, the only men remaining to accompany the lady were Abarzadan, in whom Azarmanô did not invest complete confidence, and himself. She would be an easy target to single out if they were ever engaged in combat, which he feared would be likely. With her husband close to being sacrificed and her daughter hiding from the royal guards, Azarmanô felt guilty about launching Inzillomi into yet another perilous situation. He could not bear to envision her being arrested by the king’s men and brought to a cell next to the one she loved, awaiting her blood to be spilt on the altar. If a tragedy should befall both husband and daughter, someone must remain to carry on the family name.

He could not plan for the future with great conviction, however, for his concerns were focused on the immediate. It was certainly true that Thoronmir’s departure could not have come at a worse time, but he was certainly glad that he had decided to rejoin the party in Romenna. His departure, however, had given Azarmanô pause to tust him, perhaps even less so than Abarzadan. What kind of fickle companion leaves a group on a whim only to rejoin them later? He did not know Thoronmir's motivation behind his actions, but he was certainly suspicious of them.

Azarmanô had occasionally heard from Abârpânarú that his wife preformed missions for the Faithful when another man was unavailable or ill. In fact, he had employed her aid on his exploits several times and used her as a contact and benefactor. This experience as an operative, he felt sure, would be extremely useful in their journey. She knew both how to conduct herself in the critical missions that they would encounter so as not to attract attention and how to escape from dangerous situations. He had even heard tales that she had wielded a sword once in combat and killed a man, although he questioned their validity.

But the one factor that motivated him in making his decision more than any other was not experience in battle, but trust. The sense of confidence he shared with her grew from their extensive service for the Faithful. The pair had to share a strong bond of confidence to work together, for death lurked in the vacuous shadows waiting for them. The only thing that saved the members of the Faithful in such treacherous times was their ability to find strength in and depend on one another. If he brought her along, he could count on her as a fellow Faithful to be devoted to the task until the end, regardless of what dangers they encountered along the way.

Not only could he depend upon her loyalty, but he knew that she had a stronger impetus to rescue Abârpânarú than even he had. It was her husband who was locked in the dungeon, about to be sacrificed at any moment. The bond of love is a stronger one than any other in the world, and those who have it will never let go until their spirits have left them. Such is how Azarmanô felt about his own wife and son whom he still vowed to see no matter what he must endure to reach them. Inzillomi must feel the same towards her husband who sat enslaved in the dank dungeon and only daughter who remained with Marsillion and Tiru somewhere near Armenelos. Azarmanô only hoped that he could reach the two before something horrible happened to either of them.

He now addressed Lady Inzillomi confidently, “My Lady, we would be honored if you could join our group to rescue Abârpânarú from Armenelos. It is not an easy request you make of me, for there shall be more danger now than ever. The group is split and our number is not as large as it was when we departed from your house at the beginning of the journey. However, I feel compelled to agree to your request because I place a trust in you that I am sure is not misguided. I know that in your prior missions for the Faithful you have displayed your bravely in the face of evil, and you shall do so again in this one. Now that I have warned you, it is best for us to be off. We must make haste, for precious lives hang delicately in the balance. You and Abarzadan will ride together and I shall ride the other Karibor. I have told Thoronmir to rejoin us outside the gates of the city.” Without waiting for a response, if indeed one was forthcoming, Azarmanô mounted his horse and motioned for Abarzadan and Inzillomi to do likewise. “Away,” he shouted before galloping with speed out of Romenna and towards Armenelos and the temple of Sauron.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The skies had opened seemingly the second the group had left Rómenna. In what could only be described as a more and more predictable force of fury by nature, the rain drove into the riders and the ground, churning what seemed as much mud as the hooves of the kariborim. Inzi silently thanked the Valar for the good fortune. As uncomfortable and dirty as it was to ride in this weather (cleaning the mud from the tack would take hours), she knew that very few would set foot outdoors until the rain stopped. The fewer outside, the less likely the three were to be spotted. Ironically, it was just as she thought this, some two hours into the ride, that the rain suddenly stopped. She sighed, laughed at the fickleness of nature, and thanked the Valar for the bright sunlight that would have her dry in no time.

It was at this time that the three stopped to water their mounts and to set their plans in stone... or at least more in stone than they were now. After seeing to Kali, who she had retaken from Thoronmir after his disappearance, Inzi spoke to the two men.

"Brothers in this mission... thank you for allowing me to ride beside you. I'm afraid I must beg of you another favor... your ears, and your advice. It is somewhat um... less than prudent... for me to ride into Arminalêth such as I am. I would be recognized as a child of Elendil in a matter of moments, and as such, the wife of a political prisoner. Many know of me, and some actually know me as a person." She laughed hollowly, wondering why she had been so hasty in joining this expedition. She was a danger to them as she was... it must be remedied, and fast. "I propose a disguise, for myself at the least. I cannot ride to the city as Inzillomi, daughter of Elendil. I would have no reason to be there, and I would be too easily recognized, endangering the mission. What say you to me riding double with one of you... as a sister, or a wife? I can change the first impression of myself at need, but I am in need of a new identiy, it seems. What think you?"

[Himaran]

An instant after Lady Inzillomi finished her request, Abârzadan knew what was going to happen. The scheme forming in his mind was an uncomfortable one, to say the least, but appeared inevitable by all standards. The "sister" scenario would not work because Inzi did not even closely resemble either of the men. Furthermore, Azarmanô had a wife of his own. If he were recognized with his "new" partner, everyone's cover would be blown. This left only one option - Inzillomi would have to play Abârzadan's wife. As the other two waited in silence, the man let out a heavy sigh. He could already imagine the feat of explaining to Abârpânarú - a man he had never actually met before - that he was unofficially married to Inzi until the mission was completed. Still, they had no other options.

Clearing his throat, Abârzadan began speaking. He presented all three possibilities, and then cited enough evidence against the first two to thoroughly discredit them. "And so," he finished, "we are left with only one choice: Lady Inzillomi, you will have to pretend to be my wife for the remainder of our journey. No one there knows or remembers me, so the disguise will be quite effective." After a long pause, both Inzi and Azarmanô agreed. The man helped Inzi up onto their mount, and climbed up behind her. The trio was off at last.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The group had covered the many miles in a few short hours, riding into sight of the city at last. Inzillomi rode in what was far from normal to her, cradled in the arms of the stranger that was to be her husband. She had forced herself to relax; to act as though this were an every day occurence. She fell deep inside her own thoughts, listening to the sound of her breathing; counting the beats of her heart. To a stranger, she looked as though she'd been born to ride double with Abârzadan. Their ride had been mostly silent, with a few quiet comments about where to stop.

Now, outside Arminalêth, and just out of sight of the city walls, they studied their options. Every entrance was heavily guarded. The King's Men swarmed disturbingly in much the same way that good guys don't.

They dismounted, stretching their legs, and spoke quietly in the shadows.

"Now my doves," Inzillomi drawled drily. "we've arrived. How do you plan on getting into the city? Thoronmir, though he has not been seen in this area in quite some time, is a public face that many will know. I am the wife of Abârpânarú, and well known in my own right. Abârzadan, I know you little, so I could not tell how recognizable you are, but Azarmanô, it seems that you are the only of us that could enter unnoticed. I would recommend the sewers, gentlemen, but I have no doubt that they are watched as well. Are there, perhaps, servants' entrances that we could use with care?"

[Regin Hardhammer]

Lady Inzillomì ’s question of how the four of them would enter the city unnoticed was one that Azarmanô had given thought to numerous times before in the course of the mission. He had come to the realization quite some time ago that disguises would be necessary before the group could enter the city. They had experienced several hostile meetings with the guards before, and they were sure to be recognized if they were seen.

The temple at Armenelos would be swarming with soldiers transporting prisoners and keeping watch over the cells. He did not wish to have another unfortunate encounter in close quarters with the royal guards. This time their actions must be covert. They would be the ones doing the surprising and not the other way around. Azarmanô found that he felt much more secure on missions when he was in control of the situation and the element of surprise was in his favor. Yes, they would need to acquire disguises before they penetrated deep into the city. Certainly the Faithful could not traverse the ground so close to Sauron himself and hope to escape recognition.

There was also the question of which path they would take to enter the city with the least amount of visibility. Even with disguises, an enemy still might still be able to recognize some of their number. As a former adviser to the king, Thoronmir had spent much time in Armenelos and was bound to be remembered by some there and probably not fondly either since his flight. If the party entered through the main gate, the soldiers would certainly see their faces, no matter how they were dressed, and seize them. They must find a way into the city that was seldom used by any man. Even if the alternate path took longer and was more rugged it would be worth the trouble if they were able to reach the dungeon of Sauron without being spied on by unfriendly eyes.

But where would they find such a route and where could they acquire such disguises in their present, isolated situation? Ordinarily, when Azarmanô needed a disguise on one of his missions, he was able to acquire one from the house of another Faithful nearby. But here he did not know any safe havens where such an operation would be possible. He regretted to admit to himself that they were quite on their own, separated from any form of benevolent assistance. Neither did Azarmanô know of any alternate route to the city. The only entrance or exit, it seemed from his vantage point, was the main gate where carts drawn by horses and mules traveled in both directions while being monitored by a contingent of several guards. They would have to employ another way of passage if they did not want to be greeted once again by the king’s men, with whom Azarmanô felt already too well acquainted.

The easiest way, it seemed to him, to slip past the guards undetected would be to dress as guards themselves. These disguises would grant the rescuers access to the dungeon, even to the cell of Abârpânarú. They would be able to enter into the very center of Sauron’s layer without arousing suspicion so long as their facade held. The only question was where they could obtain such garb. Suddenly, Azarmanô was struck with an idea.

“Yes lady Inzillomì , we must wear disguises if we are to enter the city. How could we approach the dungeon dressed as we are? It simply would not do. It would be best for us to obtain disguises that can aid our cause. What better way have we to enter the dungeon than to wear the raiment of the king’s men? We must ambush a group of them, not a large one of course, and take their garments. A grey tunic, a shirt of plate mail, and a metal helmet are the three main components of their clothing which we must acquire. As for how we are to get in, we surely can not use the main gate. There are men guarding it and our faces must not be seen by them, for they have spied on us and might recall our identity still. We must use a different path, a more secret one that has not been used in some time. I suggest that we approach the city from Noirian, the Valley of Tombs, final resting place of Numenorian royalty. Many a noble king lies resting in those hallowed halls, perhaps they shall bless us with their merit. The tombs are dank and cavernous, but they provide us with a way into the city that has not been used in many years. I know that this may sound precarious to you, and I do not deny the danger involved. But we must take on this peril with brave hearts and wills of stone, for the path we must take to rescue our leader is mired in fear and darkness. For those who wish to follow, it may be the only feasible way of completing our rescue.”

He spoke with an air of defiance against the evils that stood before them. He had a feeling that he would need his acting skills now more than ever. He gazed ambitiously at the ancient valley as the sun sank into the horizon bathing the sky above in deep purple and bright magenta. It was quite a journey from where they were know, but Azarmanô could see the vague outline of the cave’s mouth and the boulders surrounding the entrance. “Well,” he finally said after scanning the Noirian with intent for several minutes, “We certainly can’t execute the plan without the consent of everyone in the group. Please, tell me, does this propose ring dulcet in your ears?

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi considered his plan for a few moments before responding.

"Azarmanô, your plan has merit. I am rather fond of it, but for one small problem. The King's Men, no matter what fools they may be, would be certain to recognize a woman within their ranks. I could not continue with you, once disguised, unless you took me as a captive to be sacrificed beside my husband. It would be a risk... the audacity is breath taking... but it has been my experience that the best lie is one that contains several grains of truth, and is left to dance naked before the eyes of the ones in question. Audacity is nearly always underestimated. And you must admit... the lot of us being sacrificed by that Dark fiend is not so far from the truth..."

She took a deep breath and left the suggestion to hang in the air.

[Himaran]

Meneltarmacil's post

As much as Thoronmir wanted to find another way of doing things, he had to concede that Inzillomi's plan was probably the best one to work with. He spoke up.

"I do not really like to admit this, but Inzillomi's way is really the only feasable way of getting inside the city. The way through the tombs may work, though I think you will probably find the exit to be guarded. As for acquiring the uniforms, I already have some of their major components and had them brought here a while ago so they'd be ready when I'd have to leave. If Azarmanô could wear it, he may be able to enter a nearby camp and find two other uniforms without attracting a lot of attention. Afterward, we could bring Inzillomi through the gates without a whole lot of trouble, though Azarmanô would probably need to do most of the talking to avoid too much recognition."

~*~

Himaran's post

The group sat in silence, pondering the Lady's proposition. Risky indeed! How could they be sure that the true King's men would not take her from her "guards" and escort Inzillomi to a prison themselves? Furthermore, when news of her arrival spread, the Dark Priest himself would doubtlessly catch word of it, and the entire plan would unravel before their eyes. "My Lady," said Abarzadan, "I strongly disagree. It is too dangerous, for all of us. How do we know that you will not be removed from our custody and dumped in cell which we can never find? Then there will be two prisoners for our already weakened band to rescue." With that, he hunched down in the saddle, as if wearied by his short, passionate speech."

Azarmano exchanged glances with Inzi, and they nodded. The captain spoke softly to Abarzadan: "It is the only sure way to get us past the gate and into the city, and that is our first priority. Besides, Thoronmir here and I are well known, and guard outfits would be a convincing disguise." The former politician, who had just recently rejoined the group, nodded in approval. Abarzadan did not reply, but merely urged his horse forward, and the others followed his example. The four mounted travelers rode in complete silence, and soon arrived at the tombs. Here, their resolve would be tested yet again.

[littlemanpoet]

The cell was cold and dark. Mabalar sat on the floor, his back against the rough stone wall. He could not get the stink of burning flesh out of his nostrils, nor the sight of the dying man's agony from his mind. Yet again he shut his eyes tight against the images racing through his mind's eye; yet again it mattered not. The young man's face, writhing in agony and melting in the heat, burned in his mind.

"Curse you, Sauron," he mumbled with a dry tongue.

It seemed that he had one more day to live. He did not want to die, did not want to feel the seering flames eating his flesh. But that was as naught compared to his heart's will not to lie upon the altar beneath the gloating gaze of Sauron. It must not be! He realized that he was breathing hard with the strength of his desire. He calmed himself, slowly.

What were the chances of his being rescued? He was sure that his beloved daughter Kâthaanî would do all in her power to resuce him, whether he wished her to or not. He did wish it, especially if he could foil at least this small part of Sauron's plan, which had all the look of succeeding in every way imaginable. He saw little hope, and his throat clotted with it. The darkness of his cell and the red fire of the altar seemed to conspire to turn his heart to ashes.

Ah Elbereth! Gilthoniel! Hear me I beg you!
Let not the evil one win in all ways in these troubled days!
May there be found for me a secret path through the night
to a safe haven and into day's new light!

Even as he whispered his prayer, a dim light came into view far down the hall. It was Târik, bringing food and drink.

After he had come in and given Mabalar to eat and drink, and received his thanks for it, Târik asked, "How do you fare, lord?"

"I am alive, though my mind burns with the terrible things I have seen this night."

Târik nodded sorrowfully. "Aye. Tar Míriel sent me to you for the sake of your need. 'Tell him for me, "You are remembered from the uttermost West, and your task must be fulfilled. Do not lose hope."' And she bade me remind you that she has a small treasure that she would save from the doom of Númenor."

"Thank you, Târik. None have reached me here in the deeps of these dungeons with any word of aid. I can only hope."

Târik pursed his lips and nodded. "I will see what I can do on the outside come dawn." With that, Târik left him. And he found that the words of Míriel, and his own prayer, stayed in his memory, and assuaged the terrors. He slept.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Thoronmir’s revelation had both surprised and excited Azarmanô. He was so elated they already had a guard uniform that a large, amiable grin spread across his face. Now there would be no need to hide in the bushes and hope that they would not be seen. He formulated a plan exactly how he would steal the necessary clothing. Once he had finished planning, he approached Thoronmir, Inzillomi, and Abarzadan.

First, Azarmanô addressed Thoronmir, “I wish to borrow your guard uniform. I thank you for your generosity. The disguise will be indispensable to our mission.”

Turning to the rest of the group, he continued, “Tonight I will don the uniform and ride my Karibor away from our camp. I will find a group of soldiers, take their uniforms, and return by morning. Fear not for my safety: I am completely confident my tactics will succeed. This mission must be completed by one man only, but I swear that you shall see my face once more before the sun rises. Goodbye for now then.”

After putting on his grey tunic and sliding a shirt of light weight plate mail over his head, he lowered the metal helm onto his head with its fair yellow hair. He mounted his horse and rode with some regret away from the group. Azarmanô did not enjoy separating himself from the others to accomplish his task, but could envision no other way of doing what he must. He intended to fulfill his promise of returning before the morning just as he felt determined to observe the vow he had made to his wife before she left that they would meet again on the boats in Romenna.

It was not hard to find a contingent of the king’s men close by. The sky was now dark and a glowing light diffused from a large campfire that had been made a distance away. Quickly, Azarmanô began to ride towards the blaze, suspecting that it was the camp of soldiers. After traveling a short distance, he could see the outline of three guards who appeared to be eating dinner. Azarmanô could smell the savory smell of hot beef stew, which appealed to him greatly because he was voracious from skipping dinner.

He stopped in front of what appeared to be the leader judging from the prominent golden insignia that he displayed on his helmet. As an extra precaution Azarmanô attempted to disguise his voice, using a gruff, coarse tone.

