Chapter 7
Bifur marked the passage of each cycle through the seasons with dismay. Aye, and a growing, heartsick realization. Saldís's twenties passed, and then her thirties. Forties. With each decade, more of her life was spent, each precious sand trickling too fast through the hourglass.
He was losing her. Not by the hands of ruffians or slavers, but the inexorable march of time itself. It stole her away, one year at a time, and there was naught to be done.
Bifur read the same knowledge written upon the faces of his family and friends. They all knew. Despite Dís's intervention and the subsequent readjustment to the reward, no word came. Charlatans, aye, those arrived in droves, but not one knew of the Khuzdul-shaped scar upon Saldís's hand. Not one of those flocking to Erebor with eyes upon its wealth had any real information about her.
'Twas when Saldís's fifties gave way to her sixties that he had to face the hard truth. He'd not be finding his daughter. Nay, not in this life. Rare indeed that the race of men attained to such a lofty age, and that only with proper caring and good food. What, he asked himself in the watches of night, were the chances that his lassie had received that? If the Easterlings or Haradrim had her, like as not his daughter was with Mandos already.
Mayhap she had been all along.
His shoulders bowed under that final blow. The weight of grief battered him like a siege weapon, and the thought that he'd failed her tore at his heart. His wee lamb. His Gêdul.
A half century of wanderings stopped. Bifur settled into permanent quarters in Erebor, unpacking and stowing away his travel-worn bags. Balfur, Banfur, and Suffia sent word, content enough to remain under Dwalin's rule at Thorin's Hall. Bifur missed them, but the memories lurking in his quarters there were too painful. Mayhap later he'd be ready to visit them, but not now. Not while his spirit mourned, finally letting go of the black-haired, gray-eyed lassie who'd stolen a sizable chunk of his heart.
He'd not be forgetting his Saldís. Bifur cherished every remembrance of their brief time together. Her doll, Kíli, often brought a chuckle to him, even as he bitterly wept at what it represented. Two lives stamped out too soon—the Durin lad and Saldís both. A smile, too, found him to imagine his lassie trailing Kíli about in Mandos's Halls as she had in the Blue Mountains. Kíli, he imagined, would be tickled by her adoration.
He found solace playing the flute he'd whittled, one the image of hers. He walked Erebor's many passages, imagining her delight in his new home, and he smiled as once more, he saw her in his mind, black hair a mess as she raced to him, squealing, "Adâd," as had been her wont.
But life did go on. The sadness, aye, he'd carry that all his days, but he spent more time with Bombur and his wife and children, he worked upon his toys with Bofur, and he found joy in entertaining the children of Dale twice weekly with his cousin.
One day, Bifur assured himself, he'd be seeing his lassie again. Mandos's Halls would be his destination, too. And when his last day was done and he journeyed there, he'd find his lassie, hold her tight, and tell her how very sorry he was. How very much he loved her.
Aye. It would be a good day.
24 June TA 3017 - Saldís 88
Akhora's gray eyes narrowed the slightest bit—the only outward betrayal that she knew she was watched. Enough.
She and her warriors had been followed all the way into Agar and all the way back. She'd tolerated it, not willing to allow speculations of disloyalty to arise. Valkthor had tried that ploy to remove her—aided in large part his unwitting ally, Thorongil, who'd led such a brilliant campaign against the Corsairs decades before. She'd endured the loss of privacy to ensure the Duumvirate knew her every action, appeasing their suspicions.
But she'd had her fill. Her personal quarters were off limits. She would not endure that violation a minute longer.
Swift steps carried her to the window, and she snatched up the tiger-striped cat before it had a chance to react. A bushy tail whipped about in jerky spasms as she lifted it until its nose was inches from her own. A low rumble of displeasure emitted from its chest, one of distress and anger.
Foul beast.
"Don't come back," she told the cat with silky menace and a sickly-sweet smile. "Or I will discover who your master might be, cat, and if he is not one of the Duumvirate or the lord of my House, I will enjoy slowly parting his head from his body. After I've removed his entrails."
The cat's tail froze mid-twitch. Then with ears plastered to its skull, it wriggled for freedom, claws scratching.
Akhora chucked it out the window, hearing its yowl as it plummeted to the landing a dozen feet below.
Snickering under her breath—by the Eye, that had been long overdue—she returned to the desk against the far wall of her bedchamber. With one finger, the opposite hand dancing upon the hilt of her scimitar, Akhora drew the scroll she'd been reading closer to the edge of the desk, her ragged nails tapping its surface. She scanned its contents, reading the lists of casualties and injuries suffered by the Weapons under her charge during this last raid.
