[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.