“Where have you been? My captain sent me to your squadron because we had too many men and not enough supplies for all of them. I am to join your unit now.”

“Yes,” said the captain casually, “Well it looks as though we have no choice. In any case, we have room for one more man in our camp. We will be gathering more suspicious villagers for a mass sacrifice at the temple tomorrow morning. Sit now and eat.”

Azarmanô grimaced at the thought of such an atrocity and the horrible carnage that the dawn would bring. He would ensure that such carnage would never occur under any circumstances.The beef stew tasted as good as it smelled, filling and satisfying his ravenous hunger that had afflicted him since morning. After dinner, the men told stories of the encounters that they had experienced earlier that day. Several times they referred to the “mongrel faithful” and all of their “criminal behavior” and Azarmanô was forced to suppress the wellspring of anger that rose slowly within him, albeit with difficulty. The soldiers grew more weary as the night wore on and until the men retired, yawning profusely, to their sleeping sacs beneath the star speckled night sky. Azarmanô followed suit with the other soldiers and slipped into the sac that was provided for him. The evening was cool and somewhat windy, but not uncomfortably chilly from within a warm sleeping sac, which more than made up from the stench of sweat.

He waited for what seemed to be two hours in his sac until he was certain that all of the men were asleep. He rose from his bed knowing what he must do now, despite his serious misgivings. The soldiers must be eliminated, for if he let them live then they would take their revenge against the nearby village. Moreover, having seen his face, every soldier within an enormous radius around the city would be hunting for him, rendering the rescue mission impossible. Not only would this endanger his life, but the lives of his entire group. No place would be safe for them to stay for long with the king’s men chasing close behind. It was the only way to get the uniforms without alerting the entire force of guards to their presence.

Drawing his long, black oak bow he silently shot an arrow into the face of each of the gaurds so as not to damage the uniform. The process was quick, each arrow he fired in quick succession at the soldiers that lay engrossed in slumber. His skill and precision with the bow ensured that the process did not create much noise. He tried not to think of the families that these men belonged to or the wives that they left behind, like his own, but the thoughts seeped into his mind nonetheless, and heightened his ambivalence. He cleared these thoughts from his head by reassuring himself that it was simply a mission to steal uniforms and protect many villagers from certain death, but the doubts still plagued him.

Azarmanô stripped the corpses of their raiment, including the metal helmets that the soldiers had taken off before heading to sleep. After the process was complete, Azarmanô had pilfered three of the four guard uniforms, including the captains, which he planned to wear himself. He dragged their bodies one by one to the edge of a steep cliff and threw them into a covered wooded ravine with thick, tall grass. From the top of the precipice, Azarmanô could see no signs of their bodies. Somberly, he extinguished the fires by pouring large fistfuls of sand into the dying blaze, leaving a large pile of ash in its wake. As promised, he traveled back in the camp just as the sun rose above the horizon, the harbinger of a new day.

[Himaran]

Abarzadan, Inzillmi, and Thoronmir crouched among the tombs, waiting for Azarmanô return. All were worried; how could one man, even a great warrior, sneak in and out of a guard camp unscathed, all the while purloining four uniforms and remaining unseen. Given the group's previous experiences with the King's men, the whole plan definitely leaned toward the side of foolishness, if not pure madness. Yet go Azarmanô did, for good or for ill, and the others could only wait for one of two things: his appearance, or the passage of enough time to rule out the possibility of him succeeding (and surviving).

It was early morning at the small campsite, and all three were hungry. They ate a quick cold breakfast; no fires could be lit this close to the city, especially when the members of the company had yet to disguise themselves. Afterwards they repacked the food, and tried to find something productive to do. In reality all they did was toy with various objects and worry about Azarmanô and his mission, but each managed to put on a good show of being busy.

Abarzadan's heart leapt when he heard branches snapping in the distance. Motioning to the others, he readied his now very over-polished axe and crept forward to see who the intruder might be. He then relaxed and lowered his weapon as the familiar face of the captain became visible over the rise. "Over here!" he yelled, and all three hurried to meet their friend, very much the hero returning with the sun.

[littlemanpoet]

Târik had brought food for Mabalar. The cell was dimly lit by his torch, and the young guard was cleaning his cell in such a way that it was no threat to Mabalar's health while it was made to appear filthy to other guards.

Mabalar swallowed and said, "I am hoping that I can trust you, Târik." He turned and faced Mabalar, waiting for him to speak.

"There is a friend who lives here. I want you to contact him."

"Lord," said Târik fervently, "do not trust me unless you are convinced of my faithfulness."

Mabalar nodded and smiled grimly. "Well said. Go to the market square and go to its center. There is a shop keeper. His name is Monôizindu Igmizadan. He is of average Numenorean height, wears a reddish beard, though that may not be the case any longer. He is past his prime but not old yet. A small scar can be seen across the bridge of his nose. He is a trustworthy man, and he knows people. Tell him that I sent you. Tell him that it is time to pay the weregild I have never held him to but he has held himself to, for I saved him from drowning when we were young. No other guards would know that. Go to him and ask him to learn what he can, and to see what he can do to aid my escape."

The young guard nodded. "I will do as you say."

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir, Azarmanô, Inzillomi, and Abarzadan approached the entrance to the city. They were soon met by four armed guards.

"Permission to escort this one to the temple?" asked Azarmanô, who was wearing the uniform of an officer.

Thoronmir and Abarzadan came forward holding Inzillomi.

"As the wife of Abârpânarú, she must be wanted for tonight's sacrifice," Azarmanô continued.

The guards talked among themselves for a few minutes, and it seemed like the plan was going to fail when one of the guards said, "Permission granted. Lord Sauron will be pleased."

They proceeded toward the temple. Their bluff had worked, for now at least. Thoronmir, though, could not help but feel that it had been too easy for them to get in.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô rode his Karibor solemnly down the edge of market square, inching closer towards the temple that loomed ominously before them. He tried not to look, or even think, about that foul place, for it sent shivers of fear down his spine. The sacrifices of Sauron’s enemies that occurred there daily were notorious for their bloodshed and cruelty. Despite his courage, he felt horrified by the gruesome events on the altar. He vowed that the party would not allow such horrors to happen to Abârpânarú.

Slowly the group moved along the edge square, silent and plagued by anxiety. They were approaching the bowels of evil, the temple of the destroyer, home of Sauron himself. Try as he might to move through the city with stealth, Azarmanô noticed that an increasing number of people appeared to be staring at them. This is not good, he thought. The last thing the group needed was more attention. But the more he wished that people would simply forget he was there, the more people seemed to crowd the party, partially choking off their path forward.

“Out of the way,” he shouted in his best gruff soldier voice. “We must take this prisoner to the temple.”

The people, however, moved only slightly out of the way, leaving a narrow passage for the group to pass through. The party moved forward carefully on their horses, trying not to trample any of the people that obstructed the way. Most of the people stared menacingly at the female “prisoner” that the “soldiers” were leading forward in chains. The process of navigating through the throng of transfixed onlookers was painstakingly slow, much to the chagrin of Azarmanô, who longed for it to be over soon.

To make matters worse, many of the people who gathered did not feel content merely to gawk at the prisoner, but expressed their sentiments out loud as well. A chorus of raucous boos descended from the crowd directed at the prisoner. Exclamations of hatred vibrated through the air; two of the most prominent were “Death to the Faithful,” and “Kill the traitor.” One old woman with white hair and a brown dress that was dirty and tattered from wear threw a handful of mud at Inzillomí, soiling her blouse and shouting profanities. So much hatred, thought Azarmanô. Where does it come from?

To her credit, Inzillomí took the torrent of scorn with a remarkable degree of restraint. Not once during the downpour did she respond to the mob with the anger that had been showered upon her. She did not even flinch, always affixing her eyes firmly upon the ground, an expression of stoicism spread across her face. Azarmanô felt enormous pride in Inzillomí. He could imagine what inner strength she must have to endure such insults, but he did not expect any different from a person of such character as she.

One man, however, seemed to catch Azarmanô’s eye. He stood at the entrance of a pottery and hermetics store and wore a white apron across the font of his shirt, indicating he was the owner. The man had bright red hair and a full beard, each marked with several streaks of white that betrayed the fact his youth had passed. He did not join the crowd in their taunting, but preferred to remain apart, watching the events unfold from his doorway. When he saw the Lady being escorted to the castle in chains, his aloof demeanor changed to that of alarm and his eyes widened in surprise. For a moment, Azarmanô wondered what caused this reaction, but he turned his attention back to getting into the dungeon safely. Finally, after a prolonged struggle against the tide of the crowd, the group reached the entrance to the temple itself. They were going into the dungeon, and they would not be coming out again until they had rescued Abârpânarú, leader of the Faithful and, more importantly, a true friend.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The ground shook faintly with the steps of the proud kariborim. It shook less faintly with the anger of the land itself. Inzillomi stumbled once, catching herself before she fell. She strode proudly on barely encumbered by the shackles, flanked by her companions. Curses met her ears and she steeled herself. She had known this would come, but it is one thing to know of this hatred and yet another to experience it. This was what she had devoted so much of her life to prevent from happeneing to others, and yet here she was, the object of curiosity... the focus of so much anger.

She refused to do the townsfolk the courtesy of meeting their eyes. She focused her glance instead on the empty ground beneath her feet. Each insult felt like a stab wound from which she would never recover. She prayed silently for the divine forgiveness of all present. She fought with her own humanity not to hate those who would see her die with pleasure. She prayed that her beloved husband had been treated with more respect, though she would not fool herself into believing it was true. Her face showed no signs of emotion. She walked on.

A shower of street filth hit Inzillomí, startling her from her near trance. She brought her hand up to the spot and examined the mud on her fingers. She sighed and glanced about only to see an old woman gesture rudely. She smiled kindly and nodded her greetings, her mood improving very slightly at the old woman's double take. She molded her proud face back into an expression of uncaring stoicism.

Azarmanô rode beside her, guarding her and blocking her escape, but likewise protecting her from the violent nature of the crowd. An angry arm reached from the throng to strike Inzillomi, but he ruthlessly kicked it aside.

"His prisoners are not to be harmed by the likes of you." Azarmanô growled viciously to a man nursing a spreading bruise. The doors of the temple appeared and Inzillomi instinctively shuddered. The taunts of the crowd grew as she hid her fear and straightened her back, squaring her shoulders. The smell of old blood faintly lingered. The kariborim went onward, but with a barely perceptible trace of nervousness. Inzillomi doubted even their riders would notice it. She remained as silent as ever, leaving the situation in the hands of Azarmanô. They had reached the temple and now only time would tell if their ruse would suffice.

[littlemanpoet]

Târik made his way through the market square, looking for the center, where lord Mabalar's friend was shopkeeper. It did not take long to find it, and whatsisyap jingled his coin pouch in his hand to give the impression of a ready buyer, dressed though he was in Temple Guard regalia.

He was not long in finding the place. "Monôizindu's Pottery and Hermetics" read the sign. Târik went inside. Pots of all shapes and sizes lay stacked and scattered here and there. Hermetic scrawlings lined just about all of them, as well as scrolls and scraps of parchment hanging from hooks on the walls. The owner stood behind the counter, an implaccable smile on his face.

"May I help you?"

"Yes," said Târik. "Are you Monôizindu?"

"I am. I see you've heard of me."

"Your reputation is known far and wide."

Monôizindu smiled again. "What may I do for a respected member of the Temple Guard?"

Târik looked around him before he spoke. "I have an urgent message for you from an old friend."

Monôizindu frowned briefly at the secretiveness of Târik before saying, "What old friend might this be?"

"I was told to say this: Mabalar Melethroch has sent me to say that it is time to pay the weregild he has never held you to but to which you have held yourself."

Monôizindu's eyes narrowed. "Go on."

"Learn what you can and see what you can do to aid Mabalar's escape from the dungeons and doom of Sauron."

Monôizindu Igmizadan's eyes widened in horror, but he quickly hid his emotion and eyed Târik suspiciously. "How do I know whom you serve?"

Târik produced a piece of jewelry from a pocket. "You know this, I believe."

Monôizindu's eyes widened again. "That is an hierloom of Tar Míriel! I have seen her with it!"

"It is she whom I serve and am loyal to."

Monôizindu nodded. "Mabalar Melethroch is to be sacrificed?"

Târik nodded. "But not if I can help it."

"When?"

"Possibly this midnight."

"Then our task is more difficult and desperate than you may yet know."

"How is that?" Târik asked.

"Just moments ago, I saw Inzillomí, the wife of Mabalar, taken prisoner into the Temple."

Târik's eyes lit with alarm. "I must go tell Mabalar!"

"Meanwhile," said the shopkeeper, "I will spread word and bring what aid I may to the house of Melethroch. Namarië! And may the light of Elebereth go before you!"

"So may it be with you as well!" Târik left, rather amazed that the entire time he had been in Monôizindu's shop, not a soul had entered. Except that he was wrong. Someone had been hidden in the shadows, unbeknownst to either Temple Guard or Shopkeeper; this someone snuck out of the shop and became lost in the crowd.

[littlemanpoet]

Târik stood just outside the cell. Mabalar was awake and looked up, his eyes lit with intensity.

"I greet you, lord. I must be quick, for the news I have to tell cannot wait but 'tis not my time to be in the dungeons. I have passed your message to Monôizindu, and he accepts me as your spokesman. He will spread word and bring what aid he can. But he had news."

Târik paused and listened. Satisfied after a while that no one was skulking in the shadows, he continued.

"He told me that he saw Inzillomí being taken to the Temple of Sauron, a prisoner for sacrifice. I am sorry."

Mabalar's eyes widened and his jaw worked. "Are you certain?"

"Aye. The shopkeeper gave no sign that he doubted who it was."

The light in Mabalar's eyes died and his shoulders slumped. It seemed that the man shrunk a little where he sat chained to the wall.

"I must go now, lord."

"One more thing. Did he give word of my daughter?"

"Nay, lord. He said nothing about her. Fare well and do not give up hope."

With that Târik left him.

Mabalar's Thoughts

It could not be! She was supposed to be safe in Rómenna! How could she be a prisoner of the fiend, here, now? But Monôizindu had been sure. Mabalar ground his teeth and closed his fists, hard, wishing that Sauron's neck was caught by them. All hope for the house of Mellethroch then rested on Kâthaanî. Eru guide you, my gem of fire. If Inzillomí were to die, then what? Would there be any use in escaping himself? No! He must not let Sauron have her! But what could he do? If Sauron ever found out who Inzillomí was, he would be sure to use her as bait or a bargaining chip for him! Please, Inzi, please do not let them know who you are!

What if Inzi died and he did escape? He and Kâthaanî would have to make a life for themselves without her. Cerveth did not need a mother anymore; but it was wrong for her mother to be taken from her. Maybe there would have to be another to take Inzi's place. His thought slipped to Míriel. His heart skipped a beat. He imagined Míriel aboard ship with him, and found it a wonder. Then he thought of Cerveth standing next to the former queen of Númenor at a new homestead on the shores of Middle Earth. Mabalar gave a start. No. The two did not go together well. Not at all. Míriel was fragile stemware; Cerveth was living fire. No, Míriel had chosen her fate already. Had Inzi? He hoped not.

But if Monôizindu knew that Inzillomí was a prisoner of Sauron, he would be working just as hard to achieve her freedom as his own. And Târik could help too. Maybe there was hope. Waiting was difficult.

In the Chamber of Sauron

A lean, dark figure came before the presence of Sauron the Great, bowing deeply.

"My lord, my liege, I have delectable news!" The dark figure bowed over and over again, waiting for his lord's acknowledgment.

"Speak it, Herugor."

"I was in the market square, observing the wares of various shopkeepers, and just happened to have overheard a Temple Guard speaking in privy tones to one particular shopkeeper who seems to have far too much time on his hands for traitorious activities unbecoming of a shopkeeper who bows before the king."

"Waste not my time."

"Aye, lord," Herugor nodded, bowing at the waist with each nod. "The Temple Guard, Târik, is aiding Mabalar Mellethroch at the beck of Míriel, and the shopkeeper, one Monôizindu who deals in pottery and hermetics, has promised this Târik to mobilize his network of the faithful who yet remain in this fair city for the sake of Mabalar's escape."

"We shall have to see that this shopkeeper and guard are arrested and made examples of."

"But there is more, my liege!"

"Go on."

"Monôizindu informed the traitorous guard that the one Inzillomí, the wife of Mabalar, has been arrested this day and brought to the Temple dungeons."

"I see," Sauron said slowly. "Keep watch, Herugor, and allow the insects to draw each other into the web. When all have drawn close together, then snag them all. Then we shall have a sacrificial rite unmatched yet! See to it!"

"Yes, my liege," Herugor bowed, and backed out of the chambers of Sauron the Great and hurried about his new task. Sauron sat in his great chair and gave thought to what he had just heard and decided. The smiles that grew on both faces were not a delight to the eye.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô approached the prison apprehensively, fully conscious of the horrible fate that awaited their leader inside. Strangely, he felt a tinge of relief along with his fear, for they had managed to navigate their way through the boisterous crowd in one piece. At the prison’s front gate he passed a gruff looking soldier who, in an irritated growl, asked him to state his business.

“I am escorting this prisoner to her cell,” he replied curtly, at which point the guard nodded and motioned for him to pass. Entering the prison had been surprisingly simple, a fact that Azarmanô attributed to their flawless disguises. He suppressed the images of himself shooting the sleeping soldiers. There had been no other way, he stubbornly insisted to himself. It had been done for the sake of the mission, for Abârpânarú.

