[Envinyatar]

Yr Saldan was restless. The many cups of wine he had consumed had not taken the edge off his worrisome thoughts. His resources for holding the city were stretched thin at the moment, and he had received no word back as yet from those he had sent North for information from Minas Anor. His thick finger traced the line of the river from the bay to the port of Harlond. Damn the founder of Gondor’s ruling city for not locating it at the mouth of the river! But then again, how clever of those sea-going Men of Númenor to place the chief city of this land away from the dangers of attack by sea.

A short, coarse laugh escaped him at this thought. If he had the right of it, his captains and ships should even now be looting the city. His fingers curled and uncurled, longing to be there with them. His feet on the deck of a ship, his blade gripped in his hand – watching the city burn and its streets run red with the blood of its weak citizens.

Wine splashed clumsily into his cup from his increasingly unsteady hand. He shook his head, thinking that it was best that Khazdifir headed this operation and not he. Khazdifir would see that the treasures of the city were taken and then leave swiftly, losing as little men as possible.

‘But then, he has the Sea and the deck of his ship rolling beneath his feet to keep his temper cool,’ he muttered to himself, sloshing wine on the map spread out beneath his hand.

The dark red stains spread over southern Gondor bringing another wicked laugh from Yr Saldan. What was he thinking that he should have condemned himself to being landlocked for so long a time. Pah! He spat on the smooth stone floor of the palace garden’s terrace.

His thirst for power was not alleviated by the wine, nor was it by his schemings from inside this landbound building. He could almost feel the walls close in on him, and the stink of the gardens was cloying and overpowering, as if the earth itself meant to suffocate him.

This was a mistake he said drunkenly to himself. To make a seaman into a king. Better he should torch this land, take its wealth and flee back to the free life he knew best.

Yes, that’s what he would do. Order the monies and treasures be put aboard the ships. Torch the city, killing those who would oppose him. Soon, soon . . .he could not stand much more of feeling trapped inside these walls . . .

His hand reached shakily once more for the bottle . . .