Her lips flattened. Each was a failure, some hers in the planning, some mistakes by the warriors themselves. Either way, such results did not please her. Long had she strived to carve out a measure of security for herself, and to do that, she needed to make herself indispensable to the Duumvirate.
And Kimilzor, may he rot.
Happiness was a fool's joke—she believed in that as much as she believed she could sprout wings and fly—but security? That was the real prize. Power to see oneself above the fray, both respected and feared. It was all that was left to her. She had little illusion about her fate once death found her.
Not that she cared for Eru's opinion. That one had much to answer for if He did exist. Her lip curled in a silent sneer.
Akhora would, by the Eye, succeed. Thus far, her endeavors had yielded satisfying results, but she wanted more. Not the title of Kimilzor's heir—that was tantamount to painting a permanent target on her back—but she wished a position as unassailable as the Hands. If her leadership meant fewer assets lost during raids, that would translate into more troops with battle experience as opposed to a constant stream of newly-trained Weapons who required too much seasoning to be usable. The Duumvirate would see that and value it. She didn't trust the two rulers or like them, but she'd never suffered the delusion that they were lacking in intellect. If she was useful, she'd be secure.
A knock upon her door. Akhora's hands swiftly danced over her person, a long since ingrained habit that assured each weapon remained in its place. With a neutral expression, and one hand upon the hilt of her scimitar, she opened the door.
"Ib-Akhora." The chestnut-haired woman, a Weapons-Master without command of her own based upon the triple ruby studs in her right ear, bowed slightly. "Ar-Tagan and Ar-Cavendor require your presence."
A stillness settled in Akhora's gut as she girded herself for another battle. Whether it would be verbal or physical remained to be seen, but no interaction with the Duumvirate was without cost. Akhora inclined her head, face never deviating from its schooled impassivity.
She stepped from her chambers and followed the younger woman out of the least opulent of the Masters' dormitories into the street outside. Akhora took a deep breath of the night air. If another game was afoot, she wouldn't go down without a fight.
Valkthor watched from his shadowed balcony as Akhora strode towards the Seat of the Duumvirate with another Weapons-Master as escort. A minute smirk lifted his lips.
At last, his labors would yield fruit. They must.
Decades, he'd waged a secret campaign to see her removed from his path, careful never to leave evidence. The misbegotten warg-spawn refused to die. He'd been so close to convincing the Duumvirate that she would better serve them as a Breeder after the fiasco with Thorongil and the destruction of most of the Corsair fleet. Only the revelation that she was barren had saved her from a fate he'd have enjoyed watching.
By the Eye. One would think her Valar-blessed, but that was impossible. The Valar—cursed, interfering wretches that they were—would never dirty their hands by touching one of them.
How was it, then, that Akhora kept surviving? The males he bribed into attempting to woo their way into her bed—with concealed dagger ready to strike—all failed. The witch had ice in her veins, for she'd turned each away, and they'd been the males most sought after by female Weapons and Arcanists alike. The poisonous serpents he'd spelled into Akhora's path never lived long enough to succeed, and the poisons slipped into her cups never reached her lips. Valkthor could recount dozens of failed attempts, and with each, his frustration swelled to new proportions.
Kimilzor inched ever closer to a seat on the Duumvirate. It had taken the older Arcanist three decades to lay his trap for the Lord of House Sangahyando, Lord Nithirien, but by the Eye, his father had done it. Without any evidence, Kimilzor had seen that one dead, leaving himself to take on the mantle of leadership.
Valkthor had no proof his sire was behind Nithirien's death, but he needed none. The apple hadn't fallen far from the tree. Valkthor would have done the same—would do the same—once he had secured his place as his father's second-in-command. But for that to happen, any competition had to be removed. That meant any promising upstarts among his siblings and half-siblings and, more pressing, Akhora.
He smirked as she disappeared into the towering walls of the Seat. Though a long shot, every instinct told him this latest trap would be her undoing. It had occurred to him that as his typical methods had proved ineffectual, a new, creative approach was needed. If Akhora's weakness could not be found in the usual places, perhaps it might reside with her past.
Akhora's reputation as a fighter had slowly been eclipsed by her ability to cultivate an unnatural allegiance from Weapons of all ranks, and not solely those assigned to her. Though she was brutal if crossed, they spoke in glowing terms of her bluntness. Where most Black Númenóreans rejoiced in their sly, two-edged words and the quiet war for position among them, any to counter her discovered in Akhora a deadly, raging oliphant. If she threatened, she meant it. If she was crossed, she didn't bother with finesse. She eliminated the one who dared it.
To the simpler Weapons, that forthrightness was welcomed. They knew where they stood with her. She would not come for them unexpectedly.
It was that very bluntness that had given him his idea. Dwarves had a reputation for the same trait. Akhora had been separated from the bearded runts for decades, but as soon as the idea had occurred, he'd known he'd struck gold. Get his hands on a dwarf, and he'd find her weakness.