He waked through the massive archway, the oaken door with wrought iron hinges that marked the entrance of the building thrown back to admit him. Inside, the dungeon was dark, with only torches on the side walls to guide them. The stones themselves wreaked of an acrid odor, evidence to the presence of grime, mold, and mildew that thrived within and upon the dank, stagnating walls. Well could Azarmanô imagine this hole in the ground to be a dungeon. Although, he thought dryly, I doubt a prisoner pays much attention to the smell while they wait for the ritual to begin.

He had no idea where Abârpânarú was being held, since the dungeon held hundreds of Sauron’s prisoners. How would the group ever locate the one that they wanted? He passed a supply room full of food, spices, and spirits. Azarmanô looked into the cells as they passed, anxiously hoping to see Abârpânarú’s familiar face, but the process proved unsuccessful. He saw many faces, some desperate and weeping, others stoic and resigned to their fates. If only we could rescue them all, he wished wistfully.

A loud rumbling of voices came from farther down the hallway. A feeling of dread descended into the pit of his stomach as he realized the impending danger. Three soldiers appeared from around the corner. They marched up to the party and leader stepped forward and spoke.

“We have been sent to receive this prisoner. She is considered dangerous and we will be escorting her to the high security section in the north tower. Your services are no longer needed.”

Azarmanô panicked as he heard the disastrous news from the somber guard leader that stood before him. It was now his turn to concoct a plan to pacify the soldiers just as Marsillion had done. He could not allow these men to take Inzillomí, for he did not want to rescue two prisoners. But how would they be able to escape when the guards stood right before them, blocking their path. The soldiers would not allow the rescuers to leave without first relinquishing Inzillomí and any attempt to do so would certainly expose their identities. Which is why, reasoned Azarmanô with a mischievous smile, he would do his best to make sure that before long the guards wouldn’t be standing.

“Here you go. Take the prisoner.” he snapped as Inzillomí gaped at him in disbelief. “But before we part, what do you say we have a drink. I saw a supply room a while back with some fine ale. You men sure look thirsty. What do you say?”

At the mention of alcohol, the soldiers loosened up and became much more amiable. The trio seemed to be in agreement that a slight delay in bringing the prisoner back to the cell would not cause any harm. “Well, I suppose one or two flagons couldn’t hurt,” reasoned the captain, “Go and get the Ale. Be sure to bring mugs. But after the drink we really must be going. Sauron considers this prisoner of prime importance.”

Hastily, Azarmanô retreated to the storeroom to search for ale. At first he found a small keg of ale as tall as his knee, but he reasoned that would not be large enough. Then he found a bigger one that measured up to his waist, but, to be safe, they needed a keg that was even more capacious. These guards were large men who were used to drinking prodigiously. Finally Azarmanô glanced upwards to spy the largest keg of ale in the entire store house, towering slightly above his head. Now that was the keg of ale that he was looking for. With great effort, he rolled the barrel, already on its side into the hallway. After returning once more to scrounge six gigantic flagons, he sat down with the rest of the rescuers and guards on the floor, distributing a large measure of brown ale to all. Azarmanô furtively pushed Inzillomí down to the floor and tied her chains to the bars of a nearby cell, taking care not to hurt her. “So the prisoner does not get away,” he explained.

After the guards finished each drink, Azarmanô graciously offered the soldiers a refill of their mugs, which always was met with a swift reply to the affirmative. Not wanting to pass out himself, Azarmanô drank from his mug in sips, periodically spilling some on the ground behind him when the guards were not looking. The guards, however, appeared to grow more and more friendly as they consumed increasing quantities of ale, eventually hugging Azarmanô and calling him their “best buddy.”

After the guards appeared thoroughly drunk, though not yet out cold, they began singing amorous ballads about the girls they had left at home. Azarmanô had never heard anything so horrible in his life. Ignoring their atrocious wailings, he smiled politely and proceeded to pour them more ale. After what seemed like several hours, and about fifteen mugs of ale, the soldiers seemed to be growing extremely groggy. The first one to go unconscious was the leader, who had the appearance of a happy child curled in a ball deep in slumber. The other two guards weren’t two far behind, both of them passed out around ten minutes later, one slightly ahead of the other.

After Azarmanô was sure they were safely snoring, he swiped the keys from the side of the leader’s belt. They were big and bronze, emblazoned with the words “high security” on their stems. Azarmanô hoped they were heavy sleepers, because he wanted to be safely outside the dungeon with the mission completed by the time they awoke. Azarmanô untied Inzillomí’s chains from the bar and led her, along with the rest of the group, down the corridor which ended at a set of stairs that he hoped they could follow to the north tower.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomí had fallen surprisedly to the floor. Though it had not hurt, the shocked expression the flitted across her delicate features was enough to convince the Guards that Azarmanô had been none too gentle. As he bound her chained armed to a cell, the Guards snorted inappropriate comments and guffawed over their tasteless jokes in a manner far too uncouth to repeat.

Inzillomí blushed faintly over the insinuations and felt sick to a point of tears over the idea that these men believed their words and actions to be perfectly acceptable. Azarmanô ignored their talk, seeing that retaliation would bring death swiftly. He poured the drinks.

She huddled uncomfortably as far from the drunken gaze of the Guards as she could, relying on Azarmanô completely. Should things go wrong, she was much in a terrible position to do anything. Though to a sober man of honor she might well be able to speak her way into safety, with these drunken louts, she doubted very much they would heed her words even if she had not been chained in such a way as befits a murderer.

She fell within her own thoughts for a short time, plotting and devising. The northern tower... she considered, ignoring the alcohol-induced affection that allowed for several toasts in Azarmanô's honor. That will be where my husband lies... Azarmanô will be able to accompany me.. the prisoner... she thought with a grimace... to the highest security area. What of our two companions? Thoronmir cannot be seen... he is far too much a liability should he be recognized. Abarzadan seems to have much on his mind. Perhaps to send them back into the city to scout possible escape routes?

Suddenly Inzi felt a change in her position and snapped back to reality in a shot. Azarmanô was untying her from the cell with an apologetic look. She shrugged it off as a necessary discomfort and looked admiringly at his unconscious handiwork. She submitted her suggestions for their easily traceable companion and their mysterious-as-ever one and waited, still chained, for Azarmanô's response.

[Meneltarmacil]

Azarmanô, Inzillomí, and Thoronmir searched the rest of the area for Abârpânarú's cell. As they searched the building, Thoronmir spotted a guard walking in their direction. He tried to hide his face, but the guard recognized him before he could do anything.

"Sakaladûn? Is that you?" said the guard, coming closer.

But to Thoronmir's surprise, he didn't try to arrest them. Instead, he pulled them aside into an unoccupied cell and started talking to them.

"My name is Târik. I am one of the Faithful, and I have been secretly passing information to Abârpânarú," he said in a whisper.

"We came to break him out. We brought his wife into the city as part of our disguise, so we didn't actually intend to have her sacrificed. With your help, we'll have everyone out in no time," Thoronmir said.

"Is he hurt?" Inzillomí asked.

"He wasn't the last time I checked," Târik responded. "His cell is the first one up these stairs to your right." He indicated a nearby staircase. "I have to go. Good luck."

[littlemanpoet]

As Târik disappeared into the darkness, the group heard a clang from down the corridor to which Târik had pointed them. A dim light caused shadows to move along the far wall opposite the mouth of a corridor that turned to the right. Then the shadows returned.

The group moved quickly and quietly to the corridor and turned right, and stepped up the half flight of stairs lying before them. Just three ranga ahead of them the corridor they were in opened into a taller and broader way. Thoronmir was in the lead and waved the others to silence, listening. There seemed to be footsteps fading to their left down the broad hallway. A heavy door closed, echoing like drums of doom. Then all was silent.

"His cell should be just to the right," Thoronmir whispered, pointing down the broad hall. The others nodded and followed as quietly as they could, turning into the hallway.

It was dark, except for a torch smouldering fitfully in its sconce at the intersection of the corridor they had just passed through. There was one cell before them. It was empty.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô stared in disbelief at the empty cell that stared back at him. The feeling was shocking, very empty, and extremely hollow as if a hole had suddenly opened up in the ground underneath him. The obvious question struck him with incredible force: Where was Abârpânarú? This was his cell, or so the gaurd that had known Thoronmir had said. He could not remember the man's name. Azarmanô viewed the guard's assistance with suspicion, but it had been their only lead. Now, it seemed as though they had been duped by one of the king's men. He had no idea where Abârpânarú was, but it was not the time to sulk. They would have to move quickly if they wished to find their leader's cell amidst all that were in the high security tower.

Inzillomi too looked stunned as she stared into the empty cell. She began to let out a high pitched scream and shake her fists vehemently. Azarmanô silenced the distressed woman by placing his hand over her mouth and restraining her while whispering words of calm into her ear. He feared that his damage control only did limited good, since some guards surely had heard the high-pitched explosion and knew that something was amiss.

"I would urge everyone to stay calm. We will not leave until we find Abârpânarú. He is in a cell somewhere in this section. Let us search," he concluded.

And so Azarmanô sprinted down the dark stone corridor glancing quickly from one side to another for any sign of their leader followed by the rest of the group. Every cell inflicted more pain, anguish, and panic upon Azarmanô's heavy heart, but he dare not show it. He kept his face blank, stoic as if he were window shopping for a new suit of plate mail. The light tread of his leather boots echoed down the deserted hallway. As he travelled farther down the corridor, the floor became dirt and the slope of the path led down. The cells seemed to be more spread out and larger.

Ahead of the group, from a distance, Azarmanô could see a clearing inside the dungeon and a large black obsidian alter whose stones were stained red with blood. A chill of fear spread throughout Azarmanô's body as he stared at the alter of Sauron the destroyer himself. The blood of the former Faithful cried out from the ground as a testimony to the atrocities that had been committed there. Azarmanô did not see Sauron himself, but he imagined that he could not be far away.

Following the curve of the tunnel, Azarmanô saw four guards lurking clsoe to a cell. Although he expected to find Abârpânarú within, as he grew closer he was disappointed to see that the cell was quite empty. Why would the soldiers be guarding an empty cell, he wondered. And if this was in fact Abârpânarú's cell, where was he? He approached the soldiers cautiously, sensing that confrontation might be near.

Azarmanô addressed the group, "I have a prisoner that I am escorting to her cell. She is the wife of the Faithful leader Abârpânarú, and I was given orders to place her in the cell next to her husband's. Is this his cell?"

The leader spoke, addressing Abârpânarú disdainfully," Stop where you are. We know what you are up to. You are a resourceful group of vermin, I give you that. We found the group of guards who became extremely drunk and then fell asleep in the middle of the hallway. They told us how you slipped past them with the female prisoner and stole the keys to the high security area. We were ordered to patrol the high security area and look for your group. You will not be so lucky as to escape again. "

I'll show you resourceful, he thought as a mischievous grin spread across his face. Impulsively, Azarmanô unslung his bow and unleashed an arrow into the throat of one of the guards as the other Faithful turned to face them.....

[Himaran]

Abârzadan's keen hearing easily picked up the loud conversation between the guards and Azarmanô, even though he was now positioned at the rear of the group. The discussion was both heated and brief. Although the man expected the guards to see straight through the captain's now compromised story, he had not forseen the swift and violent reaction that brought an abrupt end to any negotiations. The other Faithful turned instantly as the lead guard fell to the floor, a shaft protruding from his throat. Silence reigned for a split second as a faint gurgle escaped his lips. Then life fled the body, and the hallway decended into chaos. The remaining guards charged Azarmanô, and with Inzi and Thoronmir blocking his path Abârzadan knew that he could do little to help. Events soon proved him very, very wrong.

Suddenly, on Abârzadan's side of the hallway, two more guards appeared. They had obviously heard the commotion and come to investigate it. Thinking quickly, the man dropped his spear (which he had been carrying for show) and ran towards them. "Stop! Stop! A prisoner escaped! He's gone!" Unable to see what was happening further down the passage, but horrified by the news shouted at them by the "guard" running towards them, the pair froze as if stuck to the glistening stone floor. The penalty for allowing an inmate to escape was sacrifice in the temple. Something had to be done! Forgetting about the conflict ahead, the guards allowed themselves to be forcefully turned and pushed in the direction that the supposed fugitive had fled.

The trio skidded to a halt as the hallway ended and two side passages appeared, going in seperate directions. "Go left, I'll go right," yelled Abârzadan, and the other two (motivated by the fear of a horrible death) obeyed without question. As they dashed off, the man slowed, stopped, and waited. Once sure that they were far enough away, he turned and sprinted back the way they had come, hoping that the others had survived.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi's intense regret at her outburst disappeared the second the guards appeared. She was too busy calculating their chances of escape to spare any thought for her recent stupidity. A bolt pierced the neck of the spokesman for the King's Men. She spared a second to glance at Azarmanô... he held his bow and appeared to be sizing up the enemy. The hapless man fell to the floor, a choked gurgling coming not from his mouth, but from the new hole permeating his throat. Chaos ensued.

A tall guard slipped past the men to reach Inzillomi. Violently he grabbed her by the hair. She bit back a scream while, encumbered by the chains of her disguise, she grasped his hands. She felt quickly for the tender spots on his forearms and pressed hard, digging with her nails. He released her with a grunt and dove forward, propelled by anger. She ducked fast, barely missing his fist coming in direct contact with her face. She heard Abarzadan yell unidentifiable words as she gripped her attacker by the arm and helped him to fly over her hip. He slammed hard into the bars of the empty cell, slumping. It never does to underestimate a small opponent when you are giving them all the momentum they need, though Inzillomi with a resigned sigh as she advanced, pulling a small black vial from her wide sash. She broke the seal, uncorking the bottle. As the dazed guard looked at her hazily, Inzillomi poured a small amount of the pearly liquid into the unlucky man's mouth. Within seconds he was unconscious. She did not envy him the headache he would have upon awakening.

She turned on her knees, eyes sweeping the scene for more attackers. Azarmanô fought ferociously. Thoronmir grappled with his own opponent a short distance away. Abarzadan was missing.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô looked approvingly as Inzillomi smashed the head of a guard against the cell bars and poured something down his throat. Perhaps he had underestimated her, for he did not expect her to be so well prepared. Thoronmir disposed of the third one quickly as he thrust his sword into the guard’s stomach, through an exposed point in the plate mail. Azarmanô now loaded his bow a second time and shot the lone remaining guard. The guard leapt in an effort to dodge the arrow, but was struck in the leg and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Azarmanô prepared to finish him off with one well placed shot, but restrained himself. He shunned unnecessary bloodshed and felt that the guard would not harm anyone in his present condition. After taking the guard’s sword, Azarmanô motioned to the rest of the party that it was time to proceed.

As he glanced back at his companions he was alarmed to see that Abarzadan was not among those present. Azarmanô was surprised by this, particularly because he had seen Abarzadan mere moments before the fight began standing by his side. In the turmoil of combat, Azarmanô had not given much attention to the whereabouts of the rest of the party. It did not seem unlikely that Abarzadan could have easily escaped, but the real question was why. Could he, at this moment, be reporting to the enemy, notifying all the temple of their whereabouts? Azarmanô had come to expect suspicious behavior from Abarzadan, and this disappearance seemed to confirm his fears.

“We can not wait to see if our elusive friend will return. We must go forward,” he announced decisively.

He turned to look expecting to see the black sacrificial altar, where he suspected Abârpânarú was being led, but saw that the door had been closed. It must have been shut while we fought from inside, he thought. Quickly, he ran forward, grasped the iron door handle firmly, and pulled hard. Azarmanô cursed in desperation as he realized that the door had been locked. He tried to use his bronze high security key to open the sealed entrance, but the key would not turn.

Consumed with anger, desperation, and urgency, he shouted “Thoronmir crack open this door with your sword. An axe would do the job better but I have none. Make haste for more than one life is in jeopardy within.”

Thoronmir swung his long sword, but the blade merely made several cuts in the wood and the door was very thick. Azarmanô battled the ideas flowing through his mind that the effort was futile and Abârpânarú’s doom imminent. Suddenly, a low rumbling noise began reverberating through the hallway. Subdued at first, the sound grew louder until it reached a tremendous roar. The ground beneath his feet began to quiver and small rocks came crashing down from the ceiling. At first, these things had seemed strange to Azarmanô, but now he understood. The beginning of the demise, the harbinger of destruction, the end that he had dreaded but known one day would come was upon them. The Island of Numenor was drowning, sinking into the vast ocean Azarmanô loved so well.

[littlemanpoet]

Míriel waited behind the thick velvet curtain. She could see everything. Mabalar had been led into the sacrificial chamber; and he seemed to recognize the three others who had preceded him. The girl, could she be family? His daughter? She caught an exchanged glance between them, and knew it must be so. The sorrow in their faces convinced her. That could have been her daughter. The girl was beautiful. Míriel had never met the woman Mabalar had married, but had heard of her. Inzillomí, she was called, of the house of Andúnië, daughter of Elendil. Mabalar had married well; maybe better than he might have, had she become his wife. For she knew how the ancestry went, a lady who should have ruled, passed over for her younger brother. It seemed that all had gone awry because of that.

Míriel held the potion in her hand. That fool, Herugor, had been so malleable to her purposes. All that had been needed was a little female attention - not so much as she would regret later - and he had become putty, giving her every desire of her heart's whim. So he thought, not knowing her purpose. The concentration spider's venom would render its imbiber dead to the world in all seeming, for days, or at least hours, depending on the imbiber. All she needed was a distraction.

What was that noise of banging on the door from which Mabalar had come? Who could want to come in? It was much safer out. Where was Tarík? Had he gotten her message to him? He must have, unless he had been kept from doing so. She had bade him tell Mabalar that they must not leave until he received her gift. She knew she could trust Moizandû to funnel the prisoners into his underground. He had told her the entrance to the secret passage, and she had guarded his secret with great care. The palantír must leave the Temple precincts. Sauron must not get it. She had been careful to keep secret from him, and from Herugor, but once the doom came upon Númenor, who could say what that evil one might uncover?

There was an odd rumble in the distance. Was there an army marching outside? No, it was growing. A herd of animals escaped from the nearby pens, racing for the Temple entrance? Absurd. It kept growing. The floor dropped a few inches from beneath her feet. She almost fell. This was the moment! It was an earthquake. The floor kept shifting, the ground beneath them groaning with a terrible roar. Míriel stole into the chamber in the confusion, keeping low to the shifting floor as the guards and their prisoners fought for balance, vainly trying to stay on their feet.

Mabalar saw her. His eyes widened briefly. She came to him and placed the vial in his chained hands.

"Drink this now. It will save you."

She left him and made her way back to the curtains as the floor continued to rock, the roar of the earth slowly dissipating. When she had regained her composure, and her feet, she looked back. Mabalar lay on the floor, his face looking paler already. Around him, his daughter and her friends were fighting with their guards.
The door to the dungeons flew open. She turned away and moved quickly back to her chambers. She might have been seen, and knew that she must not be found near the chamber of sacrifice. It was time to retrieve the palantír and wait for an opportune moment, to give it to the safekeeping of Mabalar, once he awakened.

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir would not give up. He backed up and ran into the door hard, and it finally gave way.

"Let's go! Now!" he shouted, and they all burst out into the room where Abarpanaru was being held. Thoronmir went to untie him, but he was stopped by a tall figure that had just entered the room.

"Well, well. My old enemy Sakaladun. It's been a long time."

"Herugor." Thoronmir said. "I was wondering when you'd show up." He drew his long knife and pointed it at Herugor.

"Thoronmir!" Azarmano shouted. "We don't have time for this! The island will sink in a few hours! We need to get out of here now!"

Thoronmir looked toward Abarpanaru and the exit behind him, then at Herugor, who had drawn his knife as well.

"One of my descendants will help to finish this fight." he said to Herugor, and cut Abarpanaru loose.

"GUARDS!" Herugor shouted. Several soldiers charged in behind him, but at that point another tremor shook the temple, causing part of the ceiling to fall in between the King's Men and the Faithful.

The Faithful escaped the temple, but time was running out.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Himaran's post

Bodies.

Abârzadan dashed down the slick hallway, stumbling over unseen cracks in the cold stone. Every passing second brought him closer to where he had left the group, and the sight that was slowly becoming clearer was grim. The man was breathless when he arrived at the scene, but he immediately began to root through the corpses.

Just guards. He started to breath easier.

Then where had the others gone? He had been left them a mere minute before, in hopes of diverting a two-pronged attack that would surely have ended in their slaughter. Either Azarmanô and the rest had been captured, or they had left him. Neither possibility gave him much hope of being reunited with them. His legs, exhausted, failed him, and he slumped down against the dripping prison wall. Doubts began to flood his mind, accompanied by a revulsion for the carnage around him. What was he, a wealthy young man, doing here, abandoned in a dark cell by outcasts who he had been foolish enough to trust. Smacking his fist down on the solid floor, Abârzadan cursed the day that he had stooped low enough to visit that poor tavern. How different the last few days would have been had he instead attended a more fitting diner, or even stayed home and cooked for himself! The man chuckled out loud at the absurdity of the whole affair. He hadn't even known Abârpânarú.

A noise.

Heavy boots clattered down the corrider. Torches flared. Voices shouted. reinforcements had arrived, and they would not be pleased to find a surviving perpetrator resting amongst their dead companions. So Abârzadan took a chance. Grimacing, he dipped his hand into the pool of blood that had formed underneath the severed neck of a guard, splashed the sticky liquid on his face, and lay still. The conversation he soon heard was disorganized and heated.

"What happened?"

"How should I know! I watch the adjacent hall, not this one."

"They're... all dead."

"No! And here I thought they were still standing ready for inspection."

"Cut it! Multiple prisoners have escaped. I want a complete lockdown of this floor - no one enters or leaves. Târak, take these bodies and dump them in the sewer, and I mean deep."

Târak went to work, and the others hurried off to fulfill their tasks. Bells started to ring from all directions. Heavy doors were slammed shut. Men grabbed extra weapons from supply posts and sprinted to their stations.

Unlike these guards, Târak seemed to be in no particular hurry. Lacking a cart, his chosen method of moving bodies was to sling one over his shoulder and hold a torch in his free hand. While quite inefficient, it gave Abârzadan a means by which to leave unnoticed. With all the men patrolling the block, it would be next to impossible to sneak by them all. He didn't even know the way out. Thus, he waited patiently, and when it was his turn he stayed as limp as a dead eel. Târak carried him for several minutes before unceremoniously dumping the living "corpse" in a dank tunnel, one filled in nearly a foot of water. Abârzadan kept his head under until he was sure that the guard was gone, whereupon he stood, gasping for breath. He couldn't see a thing, and had no means to make light. Then again, Târak hadn't finished yet...

* * * * *

Torch in hand, Abârzadan left Târak's unconcious form where it fell. The fire glared off the walls as he sloshed down the tunnel, attempting to keep the embers dry. Was the water rising? It was now above his knees. Turning a corner, the man's heart leaped as an incline appeared. The flooded passage was left behind, the torch was dropped, and a triumphant Numenorean pushed open a rusted grate, climbing up into the city of Armenelos.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Thoronmir's encounter with Herugor went unnoticed by Inzillomì, though seeing her husband slump to the floor did not. Just as she had positioned herself in the rear of the group, an arm had pulled her into shadows, hand blocking a scream that never would have escaped her lips even without it. The moment she was released she turned, hands ready to find purchase. The figure was Târik. She did not untense.

"My lady," he murmered quickly, bowing deep. "I was fooled. It seems that I have been... watched. But if I may," his speech was even faster, though still quite clear and quiet. "there is a way to escape, if you will trust me."

Inzillomì did not hesitate to tell him in no uncertain terms that to trust in a man who wore the uniform of the enemy, who had already once led them astray, and who no word had ever reached her well-informed ears of, was folly that not even their desperate group could fall to, most especially in such a tricky situation.

However as she spoke and as the situation became ever more dangerous outside of the shadows, something in the young man's eyes spoke to her of his intentions. Before he could respond to her quiet tirade, she lay a hand on his arm and nodded. Unquestionable relief lit his features at her consent, and ascertained her decision; she slid from the shadows with one upraised finger to him; just one moment.

She laid a hand invisible to the rest on Azarmanô's lower back. She felt him tense before she whispered to him. Her voice calmed him and he was able to keep attention on the scene before him. "I have found escape. Please take my husband and follow on my call." She felt rather than heard him agree, the stakes being too high for him not to, before moving on to Thoronmir, repeating the process with a request for him to release Marsillion. In her black gown, dirty though it was, she moved through the shadowed place unnoticed. She doubted any knew of her presence save her companions. The flickering torchlight was certainly not enough to illuminate her. She did not see Abarzadan and could not tell if he was present.

"Now!" she called, ducking into shadow once more. Thoronmir attacked Marsillion's guards ferociously, securing his release in a matter of seconds. He kept guard as Marsillion cut Kâthaanî free, and Tiru. Azarmanô retrieved the unconscious Abârpânarú, slinging him unceremoniously, though admittedly carefully, over his shoulder. Inzillomì stepped from the shadows once more, beckoning, and the group followed, Thoronmir last, moving backward, with his sword sweeping. No archers had appeared, quite thankfully, and he was able to hold off the few guards that attempted to follow Herugor's shrieked orders.

Târik whispered in Inzillomì's ear. "This way, lady." She took the hand of her daughter and followed, trusting that her companions would be immediately behind. Within seconds, the group had disappeared into a hole in the shadows. A nearly inaudible sliding signified the way being closed behind them. Târik reappeared by her side with a single lit torch and led them hurriedly down, ever down. The pathway was damp, cold, and turning. He passed paths on both sides, following an unpredictable route to an unknown destination. The only sound was that of footsteps. The ground shook slightly, reminding them of the unsafe nature of their escape route. To be caught underground as the earth shook itself free of tension... they thrust the thoughts from their minds, though not entirely. Though none spoke, the weight of the air laid heavily on them all.

With a final left turn, the light suddenly spread. Where before it was limited to a passage perhaps four feet across and eight high, the torchlight flared into a space large enough for the group to halt all together. A figure in a dark cloak stood shadowed before them, looking to the floor. A larger figure, also cloaked, stood two steps behind, seeming to loom in the tricky illumination. The party halted, the men reaching for what weapons they carried.

Târik stepped forward with a deep bow, standing aside with a waved gesture toward the group. Thoronmir stepped toward Târik, anger in his eyes. He grasped the hilt of his weapon, mercy absent from his gaze. A stranger's voice pierced the moment.

The first cloaked figure spoke with a voice both melodious, low, and fair. "That is quite enough. Do you not believe the peril of the Faithful to be great enough without turning upon your allies?" Inzillomì looked at Târik with a deep respect and not a little surprise before curtsying deeply before the lady, Tar Miriel. The group responded similarly, though a step behind, save for Azarmanô, whose load did not quite warrant a full bow, though his nod conveyed the same respect. "Faithful Târik, would you?" she asked cryptically, and he nodded, giving his light away to the now unthreatening Thoronmir and disappearing from view. "He leaves to retrieve your mounts." she nodded to Inzillomì. "There is time, though not much. You are safe here, for now. Rest. My lady, would you please honor me with a private moment?"

Inzillomì nodded reassuringly to her daughter, releasing her hand for the first time since she had first grasped it. The group relaxed slightly, Azarmanô carefully laying Abârpânarú upon a blanket that Tiru spread upon the cold floor. They spoke quietly amongst themselves as the women disappeared into shadow. The second figure had disappeared, and the men worried of him, but accepted Inzillomì's leadership.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shadows seemed comforting rather than suffocating as Inzillomì followed Miriel out of sight. Though they had never met, Abârpânarú had spoken to Miriel many times of his wife. Inzillomì knew that Abârpânarú had had a history with the great woman, and that he loved her dearly, but also that he loved Inzi more than life itself. She examined her feelings as she walked in silence. She had considered what this meeting would be before, were it ever to occur, but she had always seen her husband present, as well as, she must admit, lighter circumstances surrounding it. She had believed that she would feel jealous, perhaps... uncertain of the situation. Now, she simply felt relieved that she could relax her authority for a time. She felt an inexplicable bond to this fascinating woman. They halted, black garb swirling about their feet at the sudden stop. They even looked somewhat alike, clad darkly, though in the pitch dark of the passage, they could not see each other.

Miriel took Inzillomì's hand in her own. "I only wish this meeting could have taken place under different circumstances. I have seen you many times, though we were never introduced." Inzillomì nodded, understanding completely.

"My lady," she asked quietly. "I thank you for your aid. But why do we tarry? Though I have long desired to make your acquaintance, the very earth tells me that we do not have long." Miriel understood her as the ground shook once more.

"It is because of this." From the depths of her robes, Miriel produced a heavy object wrapped in black silks. Inzillomì took it, surprised at the weight. "Though I desired to meet you before... now... the time has come when it could no longer be delayed. You know as well as I that our fair lands shall not... the Valar are angry, and with reason. Your father Elendil awaits you at Romenna."

Inzillomì understood. She could feel the tremors deep in her heart, even without feeling them through her body.

Miriel spoke once more, quickly now. "I give to you a palantir." Inzillomì's sharp intake of breath punctuated the statement. "I have long hidden it from the king... it mustn't be lost to the world. I entrust you with this, Inzillomì Elendili, wife of he that I love. Will you take this burden and guard it, accompanying it to the safety of Middle Earth? I would have given it to Mabalar... however he is otherwise occupied." Sensing the question, Miriel explained quickly. "He is alive, and he is well. I have provided him with time. The dark lord prefers his victims awake and in good health when the torture begins." She spat the last words with hatred. "With Mabalar unconscious, he would not be able to respond to pain. He will awaken in some hours."

Inzillomì turned this new responsibility over in her mind. "Great lady, have no fear. I will not leave this fair isle without what you have entrusted me with stewardship of."

"Then we must return before your menfolk become over-anxious to discover our maidenly secrets, no?" Inzillomì laughed at this, tucking the palantir into a deep pocket and taking Miriel's hand once more.

"Will you not sail with us? You could be saved from the doom of Numenor--"

Miriel interrupted her softly. "Nay, lady. It is not my doom. I shall remain. Come."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The men looked up from their quiet discussion as the women returned to the room.

"Come." spoke Inzillomì. "We must depart." She looked expectantly at Miriel, once again illuminated by torchlight. The great lady beckoned from the shadows the other figure that had seemed to disappear before. He pushed his hood from his face, revealing to Azarmanô the face of the shopkeep that had observed his charade as a guard.

"Moizandû will lead you from this place."

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô had never before met this Tar Miriel, but Inzillomí seemed to trust her, and that was good enough for him. He sensed that Inzillomí and the stranger had some previous connections, but he did not dare ask what these were. During the time the two talked in private, Azarmanô grew increasingly suspicious that something of great importance was about to take place, but his honor forbade him from intruding into their private matter. He trusted that if Inzillomí wanted him to know, she would tell him later. Azarmanô repeated Inzillomí’s request to Tar Miriel to join the party and escape what must be certain death, but she refused politely once more. She felt her destiny to be intertwined with that of her land, like a captain who stays behind on his sinking ship.

Azarmanô too felt great pain to be parted so abruptly with his beloved island. Although his head knew that Numenor would soon perish, his heart could not imagine this to be so. Numenor had always been dear to him, but never had this attachment been stronger than now at the moment of its destruction. Despite this, Azarmano knew he could not remain on the island like Miriel and abandon his wife and son. The pain of losing his homeland was great, but the agony of losing his loved ones would have been greater. Even if he lost every physical possession he had, he could continue living if he was with family. Without them, life would be near unbearable.

Lost in is his own thoughts, Azarmanô took a moment to look up and examine the man leading the expedition. He had heard Miriel call him Moizandû. The man’s bright red hair and beard streaked with white seemed familiar to him. Azarmanô felt sure that he had seen this man’s face before, although his name seemed foreign. After several moments, he finally remembered these features belonged to the stoic shopkeeper who had seen Inzillomí being harassed by the crowd on the party’s way into the dungeon. Azarmanô wondered who this mysterious ally was, but knew that they would not have the time to become better acquainted now- later perhaps, if they were fortunate enough to survive.

The underground tunnel rumbled as more rocks fell from the sides of the cavernous walls. How long did they have before the island was underwater? Would the sinking come quickly or slowly? Azarmanô longed to know the answers to the questions that plagued him, but realized that no mortal could possibly know such things. Their only hope was to get off the island as speedily as they could and pray that it was enough. The passageway wound forward, and still no one in the party said a single word. In the distance, Azarmanô glimped a small patch of moonlight that made his heart stir. The end of the tunnel was near and soon they would be out of Sauron’s foul dungeon. Miriel had not led them astray.

As he inched slowly towards the opening, with the weight of Arabapanu slumped on his shoulders and Inzillomí following close behind, Azarmanô pleaded to his unconscious companion, “Cling tight my friend. Soon we will all be safe and aboard Elendil’s ships in Rómenna. We need only reach them before time runs out.”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Târik wove between scurrying guards to where he knew the kariborim of the prisoners to be located. He drew as little attention to himself as possible, striding swiftly as he clutched an officially sealed scroll with the appearance of a man following orders and with no time to tarry. He was not stopped. Though a handful of his superiors knew Târik's Faithful attitude, they were few, and his fellow guards were entirely unaware that he was very unfavored at this time.

The smell of old blood and fear-sweat mingled with the sweet scent of hay. A piercing whinny cut through the air as a painful crack echoed through the halls. Târik moved faster, dreading what scene he would discover. He turned the customary corner to find several of the King's Men surrounding the most enchanting piece of horse-flesh he had ever laid eyes on. Her gleaming coat was flecked with blood. She reared high, kicking out with her hooves. One guard was unlucky enough to meet with one. The flailing leg connected solidly with his shoulder and he flew into a wall. A whip cracked through the air, landing another hit on her flank. Târik stepped forward angrily, pulling the whip from the foolish guard.

"Fool!" he snapped, cracking the whip expertly within inches of the man's feet. "The lord Sauron does not command those such as you to do these things. Do you not see the majesty of this beast? Her gleaming flesh is not yours to corrupt, nor is her temperment yours to break to will." He turned to the rest of the guards, still bearing bloodstained whips, though looking properly cowed. The mare had come once more to earth, breathing heavily and glancing about wildly in anger. "Where have you put the rest of the prisoners' kariborim?" he demanded. "Sauron requires them, and it is you who will answer when he requires an explanation to this beasts injuries."

The guards looked at once fearful and stepped back from the horse. Târik grapsed her by the halter, covertly caressing her with his fingers beneath the leather. She calmed slightly at his touch as Târik followed the beckoning guard. Within a short time, Târik led a line of horses through the maze-like dungeons. Within moments, he had taken a subtly wrong turn and led the beasts to the open air of a rarely used ally way. Eyes alert, Târik guided the clever beasts through the mysteriously silent back ways.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Herugor had channeled his frustration at the loss of so many valuable prisoners by stabbing a handsome young guard, freshly married and much in love, through the heart. As he withdrew his long sword from the warm corpse, he glanced about. Silently, he motioned. At once, two dozen guards were surrounding him. He turned with a swish of his cloak and they followed through the darkest tunnels, footsteps echoing menacingly.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Inzillomì walked several paces behind Moizandû. Her steps never faltered, though her eyes often strayed to her husband, still carried by Azarmanô, and her daughter, still mysteriously silent. As they reached the open air, she breathed a sigh of relief. The palantir was heavy in her robes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Herugor stalked silently through the empty streets. Where moments before, the city had bustled, the ebony clad warriors of the king, following the sallow faced man caused terror that not even those living near the endless screams of the dungeons could ignore.

The sun was blotted by black clouds as the ground trembled. Wind picked at the men's cloaks as they moved, heavily armed and in formation, through the city. Herugor did not once glance behind him or hesitate as he pointed black-gloved fingers to direct his troops. Silent as their leader, the men moved into place, carefully surrounding a non-descript stairwell, long since abandoned.

They drew their weapons and waited.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Târik hesitated before rounding the last corner. The hoofbeats of the kariborim had been muffled by the hissing winds that raced along the streets of the city. He glanced toward the stairwell that Moizandû was to have led the Faithful to. Two dozen armed guards lay in wait.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Although the scene was quiet as Moizandu led the party out of the cave and onto the streets of the city, the instant the group emerged, a barrage of arrows reigned down on their heads. The rescuers were badly outnumbered. Azarmanô whirled around frantically searching for the source of the attack. He glimpsed a large gathering of guards with weapons drawn waiting for them not twenty feet away. These men must have known we would be using this underground exit, Azarmano grimly reflected. Hastily drawing his bow, he let loose an arrow that found its mark full in the chest of one of the bowmen attacking in the front line. Firing his bow presented more of a problem because he was toting an injured comrade on his back, but he managed nonetheless. As the guards drew their swords and charged towards the rescuers in a great throng, Abarzadan unleashed his axe. Azarmanô had no time to think about the uneven numbers or the likelihood of survival; there was only time to attack.

Lunging to the left to dodge a blade that slashed down mere inches from his head, Azarmanô hit one assailant squarely in the stomach with his own sword, only to find another standing behind him. Just to his right, Azarman could see that Thoronmir had unsheathed his rapier and was preparing for the onslaught. Amidst the chaos of battle, Azarmano detected a faint whinney coming from a short distance. Behind the soldiers he saw the same guard who had told them the location of Arabapanu’s cell. To Azarmanô ’s amazement and relief, four kariborim stood at his side. He had not seen the horses since before they had entered the city, but he could not imagine a better time for them to make an appearance. Before Azarmanô or the others could gesture or call the horses forward, the steeds had trotted over to the Faithful, trampling aside the battling guards. One of the horses walked straight towards Abarpanaru and nudged the unconscious man with his muzzle, as though he was trying to arouse him from sleep. Battling off the guards with his axe, Azarmanô sprang onto the back of this horse, urging the others to find a mount and do the same. Fighting on horseback would not only give the men a physical edge against their enemies, but instill a feeling of confidence, something which could be even more important than numbers or weapons in determining the outcome of a fight.

Now astride the kariborim, the rescuers intensified their blows. Azarmanô unleashed one arrow after another into the throng of guards, but the fighting never seemed to slow. Even with the advantage of the horses, the outcome of the battle was uncertain. Azarmanô stole a glance at Inzillomi, concerned for the woman's safety, but found her atop a karibor deflecting attacks with her steel fan and occasionally hurling a knife at an unsuspecting soldier. I’ll say one thing for her, he thought, she handles herself well when things get tough.

The mysterious Târik joined the fighting on the side of the Faithful, wielding his long sword deftly against the crowd of combatants. Azarmanô had not expected help of any kind and was delighted to see the man come to their aid. Almost instantly, however, four guards formed a tight circle around Târik as he tried frantically to ward his attackers off. Azarmanô saw Târik’s distress and fired several arrows in the direction of his assailants, but he could not get through to the man, even on horseback. Soon, it was too late. One of the guards fell to Azarmanô 's arrow; the rest continued their relentless attack. Azarmanô watched in horror as Târik’s head was sliced off and rolled to the ground. Enraged and frustrated, Azarmanô drew his bow again in quick succession and watched the three men fall as arrows penetrated their backs and necks. At that same instant, Azarmanô’s horse veered to one side and stumbled as one of the soldiers took a swing at its leg. The beast quickly recovered its footing but not before Abarpanaru slipped off the horse's back and landed with a thud on the ground.

[littlemanpoet]

Mabalar woke painfully and winced. It was day, though the clouds threatened rain. Or were those arrows? Plenty of both, apparently. Mabalar squinted about him and saw that he was in immediate danger of being trampled unless he got to his feet. His hands were chained still, but with no wall hampering their movement, they would make a fine makeshift flail. He rose, in the middle of a melee. Nearby were Azarmanô, Inzillomì, Thoronmir, Marsillion, Kâthaanî, Tirú, Moizandû, and another he did not recognize. They were surrounded by soldiers in the garb of the treasonous king. All this Mabalar saw in a moment. There was no time for questions, though many flew into his mind, not least of which what were his wife and daughter doing in the midst of a melee just outside the Temple of Sauron, so he set them aside and made use of his only weapon.

An arrow wielding guard did not expect such an attack against him, and found his bow and arrow entangled and useless. In a moment his hands fell useless, an arrow from Azarmanó lodged in his eye.

The leader of the guards was screaming orders from behind them. Mabalar did not recognize the man, but was happy with one thing he was saying: do not harm the horses. Well enough. However, more guards came to replace those that had already fallen. This would not do. They would be overcome later if not sooner.

"We must ride!" Mabalar yelled. "Mount the Kariborim, they will hold us!"

Mabalar was convinced that it was a futile attempt and that they were seeing their last day.

"Abârpânarú!" came a cry. It was Moizandú, who was making his way to him as he could through the melee.

"Good greeting, friend!" Though the situation was ill. Moizandú grinned.

"I shall pay my debt to you! Flee while you may and I will draw their aim!"

"But you will die!"

"My life has not been ill spent, neither will my death! Go!"

[Himaran]

Abarzadan wandered aimlessly through the streets of Armenelos. All around him, people were going about their daily tasks; plainly clad residents pushed their carts, sold their wares, and scolded their children (when such action was necessary). The man paused often to admire the rich architecture of the buildings he passed by, gazing in awe at the towering structures. So this was the place of beauty and tranquility that his father had pleaded with him to seek. The meandering tourist could not help but speculate that the display of anger he and the others had witnessed toward Inzillomi - a member of the Faithful - had been an isolated incident involving few misguided zealots. Surely there was no hatred to be found amongst the ordinary citizens of the magnificient Numenorian civilization. After all, they saw her as the wife of a dangerous criminal, not as the kind and gentle woman that she had turned out to be.

Then Abarzadan saw something that did not fit with his current take on the city. A young boy, not more than four years of age, was walking near him. The child was skinny, almost dangerously so, and very ill-clad. He was caring a box of small trinkets for sale, and shouted out to anyone who would listen to "c'mere and buy s'mthin!" Everyone else merely looked past him, but not Abarzadan. He caught the boy by the shoulder, stopped him, and started picking through the wares. His right hand lifted out a small wooden carviture. It was a man on horseback, dressed in military garb, wielding a deadly battle axe. For all the man knew, it could have been his father. Choking back the oncoming rush of tears, he payed double the price for the figurine and sent the now smiling salesboy on his way. What sort of family would send their infant out on the streets just to make a dime? His father had certainly never done so, but then, they were well off. Was there really such poverty here? Shaken up by the encounter, Abarzadan walked over to a nearby bench in the center of the square and sat down.

"That was very kind of you."

The voice was smooth and melodious. Abarzadan looked up to find a young, well dressed woman sharing the bench. She had a beautiful face, and the wide smile only made it more exquisite. He was too stunned to speak, so she spoke again. "He comes here every day, on his way through the city. Most people just ignore him; tourists certainly do."

In the pause that followed, the man once again could not think of anything to say. "Thank you," he mumbled, but here merry laughter drained the embarressment from his face, and he could not help but smile too.

"So, do you live in the city?" she asked.

The man thought for a moment, eventually deciding to just be honest. "I was born here, but my father and I left when I was young. It has changed so much since then that I don't recognize a thing. It seems so young and fresh and active."

The woman nodded sagely. "Yes, Armenelos in indeed a wonderful place to live. And what might your name be, good sir?"

Without even thinking of the possible consequences, he spat out "Abârzadan Batânzâira."

Her eyes were dull for a moment, and then lit up brightly. "My father used to do business with a man named Batânzâira. It was a long time ago, though, and I don't recall his first name. I was young at the time, you see. But I have forgotten my manners! My name is Ellinel."

Abarzadan was suddenly exciting. The prospect of meeting an affluent friend of his father was both intriguing and exhilerating. Perhaps he could start over after all. Pushing the nagging feeling of guilt - that of betraying the group he had set out with - from his mind, he asked another question. "Dear Ellinel, could you take me to visit your father? I am Batânzâira's son and sole heir, as he has recently passed away. If what you say is true, your father and I may have some loose ends that need to be tied up."

The deep smile only grew wider. "But of course, Abârzadan Batânzâira. Our place is just to the south of here."

Suddenly, there was a slight tremor in the earth. Everyone in the marketplace slowed, steadied themselves, and waited. When it had passed, they continued on their way, oblivious of the disaster to come.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì had marked the loss of Târik with cold fury. She had mistrusted him long before turning to his guidance, and almost felt that she had lost a son now that she had placed her life in his hands and he had given his to save them. Mandos keep him in high honor. she thought grimly, catching a sweeping blade with her fan and running the unfortunate soldier through as he tried to regain his motionless blade. She felt sick at heart at the loss of these brave young guards; they fought fiercly for reasons as good as her own... simply different. Whether for their own ideals, or through fear, and she could not judge them bitterly... she had seen too much sorrow at the hands of judgement to inflict it on such pitiable lads as these.

Her face was white as new fallen snow, pale as those dying from her strokes. It was her life or those of the King's Men. Those she loved best in the world stood in the balance. Now was not the time for mercy. She argued with herself, blocking and defending unthinkingly. The karibor beneath her reared, kicking, and dispatching a man just out of reach. If now is not the highest and hardest time for mercy, then what is? Should not these boys be treated with the kindness that seems so foreign to them? Do not they need it most?

Abarzadan had disappeared from the fray. Inzillomì had not seen him leave, but she could not place him in the midst of the fighters... or on the cold road with those slain.

A sharp tug nearly pulled Inzi from the saddle. Kâthaanî, who had been riding pillion until the group could retrieve the rest of the mounts, had been pulled from her place, trying fruitlessly to keep hold on her mother. Inzi turned, straining her back, to see Kâthaanî pull her dull silver blade from its sheath, ducking a blow from a large guard. The girl had been silent through the trip and remained so now. As she pivoted, trying to find purchase through her opponent's armor, a scream cut through the air, piercing it's way through even the heavy rumble of thunder. Heat lightening played across the low clouds, blinding Inzillomì. As her eyes cleared, she did not see her daughter. She searched the area madly, noting her husband shouting an unheard message to a bearded man she barely recognized. Azarmanô fought on horseback, bow and blade in hand. Tiru also rode, his own mount as much weapon as he required. With silent messages, transferred unthinkingly by feel, the faithful servant guided his karibor with deadly accuracy. Guards lay on the ground in verying states of pain, clutching broken bones, unable to fight. Marsillion was deeply engaged with several opponents but seemed capable. Kâthaanî was not standing. Inzillomì swept the ground fiercly. She froze as the earth shook. Her daughter lay still on the unfeeling road, a pool of blood spreading from beneath her.

"We flee!" came Abârpânarú's shout through a moment of unexpected silence. "No time to ponder, we flee!"

Inzillomì didn't move.

[littlemanpoet]

littlemanpoet's post

Mabalar thanked Moizandú with a brief silent glance of deepest respect as his friend dismounted from Izri, putting himself in great danger, and sent the mearas seeking out her mistress, Kâthaanî.

It was fortunate that the street was full of shop wares and their poles, tents, tables and benches, which had made it hard for more than a small number of Herugor's guards to attack them at one time, and also made bowshots difficult to aim with much accuracy.

A quake shook the earth. Mabalar remained on surefooted Lômi. He took stock. A foot wide gap had opened between them and the bulk of Herugor's guards. There were only fifteen guards on foot on their side of the gap. Mabalar looked over them and made a quick head count: Tirú was on Mani, Marsillion rode Rûki, Thoronmir sat astride Nitirú, Azarmanô held the reins of Khibil, and Inzillomí wielded her knife while on the back of Kali. Where was Kâthaanî? He could not see her.

Izri, find your mistress, he whispered. "Retreat!" he yelled and swung his chains at the nearest guard before the young soldier regained his wits. The others responded to his call, except for Inzillomí. Mabalar coaxed the wise Lômi to get clear of the guards. The sky darkened further, threatening clouds lowering as with a pall of doom. Hail began to fall. This was not hail like anything Mabalar had seen before, not the size of small pebbles; these were the size of nuts and apples, and stung like shot from a Soronilian blowgun.

Suddenly he heard someone crying above the fray. It was Moizandú. He was standing on top of a newly made heap of rubble, holding a piece of wood above his head.

"Men of Númenor! This hail, these earthquakes, these are made from the wrath of the Valar! Turn from your evil! Follow Sauron and his minion Herugor no more!"

Some of the guards quailed and dropped their swords to the ground. Others still held their weapons but dropped them to their sides. Most held their weapons firm but wavered, as if unsure between this seeming prophet and their commander. One, standing near Herugor, looked on coldly.

While they were in confusion, Mabalar urged Lômi and the others were now following. Izri was lagging. Something was slowing her. It was Kâthaanî, her hand desperately gripping a hanging rein as Izri dragged her carefully as she could along the ground.

"Kâth!" Mabalar yelled. A thin trail of blood could be seen where she had dragged. She looked up with glazed eyes, mouthing words that looked like a desperate call for help. My child! Mabalar jumped from Lômi and ran to Kâthaanî.

Meanwhile Moizandú continued his harangue. "The so-called Golden King has fallen under the spell of the hated Sauron! Immortality cannot be wrested from the Valar! 'Tis a fool's errand! Turn from the evil!" The guards who had dropped their swords looked remorseful as the hail fell upon them. Those who had let down their guard looked confused. Those who had wavered kept looking back and forth between Moizandú and Herugor. The one with cold eyes raised his bow and nocked and arrow.

Tirú, nearest to Kâthaanî, dismounted and came to Mabalar's aid. Together they lifted the groaning Kâthaanî and got her on Izri's back.

"Hang on, my dear!" he said and turned to Tirú. "Take her reins, my friend!"

"Aye, master!" Tirú's eyes spoke their friend-bond.

"Sauron has betrayed all Númenor! 'Tis a folly to due that fell one's will! Turn! Turn from -urk!" An arrow pierced his throat. He fell. The hail fell harder, and larger. Another quake split the gap wider.

In the midst of all the chaos, Mabalar found a brief moment to embrace Inzi.

"Is she--" she began, tense and afraid. He interrupted her, eying Moizandú's speech with thanks.

"No... though she may be soon. We must ride now. Need you aid? Are you hurt?"

Inzillomì looked into his eyes, her own blank and haunted. "No... no... we must leave Kali behind for another of our party; I pray that he comes in time."

"Then ride with me," Mabalar replied. She nodded and gave him the name of the missing friend, whom Mabalar had never met. He spoke the name to Kali, knowing that she would understand. Mabalar looked again at Inzi with worry before climbing again upon the back of Lômi and helping her up behind him. He cried one last order and the seven faithful rode hard, Tiru holding the reins of Izri, out of the city.

The seven Faithful fled down the streets mounted on the surefooted mearas, Kâthaanî's arms wrapped around the neck of Izri.

Míriel watched from high above, seeing the plight of the seven, the hail falling from a dark green sky, the quakes ripping up Armenelos.

"Valar save them," she said, and pulled her cloak more closely about her shivering frame.

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Himaran's post

The last time Abarzadan had been in a Numenorean mansion was beyond the reach of his more than adequate memory. As he and Ellinel passed through the set of beautifully-crafted heavy wooden doors, the man could only glance at a few of the amazing features displayed before him before a stone-faced (and well-dressed) servant appeared and took their coats; he did not even blink at the sight of Abarzadan's (which was torn, soaked and bloodied). The still-beaming woman beside him touched his shoulder and wispered that she would go and find her father. Both she and the servant disappeared, leaving him to study the house's many intricate details. The atrium was huge; beams with various pictures carved into them supported the walls, and towering above the polished stone floor was a colored glass dome. A central, enormous and gently-curving staircased climbed up the walls, stopping briefly at each level before continuing its upward journey. Surprisingly, it was deathly quiet.

It was not Ellinel who returned to meet him. An older man, tall and well-built with a full head of still-dark hair, appeared from one of the lower doors and stepped towards him. His walk was quick, and he carried his shoulders high. His clothing was custom and exquisite. Every fiber of his being exuded power. "My daughter tells me that you are Abârzadan."

"Such is the case, yes. She believes that you knew my father."

The man's face twisted, but he regained his composure a second later. "Yes, I knew Abâranâ. By your demeanor I understand that he has passed away."

"Again, you are are correct. I thought that since you were friends, there might be some lose ends that needed tying up, assuming you and he had conducted business together."

He was quiet for a moment. "Ah, but I am rude. My name, Abârzadan, is Anadanâ. Welcome to my home. Do you require refreshments, or shall we get right to the task at hand?"

Abârzadan declined the offer, and the two headed up the staircase.


***


Anadanâ's study was immense. Row upon row of shelves was stuffed tight with leather-bound books, and heavy cabinets filled with documents lined the walls whenever an open space presented itself. A huge ivory desk covered with scattered papers sat in the center. The host led his guest straight to it, pulled up and extra chair, and bid him to sit. Anadanâ spent a few moments searching one of the cabinets, but soon returned with a large folder. He sat down and pulled out documents one at time, explaining their significance as he went. Apparently, Abâranâ and he had run a business together for many years. It started out as a small entrepreneurship, but eventually evolved into a highly succesfull enterprise that held a virtual monopoly in the housing industry for a decade. When Abârzadan's father abruptly disappeared, his partner simply took over. "But now that you're here," he assured Abârzadan, "You can sign for him and take your father's place."

Anadanâ pulled out a crumpled paper and blew a cloud of dust off it. "Here we are. Assuming that you want in on this." He picked up an inkwell with his right hand, turned it over, and grimaced. "Ah, it's empty. I will have to go and fetch a fresh bottle. Please excuse me." And with that, he stood and disappeared from the room.

Abârzadan chuckled to himself. Anadanâ had seemed like the sort of man that would have called a servant long before venturing out to find something as trivial as an ink canister. After all, there were several buttons on the a nearby panel, all labeled - a bell system that ran throughout the entire residence. Pushing the thought aside, the man snatched up the paper and read through the legal material. Everything seemed in order, and the previous signiture had indeed been made by Abâranâ Barântâira.

Wait. Batânzâira... Barântâira. That is not his name! Upon making this startling revelation, the man leaped to his feet. Suddenly visible was a dark pool of ink, slowly settling at the bottom of an otherwise-empty silver waste-basket.

And Abârzadan make a quick and accurate assumption. Something about the entire afternoon was very, very wrong.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì had stared frozen in horror at the body of her only child, laying motionless in a pool of her own blood. She could not look away, watching the color drain from Kâthaanî's face as the seconds ticked slowly by. She screamed at herself silently, trying to force her leaden limbs to action. Though Inzi had fought many times, impressively and subtley, she had never before heard the painful scream of her own blood. Though Kâthaanî had gone on missions before, it had always been with Abârpânarú, and they had always been safer than Cervith had realized. Now she had been exposed to the true horror that was battle and had come out wanting... now she was wounded, perhaps fatally, and her life streamed from her body as her mother was frozen to inaction.

Izri found her at that moment. As Inzillomì looked on, surprisingly unscathed though her attention had so completely wandered from the battle, she saw her daughter's fingers tighten over the reins of her beloved Izri. A sigh of relief escaped as her own mount moved forward and slightly away from the girl. Inzi panicked, snapping back to the moment. She reeled slightly and slipped from her saddle, being caught rather undelicately by the unsoft ground. Kali turned, worried about the lack of weight now present on her back. She nudged Inzillomi off the ground. The woman stood, slightly dazed, and bent to pick up her long knife. She thrust it through her sash, swiftly moving to the aid of Abârpânarú and Tiru, now hoisting the motionless Kâthaanî to Izri's back. As the girl found the strength to hold tight to the beast's neck, the men turned from her, allowing Kali to remove her mistress from harm's way. Tiru mounted Mani again as Abârpânarú spotted his wife, stricken, it seemed. He moved to her quickly, taking her swiftly in his arms.

"Is she--" she began, tense and afraid. He interrupted her, eying Moizandú's speech with thanks.

"No... though she may be soon. We must ride now. Need you aid? Are you hurt?"

Inzillomì looked into his eyes, her own blank and haunted. "No... no..." She turned from him, mounting Kali once more. Abârpânarú looked at her with worry before climbing again upon the back of Lômi. He cried one last order and the seven faithful rode hard, Tiru holding the reins of Izri, out of the city.

Buried once more in the act of riding, Inzillomì body cooperated with her. She could not stop her gaze from falling often upon her daughter's unmoving form. If only she had been faster... She rode hard as the hail bruised her skin, thinking furiously, blaming herself.

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir fired several arrows back at their pursuers, but there were too many behind them for the arrows to make a difference. Desperate to get off the island before it sank, Thoronmir urged his horse on.

Meanwhile, in the city, Sauron was still issuing orders.

"Hunt down the Faithful! They must not be allowed to leave this place. Herugor, take as many soldiers as you can and capture them before they can reach Romenna!"

"Yes, my lord," Herugor replied, and left.

Several miles from Armenelos, Thoronmir and the others stopped for a minute to rest before moving on. Thoronmir noticed something in the distance. At least ten horses were coming after them, and they didn't look friendly.

"Ride!" he shouted. "The Enemy has found us! Ride!"

An arrow flew past, narrowly missing Thoronmir. He fired a shot from his own bow and took off down the trail.

"You're not getting away this time, Sakaladun! This time, you die!" came a very familiar voice.

They rode onward.


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Himaran's post

Dropping the suspicious document on the desk, Abârzadan walked over to the cabinet from which his host had produced the obviously incorrect papers. Scanning the labels, he quickly recognized that they were alphebetically ordered. If those did not regard my father then... surely something else did. He found the "B's," and rolled down the line; Ba, Bat, Batâ, Batân...

There was nothing.

The man heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps all this had been a big mistake after all.

Then he noticed the sections.

At the top of the cabinet he was standing in front of, a small sign read "Partners." Each one is its own file!. Well, if Partner didn't apply, what did? "Raw Materials?" "Transportation?" No, these were all connected to Anadanâ's housing business. The man worked his way around the room, checking the names for anything that looked suspicious. And then he saw it, clear as daylight.

"Political Enemies."

Not even bothering to scroll, Abârzadan pulled out his father's "file," which consisted of a small, heavy and unlocked metal box. He hauled it over to a nearby table and set it down. Prying up the lid, the man scooped out a pile of papers. The first several consisted of background information on his father, such as his birthdate, childhood residence, and geneology. Why does this man have a record on Abâranâ? Political enemies? He looked at the next document. Its title read, "Legislation and Political Measures." Names rolled out before him at startling speed - child labor, slavery, taxation; all the major issures were present. Nothing concrete or explanatory, though. But the next piece made his blood run cold.

"Voting Records."

After all, his father had been on the Numenorean High Council. While the King still had the final say in all matters, the council had wielded considerable power during that time. So what had he done to deserve the label of "enemy?" Nothing was making sense. Lists, lists, and yet more lists. Had it not been for the fact that Abâranâ's name had been circled, he might never have found it. The man started checking the votes. Child labor, No. Legalizing prostitution, No. All of the measures he had voted against had passed. In the face of great opposition, the politician had stood up for his beliefs. And to what end? The final decision in the record was entitled, "Centralized Army Fund." Origonally, garrisons in cities were run and operated by individual councils. This law created a single army controlled by Ar-Pharazôn alone, one which would have made controlling a disobediants populace far easier. He checked the list on the right side of the paper, and was surprised by what he saw.

His father had not voted.

Tossing it aside, he scooped up the next one. This one was simply labeled, "Status." There were three names on the paper. His mother's name had been crossed off. The names of his father and himself had not.

Abârzadan sank back into the chair behind him. His mother's death, the flight from Numenor; it had all become remarkably clear within the course of the past few minutes. His father's last words rang hauntingly in his memory. "I say this, so that you will indeed go back there, to see the place where our ancestors lie." And discover the truth.

A tremble in the floor snapped him out of his daydream.

The ink had been a diversion for Anadanâ to leave the room. Where was he? The man was sure that the aging politician would be more than happy to get Abârzadan's name scratched off that list once and for all. Rolling up the papers, he fastened them with a nearby tie and hurried out of the room. Maybe the Valar would be merciful to him. Maybe there was still time.

[littlemanpoet]

littlemanpoet's post

When they halted for a brief time, Mabalar and Inzillomí went straight to their daughter. She had been grievously wounded; her face was pale, and she fought for consciousness.

"We must dress the wound!" Inzi said. She tore strips from her own dress, shortening it from anke length to knee, and wrapped the bands around the knife wound in Kâthaanî's side.

"Lord," cried Tíru, "let me remove your chains!"

"There is no time now. My friends!" he called to all of them. "The island and tongue of the Adûnaic are now cursed because of the evil of the king and his men in following Sauron. From now on, all of my house must be called by their Sindarin names. I am Mabalar Mellothroch. My wife is Lothlómë. My life work is the care of the mearas. Speak to me and mine in Sindarin only, or you will not be answered." He looked from one to the next of them as his words laid hold upon them.

Just then, Thoronmir gave warning: they were being followed.

"Mabalar, part of the dagger must be embedded in the wound," said Lothlómë.

"There is no time now, though my heart misgives me if we do not remove it soon. Ride and outrun them!"

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Himaran's post


As he rushed out out onto the winding stairwell, Abarzadan heard the main door to the estate crash open. Crouching, he peered over the railing and watched as heavily armed guards poured into the atrium. The reason for Abadana's disappearance instantly became clear. But what to do? An armour-plated captain shouted orders to his men and they started up the staircase. There was no way to go but up. Keeping his head low, Abarzadan ascended on his belly, scrambling as quickly as his four limbs would carry him. The pounding footsteps behind him grew close, than faded into the study. Not much time. Forgetting any preconcieved notions of stealth, the man threw caution to the wind, stood, and bounded up to the next level.

Betrayed. The whole affair had been a farce, starting with his "unexpected" meeting with Ellinel. She recognized the name, ensnared him with her charm and appearance, and brought him to her father for the slaughter. As the man continued his unconventional escape, he vowed to cheat them again, just as his father had so many years before. Bursting through a nearby door, Abarzadan found himself in a loud, steamy and bustling kitchen. Cooks and porters yelled with surprise as he leaped over a counter and tore threw an array of stoves, kicking and tipping over various barrels and cauldrons in his mad flight. A lone, enraged worker brandishing a knife blocked his exit, but slowing down was no longer an option for the man. He waited until the last possible second before snatching an empty kettle, knocking the implement aside and fleeing from the scene. Slamming the door behind him, Abarzadan jammed it with a nearby stool before turning and finding himself at a dead end.

The window.

Snatching a broom from its customary place on the wall, he smashed the expensive but delicate glass and glanced out. He was two stories above the ground, too far up to jump. Unlike the stories he had often read as a child, there was no tall haywagon conveniently sitting just below him. Shouting behind him, someone shoving on the door.

Then he saw the pipe.

Naturally, any wealthy man's house would have a functional sewer system, and this one was no exception. The waste must run down, so... Careful of the remaining glass, Abarzadan clasped both arms around the thick clay cylinder and pulled his body out with them. Then he started sliding. The stool was knocked aside. Guards swarmed in, found an empty room with a broken window, and looked out. There was no one in sight.

Documents in hand, Abarzadan sprinted down the street. Locals eyed him briefly before sighing, turning and continuing with their business. A tremble sent him tumbling to the earth, but he pulled himself up and hurried unward. Where was he going? Up ahead, the man saw the crown of the temple. Perhaps even now as he hurried towards it, his past companions were being bled or burned to death on one of its pagan alters. There was absolutely no logical reason to head towards it, especially now that he had escaped two deathtraps in the same day. Yet something, a force not dark or sinister, seemed to be drawing him to it. Maybe the Valar wish for me to make a stand. Maybe it is my time.

But Kali, waiting alone in the shadow of the temple, knew better.

[Regin Hardhammer]

It had all happened so quickly in the confusion of battle. One moment Kâthaanî had been mounted on her Karibor fighting and the next she lay sprawled out on the ground, badly wounded. He tried to ride over to help, but a group of soldiers stood in the way blocking his path. Before plowing his way through to Kâthaanî, Azarmanô heard Abârpânarú call for the retreat. There had been too many guards to defeat, he lamented, simply too many soldiers and not enough Faithful. Over the course of his service, he had become accustomed to being outnumbered in battle, sometimes being forced to retreat. He hated fleeing from combat, running from the enemy, then as now, but there was no choice. Time slipped through their fingers like fine grains of sand. The island was sinking and every moment the ground trembled with a greater ferocity.

Azarmanô had never ridden a horse at such speeds in his life. The Kariborim were truly extraordinary creatures gifted with blazing speed that enabled the group to stay just ahead of their pursuers. The creatures’ endurance lasted much longer than that of ordinary beasts, never waning as the group rode on. He had never been particularly fond of horses before, but now he was extremely glad to be riding these fleet footed equines. We need only keep up this pace to reach Romenna and board the ships to safety, he thought.

As he passed the landscape, he felt as if he was saying goodbye, a final farewell to the land of Numenor, soon to be under water. Yet even as he did so, he felt that Numenor, although destroyed, would always live in his heart as he remembered it, not as the land of corrupt, greedy kings, or the foul Lord Sauron, but as the home for a once noble people who had once befriended the elves. He could never forget Numenor, his Numenor, as long as he lived. When Abârpânarú pronounced the tongue of Numenor to be cursed, tainted, unusable, it pained Azarmanô greatly. Adunaic was the language of his ancestors, the language of the great Numenorian sea captains of old from whom he derived his lineage. Adunaic still held a deer place in his heart as something connected with home, something he could keep after the island sunk. Despite Abârpânarú’s rejection of the language as corrupt, Azarmanô could not find the will within him to do the same. He could speak Sindarin, but the tongue nearest to his heart would always be the language of Numenor.

After the party stopped for a brief respite, Azarmanô went over to check on Kâthaanî. She was still bleeding slightly, so Azarmanô ripped off a piece of his cloak and tied it as a bandage on her shoulder. There was no time to treat her wounds properly here, but they could ensure that she not lose any more blood. As he looked at her body wavering on top of a Karibor, he silently willed her to stay stable until they reached the ships. Off in the distance Azarmanô could see a cluster of a dozen soldiers on horseback riding towards them with alarming alacrity. Quickly, he mounted his horse, checked to see that Kâthaanî sat safely on top of her Karibor supported by her mother, and followed his companions, galloping toward the harbor.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Kâthaanî had been perched behind her mother in the battle. Her own Izri had not been close enough and they had needed any advantage over the numerous ground troops. When she felt a sharp tug from behind, she reached for her mother, twisting in place. She had hit the ground out of breath and rolled to her feet, crouching angrily to meet the fighter. With only her dull blade in hand, she blocked two cuts before hesitating. The blade had cut so easily through her. She screamed and fell, clutching her side. The soldier left her for dead... it had been such a wound.

She felt the hot stickiness of her own blood soaking through her clothes. Her breathing came harshly... it hurt to extend her ribs. Each breath tore at the wound and she cringed, gasping at the hurt. Within short moments, she lay still on the ground.

She could feel herself moving further away from the battle. The sounds were growing dimmer as she concentrating on trying to make the pain stop. She lay still, hoping that it would help. Suddenly she cringed, turning, gasping at the hurt, and opened her eyes. Izri nudged her worriedly. Kâthaanî's eyes seemed cloudy and she was growing weaker each moment. Soft leather touched her hand and she clenched her fingers around it.

It hurt... she could feel her clothing sticking to the blood that was beneath her. She was tugged out of the road. Izri pulled her closer to Abârpânarú and in the exquisite calm that comes from pain, Kâthaanî could feel herself hoisted to Izri's back.

She heard her father's voice urging her to hang on. She took him literally... her fingers tightened on Izri's main and she wrapped herself around her karibor.

What seemed like seconds later, the group stopped for a moment. She could hear her mother's voice, though she could not understand the words. She cried out as she felt bandaging tighten over her, blacking out once more. Next she knew, she was astride Izri, pounding down the road as hail fell from the sky. She closed her eyes and trusted to her mount to keep her safe as she concentrated on breathing alone.

[littlemanpoet]

It was raining hard. The six splashing mearas hurtled forward. Mabalar was glad of Inzi's arms around him, her supple hands clasped at his breast bone. He feared for their daughter. She had seemed so pale from loss of blood. They had to get to Rómenna as quickly as they could. Hope was beginning to leave him and his heart felt as heavy as the weighing green clouds above.

There was something, a burden Inzi must be bearing under her clothes, that drove into his spine at the small of his back.

"What is that you have, poking me in the spine?" he called over his shoulder amid the din of thundering hooves.

"'Tis a gift from Tar Míriel, she meant to give to you, but you slept!"

"Valar be praised!" he replied, and smiled back to her.

Looking ahead again, Mabalar saw a line of horses stretching across the road and into the fields on either side. Yet another obstacle! Who this time? He cried for a halt. The line closed in on either side even as the clouds came lower, darkening. Now Mabalar could hear the pursuing horses that they had outrun, closing in from behind.

"Who hinders our passage?" he yelled in barely controlled fury.

One rider moved his horse ahead of the rest. "I, Herugor, on orders of Lord Sauron, hinder your passage, for you are a traitor and fugitive from the King's Law."

How had Herugor gotten ahead of them again? It had to be sorcery he had learned from his heinous master.

They were surrounded. Lightening rent the sky, followed by a deafening roar of thunder. Rain fell harder. The last vestiges of daylight slipped away as the hidden sun fell into the Sea in the West. Hail mixed with the rain. The ground shook beneath them.

"Surrender, miscreant!" Herugor cried.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post


As Mabalar pulled their mount to a tense stop, Inzi felt an inexplicable warmth spread across her midriff. She ignored the palantir for only a moment before it became uncomfortable. Untwining her arms from around her husband's waist, she slid one hand beneath her robes, palming the artifact. In the din, her actions went unnoticed. She lowered her eyes seemingly modestly, glancing into the swirling depths in wonder:

a face... a face familiar as the feeling of a horse beneath her... Elendil, and he spoke; another face... two... Isildur with Anarion... a nod; hailstones gathering in fountains... crying children; horses, tack...

The palantir warmed her hands as rain poured from the sky. Lightening lit the scene as Inzillomì stared transfixed. Herugor's men surrounded the small group. The kariborim, courageous though they were, pranced in discomfort, eager either for battle or for calm. Inzi, nearly invisible of the darkness of the storm, knew nothing of the blowing wind that had pulled her hair from its sturdy braid. Her black locks danced in the wind, soaked through, and the men shouted to be heard. She saw more:

a road, pitted and broken; a great wave; she gasped unheard now: long lines of Faithful, riding hard, her brothers leading, faces terrifying in their purpose; fire now, burning, cleansing... her vision went dark.

Inzillomì swiftly hid the palantir once more, taking in what was now happening. It had been mere seconds that she had viewed it, but she knew what she had seen: an army, led by the sons of Elendil, and coming swift upon this very road. She had recognized the land so quickly shown... they were a mere mile off.

"Inzillomì," spoke Mabalar over the wind, barely loud enough for her to hear. "have you faith?" She could feel him tense... wavering in his confidence of escape, still weak from imprisonment. They had come so far to be stopped now... she spoke carefully in his ear. He registered her words more from the feel of her warm breath than from sound... thunder rumbled and cracked above them. A tree was hit by lightening upon a nearby hill... it began to burn.

"I have faith, my love..." she murmered. "What is more... I have hope."

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Himaran's post


It was terrifying.

The island was tearing itself apart. The earth shifted and bucked underneath Kali's legs as the steed gallaped away from Armenelos with Abarzadan clinging to his mane. Trees were hurled from the ground as their very roots were disloged from the rocky turf. Newly formed gysers burst open and streams of water shot upward into the air. The wind had increased to a violent speed, throwing leaves, branches and small stones all about. And everywhere, water was rising. The earth itself had become almost sponge-like, completely saturated. Streams had become ponds, and ponds had turned into lakes. There was no longer a path; Kali was running on pure instinct, and the man could do nothing but hold on and hope. A tree crashed to the ground ten paces from them, but the horse was ready and leaped over it, never breaking stride. A branch broke of a nearby tree and slammed into Abarzadan's head, but through sheer force of will he kept his balance. Heavy rain added to his misery, pelting the sizable wound. Blood mixed with water trickled down his forhead, imparing his vision. The man was utterly helpless, at the mercy of his mount and the elements.

Then an arrow whistled by his head, thudding into a nearby tree. Wipping his face, Abarzadan strained his neck around and could make out the shapes of several riders trailing him. They must have been following him since he and Kali hurtled through the city's east gate, although at the time it had appeared that their escape had been complete. The man grimaced. He had no weapons, was wounded, and had no idea how far away the shore was, or if the Faithful were even still there. He would have to use the only tool available to him: his horse. Taking a firmer grip, he directly Kali to he the right, dodging trees, boulders and other unexpected obstacles. He waited until they were over the next rise, took a backward glance, wispered an elvish phrase into the steed's ear, and dove off of his mount. On all fours, he crawled behinds a bush and waited. Kali's hoofbeats disappeared in the distance. By the sounds, their were four riders, and three of them continued onward. One, however, slowed, stopped, and turned around.

Abarzadan waited, holding his breath.

The rider's horse sniffed and whinnied, and its master said something to it in reply. Heavy steps came closer, stopping in front of the large bush. A string tightened. The man winced in dreaded anticipation. The string twanged, and an arrow burried itself in the ground and inch from his leg. Apparently satisfied, the soldier turned his horse away and trotted in the opposite direction. This, however, was not an opportunity Abarzadan was going to miss. He rolled out from behind the bush, dashed toward his unexpecting opponent, and dove towards him. The two collided and collapsed off of the horse. Brandishing the arrow he had plucked from the turf, the last remaining member of the House of Batanzaira plunged it into the neck of the stunned Numenorean. Snatching his bow and quiver, Abarzadan climbed onto the obediant horse. The pair raced away from the scene, heading in the direction Kali and the others had taken.

~*~

It was not long before they were located. Abarzadan slowed his mount and hopped off, readying his bow. Ahead, three men and four horses were gathered, one of which was being admired by its new masters. Kali stopped! The realization struck him with horror. What if he missed, and hit Kali instead? He need a diverstion. Turning to his waiting horse, he gave it a little shove in their direction and barked an order. Snorting, it trotted away from him and towards the others. Abarzadan circled around to a better angle, moving from tree to tree. The ground squished and his boots filled with water, but he kept moving. In the clearing, the three men turned away from Kali and looked the other horse over. Time was running out.

The man took careful aim, exhaled, and sent a shaft whistling towards his targets, and it hit one in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Now Abarzadan was running, notching another arrow. He released it in full stride, watching with satisfaction as it came to rest in the head of the second enemy. Now too close for ranged combat, he dropped the bow and pulled the quiver off of his back, swinging it by the strap. The final soldier backed away, sword at ready. The pair circled one another, with Abarzadan keeping the quiver spinning at full speed. "So it has come to this, my friend," shouted Abarzadan over the rushing wind. "Numenoreans killing each other over a senseless disagreement."

The other merely grimaced. "You are a heretic, like all the others. You should have died at the temple with the rest." Kali punctuated his statement, drilling the unsuspecting man to the ground with a swift kick from his front hooves. Abarzadan chuckled. "A pity you couldn't be back at Armenelos. I am certain that the sight of your great temple crumbling to the ground would be an unforgettable one." Leaving the stunned soldier to decide his own fate, the man tossed the quiver away and climbed onto Kali's waiting back. As they got further from the center of the island, the storm gradually melted away, but the man knew it would not be long before the entire landmass would share the same fate. Suddenly, the pair burst from the forest. They were on a grassy hill looking down on the coast. The man whooped with joy, for the ships of the Faithful were still anchored in the bay.

[littlemanpoet]

"I have faith, my love... What is more... I have hope."

He smiled. This is why I married you, dearest Inzi. When he wavered she was strong, and when she did, he was strong; together they were truly strong.

Mabalar met Herugor's eyes, not letting go. The sorcerer scowled.

Lightening forked and snaked across the sky, dancing across the heights like a whirling Umbarian. Herugor's men looked at the purpling sky fearfully.

Herugor yelled a command that could not be heard, but Mabalar had read his lips: Take them! The thunder grew louder, lasting far longer than usual for lightening. Then Mabalar realized that it was not coming from the sky, low as the clouds were. An army approached from the east, ten score horsemen riding hard and fast. Herugor's fifty men began to turn to see. Their horses pranced nervously. Finally, Herugor, until now so intent upon Mabalar's group, became aware of the threat from the east. His words were lost in the howling wind and the thunder and the rush of rain and hail, but all knew what he had commanded: Hold fast! But Herugor's men were at a huge disadvantage, and it seemed that they were convinced that if they stayed where they were they would be cut down. It started with one, then another, then a few more, and in the space of a few seconds, fifty horsemen were careering back west towad Armenelos, leaving Herugor sitting astride his horse, at a loss for words amid his fury. He looked at Mabalar once more with a knife's glance, then cast his cloak about him. Before their eyes, he seemed to melt beneath his cloak to nothing in the saddle, and was gone. The horse, left to its own devices, looking to right and to left, trotted nervously up the hill, skirted the burning tree, and fled back westward after its comrades.

The army halted around them, its flanks to right and left washing up like waves on a beach until they were almost surrounded ... by friends. Elendil, Anarion, and Isildur, astride their stallions, came up to Mabalar and the others.

"I greet thee, Mabalar Mellothroch and Lothlómë!" said Elendil.

Mabalar bowed in his saddle. "'Tis an honor to meet you again, lord."

Inzillomì embraced her brother Anarion swiftly before speaking to her father. She straightened behind Mabalar as she talked to him, calling over the elements: "Father, Kâthaanî is injured, perhaps to the death. We mustn't delay lest your grandchild be beyond aid."

Elendil became grave and ordered several guards to take the unconscious Kathâaní to Rómenna with all haste. They placed her on a makeshift hammock between four horses, roofed against the elements, no less, and cantered off.

"We received word through the palantirí," said Elendil, "from Tar Míriel, that you and yours were in danger. We came as soon as we could."

"You have saved our lives, lord. I and mine will do no less should the honor present itself."

Elendil smiled. "You and your house are worth the saving, Mabalar." The raging storm had not calmed as they talked. "Come!" Elendil called. "Let us escape this plague filled island before it sinks beneath our feet!"

They turned and began to canter back toward Rómenna when they heard the hard galloping of a single horse.

"Who could that be, I wonder," Mabalar said, looking back into the murk of rain and hail behind them. "Herugor to try one last time to capture us?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Khônarû looked worriedly at his charge as their group stopped to rest their horses for a moment. He touched her white face lightly and it was cold. She moaned slightly, pulling away from the warmth of his hand. Her bandages were red with her blood. He called to one of his men, interrupting the big soldier's quiet conversation. Though the man was large and imposing, he moved as silently as a shadow, though very little could be heard over the whipping winds that pulled at them ceaselessly.

"Urugnardu," he spoke as quietly as he could, avoiding letting his men see his speech. "Lord Elendil's grandchild is failing. What are your thoughts?"

The man looked at his commander, unsure. "Sir?" he asked.

"Times are not what they once were," Khônarû responded, looking to the blackened sky and gesturing to the rain as it fell past them to land on the delicately shivering earth. "We are leaving this land, my friend. I would like much to leave it with our commander's grandchild aboard the ship and healing. As it is... I will admit to not being certain of the proper action. Though it is not your position, I note that you are a dab hand as a healer. I would appreciate your input, as you know more than I. Do we press to the harbor and hope that she holds on... or do we halt and let her pass peacefully..."

The soldier looked to his captian, unsure of how to respond. The lady Kâthaanî, though not well known, was well loved for who she was. Her position alone as the grand daughter of Elendil and the child of Mabalar Mellothroch and Lothlómë was itself worthy of consideration, and yet Elendil's men were fond of her for her own temperment. Urugnardu went to the lass and examined her carefully. Her breathing was slow, faint. Though the horses that her hammock was bound to fidgeted, she did not respond to the motion. Urugnardu was not happy with the blood that continued to stain her bandages. He could not be certain if its spread had been encouraged by the rain and the wet cloth, but it did not look promising.

"My lord," he turned to Khônarû. "the choice seems this: we ride on with hope or we halt without it. I do not believe that the lady or her family would approve of us losing faith at this point... what will happen to our lady will happen, whether we wait for it or no. If we ride on, it will mean that we have not yet given up."

Khônarû looked at his soldier intently for a moment, squinting against the rain that pelted his face. Why he had never promoted the man before he could not be certain... He would... if there was time. "That was well spoken." he replied softly. Urugnardu read the words on his lips as no sound was audible. "Rally the men. We will ride on."

[Regin Hardhammer]

The situation had seemed bleak when Herugor had first surrounded the group. Greatly outnumbered and completely surrounded, Azarmanô began to fear in earnest. It seemed that nothing could save them now. But then, at the utmost moment of despair, Elendil had come with a mighty force of mounted faithful from the east to their aid. Inzillomi had pulled something out, but he had not been close enough to see the object, and soon she covered it again. It had been raining steadily for hours, making the ground slippery and transforming the dry dust into thick mud that the horses plowed through as fast as they could. Worse even than the rain, hail the size of small stones and nearly as heavy pelted the weary travellers. In spite of these dreadful elements, Azarmano felt extremely grateful to be alive after the party's near elimination by Herugor and his men.

Azarmanô was extremely grateful to see Elendil, but he wondered how he had received news of the goup's plight. For now, Azarmano remained content with being saved, but he decided to ask Elendil about the matter later. Azarmanô also longed to enquire about his wife and son who had already boarded Elendil’s ships, but decided against it. After all, Elendil probably had never even seen them, or if he had, didn’t know who they were. He did, however, introduce himself to Elendil, describe the group’s successful rescue, and offer him his sincere thanks.

“Arabapanu is a great man and an asset to the faithful. It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude," replied Elendil. "Now come, we must reach the ships before the island sinks into the sea. Make haste.”

The party galloped swiftly toward the harbor of Romenna where ships lay waiting to take them away. They had a healer with them, but no time to properly attend to Kathaani’s wounds. She had been taken away some days before and rode ahead of the main group with some other officers. Azarmanô wished that there was some action he could take to help her, but realized that nothing could be done until the Faithful reached the ships. If they waited for Kathaani to recover, none of them would make it out alive. Azarmano worried constantly about Kathaani and wished he could have seen her. Was she worse or had she improved since Azarmano last wrapped that bandage around her wounded shoulder? He did not know. But he felt sure that if she did not reach the ships soon, she would die. So the party pressed on, traveling for hours on end without stopping to eat and halting only for very brief rests. Azarmano hoped that Kathaani would still be alive when they boarded Elendil's ships in Romenna and left Numenor before the island sunk beneath the waves.

[Meneltarmacil]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

Kâthaanî Karibzir was remembering, or was she dreaming? It hurt to breathe and she could not tell. She knew that one candle burned beside her: the dim flickering softly illuminated her eyelids, and she heard the music of hoof beats to accompany the rhythm of the flickering pink before her closed eyes.

It had been a diversion. She and Marsillion had ridden away with faithful Tiru to travel to Armenelos... to be the visible group of rescuers. Kâthaanîhad never dreamt that she or her companions would need rescuing.

Like moths drawn to a soft lantern in the deepest hours of the night, they had been so easily caught by the King's Men. She tried to groan at the thought, but no sound emerged. She could sense that she was not alone, though whoever sat by her made no sound. She could not open her eyes... not yet.

A cell. The cold walls glimmered with dampness in the sparse torchlight. She was chained to the wall, alone but for the rats that moved toward her stealthily as she slept. In her mind she shuddered. They had put Marsillion in another part of the dungeon. Tiru had been taken away with him. Kâthaanî had nothing save the tortured screams of those on the Dark Lord's dreaded altar to sing her sweetly into dream at night.

She was cold. Was it dream or waking? Voices made their way softly to her ears. They soothed her, though she could not understand the words. The cold stone wall chafed her skin as she leaned closer, straining for sound. The voice was unknown to her. Did she only imagine the comforting tone that found its way to her ears? The essence of the message... do not despair... it sang a soft counterpart to the groans of the slowly dying. A dream? she could not tell. Hours had run into days that were interchangeable with seconds. The monotony of darkness was broken only by blinding torchlight that guided doomed men to their fate. She wept at the cruel injustice. She wept for her father, a brave man, a good man, more helpless even then her to stem this slaughter, if only because he had had the longer understanding of it. She wept for the malice in the eyes of the guards that brought her meals, denying her even the smallest word of hope or sunlight. She prayed to the Valar for their redemption, though she never spoke.

It hurt. A sharp pain in her chest, just below her ribs. She was wounded. Inexplicable warmth flooded the area with pain as memories sought to repress reality. A hand took hers none too gently. Her chains unfastened from the wall, she was pulled from her cell and ordered to stand. She tried and fell, her muscles screaming in protest. Kâthaanî was dragged through the halls of the dungeons as she tried in vain to block the vicious light from her eyes.

She was thrown to the steps of the altar and she lay there until pulled and held to standing. Only then did Kâthaanî take in the sight: Marsillion stood bound, his eyes red and swollen, Tiru beside him. Abârpânarú stood, his shoulders stooped, his expression bereft of hope. Kâthaanî's heart stirred. She had failed her father. Her own impetuosity had betrayed her. Now, not only would her father die, but he would be forced to watch his beloved daughter tortured to death before it. Tears stained Kâthaanî's cheeks as she silently whispered "I am sorry" to ears that could not hear.

While on the journey, Kâthaanî had acted rashly... as a child. She had forced herself upon this mission with little right, and what had she to show for it? She had not saved her father... simply caused him more heartache. He would willingly die to save her... she had never so fully understood the implications of this until now... now, when death loomed near. Would they die fast? She could only hope that Abârpânarú would die first, though it pained her to think it, to be spared the tragedy of the ending of his daughter's life.

Was it ending now? She could not move. As a child, Kâthaanî had fallen from a horse, bruising her head. The feeling had been the same then, twining as a cat through now and then. It had only taken the voice of her father to tie her to reality. She wished he was here. She had seen him fall. Her mother had come. These moments melted together until she wondered how she had come to be riding double with Inzillomì. A strong arm had pulled her from the saddle and she rolled to her feet, knife in hand. As her mother looked on in horror, Kâthaanî had tried and failed to prevail once more. She fell to the ground with a scream as unforgiving metal pierced her flesh. It hurt like nothing that she had ever felt, unpityingly reminiscent of the harsh, bone-chilling ache that had once descended upon her after falling through ice... only worse... much worse. She could feel the chill radiating from the wound; it spread through her without boundary and with immediate effect: she lay frozen in fear. The candle flickered, going out. Voices sounded. Kâthaanî lay bleeding and her last thoughts were of her mother: her father had been saved from his daughter's death only for the witnessing to be given to Inzillomi. The world faded from memory.

"Kâthaanî." spoke a voice. "Kâthaanî, hold on." It was her father. He had helped her to safety when Izri came.

"Kâthaanî, speak to me." His voice was charged with worry. Why did the ground shake like this? Why did her dreams lie? Abârpânarú had not ordered her to speak in Armenelos.

"My Cerveth, my love, I am here." A hand took hers. Kâthaanî clasped Izri's reins.

Inzillomì looked at her husband in fear as she held her daughter’s icy hand within her warm ones. On their arrival to Romenna, the guard in charge of Kâthaanî had reported that her condition was worsening. Her breathing had slowed, her face was white. Her wound no longer bled, but the healers, not Elendil in the least, believed the offending sword to have been tipped with poison. She lay now unaware of the world... or so it seemed to her parents.

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littlemanpoet's post

Mabalar knelt by Lothlômé, watching Cerveth intently as their daughter's life slipped away. They were safe in the hold of Elendil's ship, already moving ahead of a strong wind, which was gaining strength with each minute that passed. The roar of the wind and surf grew louder outside, but did not drown out the sound of Cerveth's shallow breathing, nor the sound of Mabalar's own beating pulse in his ears.

"Cerveth!" Lotha called. Mabalar took up the call, holding his wife's warm hand in his left, and his daughter's cold, cold hand in his right, completing the circle the three of them made.

If sheer will were enough to bring her back, she would be whole and laughing with them this moment. But there was nothing he could do.

Elendil had seen to the binding of her wound, and had spoken gravely of poison. He had tried to prepare them for the worst.

Mabalar was not prepared. "Cerveth! My dear! Stay with us!"

Tears stained Lotha's face. His eyes were painfully hot and dry. He refused to let his daughter die.

"Cerveth!"

She was so pale. Her breaths came shallow and ragged, and too few. Mabalar's heart beat heavy doom in his breast; but he refused to accept what his heart told him.

"No!" He dropped his wife's and daughter's hands, rising. "This was not meant to be!" He stood rigid, his hands fisted, the muscles in his legs knotted, his stance wide against the movement of the ship. He looked westward. "Mandos!" he yelled. "Take me instead!" Anything to save his precious Cerveth. "Let me have the sword thrust and the poison! Spare her!"

But Mandos gave him no sudden wound, no exchange of place or pain, no vision; not even a sound.

Mabalar fell to his knees again, and looked again at Lotha's anguished face.

His throat clenched on his words as he murmured, "I do not want to lose her," and he wept. For long moments, husband and wife hung upon each other, their shared grief their only comfort.

"Mama! Papa!" The voice came to their ears barely above a whisper, using their names from her childhood.

"Cerveth!" They knelt again by her side, hoping against hope that she was reviving.

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Meneltarmacil's post

Having escaped Herugor's last attack, Thoronmir and the others rode into Romenna. There was no time to stop anywhere; they had to get to the ships.

"All right, we're here," Thoronmir said. "Kathaani is seriously injured and needs to be tended to on the way."

Thoronmir caught something out of the corner of his eye. For a moment it appeared as if a man in a dark cloak was climbing into one of the other ships. However, Thoronmir looked again and there was nothing.

"Are you all right?" one of the sailors asked."

"I thought I saw a strange man getting on one of the other ships."

"Nobody could do that without us noticing. Come on, we have to get out of here now."

With everyone aboard, the fleet started to sail away. Thoronmir breathed a sigh of relief as they escaped the island, now engulfed in flames.

[Regin Hardhammer]

As he boarded the ship, Azarmanô breathed a deep sigh of relief. Finally, after all this time and all the dangers that he had faced, he was in Romenna, standing by one of Elendil’s vessels bound for the mainland. Their mission was now complete. They had saved Abârpânarú, now fully conscious, from being sacrificed on the altar of Sauron. It had not been an easy task, certainly with its share of near death experiences, but he could not have refused the mission for any reason in the world. That sense of duty came from the common bond that all of the Faithful shared with one another, one of trust and unity. The group never left anyone behind to be overtaken by the enemy. They could not spare a single man in the battle against Sauron. But for Azarmanô, there had been more in this mission than loyalty to the faithful. Azarmanô saw Abârpânarú not only as the leader of the Faithful but also a dear friend, one that he had known for a very long time. Azarmanô could not bear the thought of a person so dear to him being slaughtered by Sauron in Armenelos while he did nothing. No, he would never have refused, not even to remain with his family on the ships.

But what a joy it would be to see his loved ones again. Azarmanô had thought of them so often during his journey, he wondered if the actual meeting could ever live up to the image that he had created in his head. Especially when he had been in danger or was forced to do something difficult, like killing, the thought of his family waiting for him had provided both motivation and a soothing balm for pain. As he ascended the ramp of the ship, he wondered if they too had been thinking of him while he had been away. Would they still look the same as he remembered them before he boarded his ship? He knew that people could not change their appearances completely in a matter of weeks, but the time they had been separated felt so much longer. Seeing Inzillomí reunited with her husband made him yearn to see his own wife even more. Today, he hoped, he would get that chance.

At first, he could not find them amid the throng of people that were crammed into the ship. He searched frantically for them everywhere, wondering fearfully if he had boarded the wrong vessel. But finally, he spotted the pair from across the room, sitting in a corner. Night had come and Thoron’s head rested on his mother’s lap. Apprehensively, Azarmanô approached his family, who seemed at first not to notice him.

“Pardon me, my lady,” said he in an overly formal polite manner, “Is the seat next to you taken.”

Her face lit up like a beam radiating from the sun as it rises in the morning. She embraced him, kissed his cheek, and cried tears of both joy and relief. He returned the favor, remaining locked in her embrace, smiling profusely. He did not cry, though he felt just as happy and relieved on the inside as she displayed on the surface.

“Yes sir,” said she “I think we have room for one more. Please take care not to wake the child, for he needs the rest. He is my son, you know,” she added with a laugh. They both shared a fine appreciation for humor in unusual situations.

Yes, he was indeed glad to be back with his family. He felt as if an enormous burden had been taken away from him, as if he suddenly became much stronger. His heart, although leaping with mirth at seeing his son and wife, could not help but feel strained as the Island sank to the ground, rumbling and burning. He deeply pitied those people still on the ground, descending slowly into a watery grave at the bottom of the sea. If only there was some way to save them. But Azarmanô knew that there was hope now neither for Numenor, nor for the people still standing on it. And although he could not bring himself to forget his homeland, he must not allow all his thoughts to be haunted by its death. Although the age of Numenor was over, Azarmanô and the rest of the Faithful were entering a new time with fresh promise and opportunity. Just a few more moments and the ships would be on their way.

One thing which he could not forget was Kâthaanî. She seemed to be worsening as the trip wore on. Her parents worried over her limp body, unconscious but still breathing, and attempted to give her the best medical attention they could. Although they had begun to despair, Azarmanô had encouraged them not to give up hope. Kâthaanî was a strong girl, she had fought with bravery in battle, and she would fight with courage against death. Beyond lending her parents emotional support, there was not much assistance Azarmanô could give her. But every hour that Kâthaanî stayed alive on the boat was one more hour that she was fighting. As long as she never gave up, and Azarmanô prayed that she didn’t, her family could still cling to hope. One day, hopefully soon, she would wake up and look into the eyes of her suffering parents once more, telling them that she was all right. Maybe that day would be tomorrow, or maybe it would be in a week. But one day, he told himself emphatically, it would arrive, and they could all breathe a little easier.

[piosenniel]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

Images raced through her mind chaotically: lightening struck a tree and it burst into flame; black sky; crows perched in wait on dead branches as the party road swiftly from Armenelos; freezing rain tearing through softly churned mud, and hoofbeats sounding as a voice cried to the Valar for mercy.

Torn from dream, Kathaani responded hesitantly, first trying and failing to move. Grimacing against her frozen numbness, Kathaani shifted her head slightly and opened her eyes: Lothlome knelt weeping on the cold wooden floor. Mabalar stood, unreachable in his grief, with arms raised to the heavens. Kathaani choked back a sob. Once again, her father's voice had called to her through the mists of pain, chasing away the weakness that threatened to over-power her. She longed to be a child again... to hear his assurances and to truly believe that in a short while, everything would be fine. Kathaani took a breath and was dismayed to feel her lungs expand but a little, and that with effort. She marveled: she could no longer feel her wound... only the tightly bound bandaging keeping the blood where it belonged. Where had the pain gone? It had been excruciating... all of her consciousness was tied to it and now it was gone, replaced by nothingness... not warmth or cold; no memory of feeling. Simple existence. Had she not remembered so vividly... had she not felt the tightness of the bound cotton... she would have thought it all a dream. She took another small breath, feeling the bindings expand.... no... she thought... it was not the bandages that compromised her breathing. She swallowed nervously, trying once more. Her body shook slightly with the effort of inhaling. It felt as the the air did not reach further than her breastbone, lodging there and denying Kathaani the simple relief of full lungs. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut against what she guessed was happening.

"Mama... papa...?" she spoke hesitantly. Her voice was faint, not at all reminiscent of the strong tones she had so often adopted. The words were aspirated, a full breath necessary for each. She set her jaw stubbornly against the tears that strayed but a short distance from her eyes.

Mabalar and Lothlome started and looked to their daughter, frightened to hope, fearful not to. She smiled slightly for a brief moment before closing her eyes to concentrate on breathing freely. Softly... softly... she spoke to herself silently; promising that what she could foresee would not come to pass. She could feel it deep within her chest... she wanted to vomit at the horror of the sensation but sheer will now kept her in place. She felt her hands enveloped by those of her parents. I can not... I will not...

"Papa..." she began. She choked, chest convulsing slightly. Her father swept her into his arms and she heaved several times, each time denying her broken body its will. Exhausted, Kathaani sank against her father limply, holding her breath against the cough that lay in wait.

"Just breathe, my sweet... take your time and breathe..." murmured Lothlome as she smoothed a stray lock away from Kathaani's face. Mabalar still held her close, much as he had all those years before when his crying little girl required strong arms to hold her and let her feel safe and a soothing voice to calm her. Breathing shakily, she turned slightly to better fit against the contours of his arms, laying her head against his chest.

Mabalar kissed Kathaani's hair, murmuring to her. "Inzi's safe, my dove, they're all safe. You did it."

She looked up at his face, cherishing the warmth of her mother’s hands as they held hers, softly rubbing them with her thumbs. She began to cry, shaking her head. "No..." she whispered, "it wasn't me... none of it... it wasn't me."

"Of course it was my darling." he whispered to her. "You initiated the mission... yes, shh..." he held her closer as Lothlome sat beside them. She wiped away her daughter's tears with gentle hands as he continued. "Yes... they told me everything, love. It was you who told them of my capture. It was you who rode to rescue me. It was you who were imprisoned on my behalf. And it was you who escaped."

Kathaani wept more softly now. "But papa... I didn't... they were safer without me..."

Lothlome spoke now. "My Cerveth.... my love, do you underestimate me? Would I have sent you if I thought you were a danger to the mission? My love… it was so important that you ride to save your father… and look before you… you did."

Tears now came to Lothlome as well and her voice cracked into silence. Kathaani coughed violently now, spitting up blood. Mabalar held her close as Lothlome calmly wiped away the mess.


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Himaran's post

The streets of the city by the shore were all but deserted. Most of the inhabitants of the faithful's haven were already getting situated on the ships. Abârzadan hurried down the street, finally reaching his mansion. Having misplaced the gate key at some point on his adventure, he climbed over the iron fence and hopped down into the yard. When he reached the front door, the man took hold of the knob, turned it slightly to the right, then to the left, than back again. It creaked open, allowing him to enter. Hurrying about the house, Abârzadan gathered a few clothes, most of his weapons, and the most precious artifacts and heirlooms. In the new world he was headed for, Numenorean currency would have little or no value. Then he proceeded to his study and gathered everything he could find that was related to Numenor; its history and culture specifically. The island would soon be destroyed, but he did not want all memory of it to be lost. Then he noticed the swords and star of his house. The House of Batânzâira.

Suddenly the events in Armenelos made perfect sense. Abârzadan thought back to the voting record. The House of Batânzâira had hindered the King's movements at every turn. It stood for freedom and justice, not power and control. That was why it had been persecuted and killed off - all except for himself and his father. Perhaps until his very dying day, Abâranâ had not wanted to even tell his son the truth, for fear that he might try and avenge his house and be killed in the process. But as the disease at last took hold of him, he decided that he had to give his son a chance to discover the truth about the destruction of Batânzâira. And that was exactly what he had done. He had completed his father's last request, and freed himself from its curse. Assaulted by visions of the past too painful to bear, the man collected his things and proceeded to the entrance. Shutting the door firmly behind him, Abârzadan found his cart, loaded it with his packages, and pushed it up to the gate. Unlocking it, he tossed the spare key into the yard and left the manor once and for all.


***


His companions had been pleased to see him, although Abârzadan did indeed wonder if they weren't just glad that he had returned Kali safely. They were all distracted at the moment, for Kâthaanî He was given comfortable quarters on the flagship, and found enough room to store all the literature he had brought. Roaming the deck, he watched as the storm covering the island worsened. Horns sounded. The ships began to move off. Everything that he knew and loved was getting further and further away. But then a thought struck him. He had survived, and with him, the House of Batânzâira.

A man approached him. He looked tired and distraught, but still noble. "Are you the one they call Abârzadan? The others tell me that you played a part in my rescue. For that I am grateful."

"It was my honor, sir."

"Pardon me for asking, Turmeawa, but how is it that you know me?"

Here Abârzadan merely smiled. "Ah, perhaps you have forgotten. I used to buy horses from you..."


***


And thus is the story of Abârzadan Batânzâira. His is different from the others in this tale, for he had a personal journey far more important than that of saving a man he never knew. Abârzadan helped with the construction of what would later be known as Minas Tirith, where he settled down and married another survivor of Numenor. His bloodline, and the House of Batânzâira, would eventually spread throughout all of Gondor. At the end of all things, the swords and star survived.

[littlemanpoet]

"Papa," Cerveth said, her voice weak and breathless, "I go-" her voice caught. Mabalar hushed her. She shook her head. Her eyes clearing, she held his with hers. "I will wait for you," she whispered, "beyond the walls of the world." Her eyes stared and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.

"Cerveth!" Mabalar held her close. Lothlómë fell upon her husband and her child's body, and wept. Mabalar took her into his embrace. They stayed so for a time.

At last, they laid their daughter's body down and folded her arms beneath her breast, and wiped the last stains from her mouth and brow, and closed her eyes and mouth, and rose, holding each other close.

"She is beautiful," Lothlómë said.

"She always was," Mabalar replied.

A footfall was heard behind them on the stairs. They turned. It was Tirú.

"Kâthâaní?"

"She has passed," Mabalar said.

Tirú lost his legs. Catching himself on the rail, he sat on the nearest step. Tears streamed from his eyes. "I will miss her."

Mabalar went to his servant and raising him, too him to his daughter. Tirú knelt beside her and looked upon her face.

"She is at peace," he said, and looked at Mabalar with pleading in his eyes.

"May it be so," Mabalar nodded.

Tirú rose. "Forgive me, lord. I bear news. Lord Elendil requests your presence as soon as you may be disturbed, as he put it."

"Go," Lothlómë said."

******************

On deck, Elendil waited for Mabalar amongst a small crowd. Elendil gestured for him to come forward. When he had done so, before him stood Herugor, bound at hand and foot.

"We have a stowaway," Elendil understated.

"He is a traitor and a murderer!" Mabalar declared hotly.

"What have you to say, Herugor?"

"I repent of my deeds," Herugor said, looking carefully from eye to eye. "I see now that my former master led all of us astray, and would have allowed my life to be ended the deeps along with all others. The Faithful have been vindicated. I would be counted as one of you."

"A moving speech," said Isildur, "and a lying tongue that speaks it. See the calculation in his eyes. He must be put to death!"

"Nay!" said Elendil. "I will have none of my folk to bear the stain of this man's blood. He shall remain captive while we are on ship, and shall be set free when we land." He turned to Herugor. "But mark you, traitor, for traitor I still hold you: if ever again you have a hand in the murder of one of my folk, you shall surely die."

Herugor looked at his feet and said no word.

****************************

The winds howled from out of the West. The waves churned from behind them and threatened to overcome them, but ever were they borne on the waves toward Middle Earth, like strewn litter floating on a tidal wave. Yet safely did they arrive and were not all shipwrecked, and they made new homes, and set the mearas free to roam and gallop over the plains of Middle Earth. And the seven palantirí were rescued from the threat of the sea.

And Mabalar and Lothlómë and their household settled near the shores of Middle Earth, far to the west of what would come to be called Gondor. That settlement has long since fallen to ruin, and little is known what became of that house. Yet the tale persists of how the mearas and the last of the palantíri were saved from ruin by the chance imprisonment of one Mabalar Mellothroch, whose life was bought by the loyalty of his beloved daughter.

[piosenniel]

-------- FINIS --------

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~