He snickered as he raised a glass of Haradrim whiskey to his lips. Valkthor hoped to see the results of his handiwork soon. Very soon.
Akhora's lips thinned as she walked. Was this the fruit of another web spun by Valkthor? That she had no wish to be declared Kimilzor's heir mattered not a whit. Kimilzor played Valkthor like a Haradrim his sitar. So long as Valkthor was kept focused upon her, Kimilzor had less worries of a quiet knife in his own back from that quarter.
She found her thoughts returning to her near miss thirty-six years prior. Her footsteps turned sharper as she rounded a corner and began the long climb up the sloped central street. The blame for the destruction of much of the Corsair's fleet had been laid at her feet. Never mind that the Captain of the Haven had discounted all her warnings about the mysterious Thorongil. She'd been the ranking Black Númenórean present with the fourth ruby stud in her right ear to prove it, so the blame was hers.
Akhora's lips curled unpleasantly in satisfaction to remember the Duumvirate's boundless rage to discover she'd destroyed her fertility. It had taken a half dozen such doses as she'd imbibed upon the completion of her training, and it had been agonizing, but she'd persisted. Kimilzor's green eyes, she was positive, had gleamed with a measure of respect in that moment. Akhora cared little about her sire—may the Eye burn him to an ash heap—but he'd argued her usefulness, ending discussion of a bloody fate for her on an altar for her defiance.
If she'd been driven before, she was infinitely more so since her subsequent demotion to common foot soldier. And by the Eye, she'd regained her command. Akhora would not be cast aside or disposed of. Never again would the Duumvirate dare count her as expendable. This she swore daily.
Akhora reached the Seat of the Duumvirate and slowed her pace as she scaled the short, wide set of white, marble stairs leading to the impressive building. The stairs contrasted starkly to the intricately carved walls of the Seat. Composed entirely of a dark stone, the Seat, but even then, it seemed to glow with an eerie light.
Pillars bracketed each stair, black granite topped with torch-lit replicas of Barad-Dûr itself. Though Sauron could not see through these representations (One can hope, she thought), they ever sent a thrill down her spine. He might not survey all from these, but the Dark Lord had his ways. Akhora was not so naive as to believe he did not watch the Duumvirate and the Six Lords very, very closely.
At the top of the landing, two pairs of guards, two Arcanist-Masters and two Weapons-Masters, framed the mumakil-high arched doors.
"Ib-Akhora," they intoned, bowing shortly.
Akhora inclined her head and walked inside, cognizant that her escort peeled off.
So.
Shoulders back, chin lifted, she walked the long marble hallway towards the raised dais at the end. Unlike the dark exterior, here all was white and gleaming. Wide square columns framed the path she tread, but they could not mask the line of lower-ranking Weapons and handful of Arcanist-Masters standing against the walls to either side.
Reaching the dais, she dropped to her knees, arms crossed across her chest and head low. "My lords."
It was Ar-Tagan who addressed her, the gray-haired Arcanist's voice ominous as ever. "Stand, Ib-Akhora."
She stood, eyes upon the tapestry behind him which portrayed Numenor's destruction.
"I have a task for you." Footsteps descended the dais to circle her. The Arcanist portion of the Duumvirate did not glance at her, nor did he deviate from that slow, steady circling. With his long, silky fall of gray hair, his gliding step, and face untouched by signs of aging, he more resembled their elven forebears than most.
"I am at your disposal, my lords," she said.
"Of course you are." Ar-Cavendor appeared in her line of sight. The Weapon member of the Duumvirate sized her up with dark, dark eyes. With stubble-short gray and black hair atop his head, a plethora of scars upon face and body, he was exactly what he professed —a ruthless weapon and leader.
New footsteps from behind.
"Ah, Lord Sangahyando. Thank you for joining us," Ar-Tagan said, halting beside Ar-Cavendor.
"Of course, my lords." Kimilzor stopped at her side.
"You understand what we require?" Ar-Cavendor, his words short.
"I do."
At Kimilzor's bland words, Ar-Cavendor gestured, and Akhora's world…fractured. Her eyes flared, her breath hitched and everything turned surreal as two, then three, short bearded males were prodded and shoved into the room through a side door.
By the Eye. Dwarves. Chills prickled the skin upon her arms.
The three stood some five feet tall, each with a lush beard reaching his waist. Two had hair as white as cream, and the third's was a dark walnut. All three had braids in their beards and upon their heads, patterns that an itch at the edges of her mind said she'd known like her own hand. Snippets of memories shivered before her mind's eye, fragmented and indistinct.
A sick suspicion churned her gut. She'd convinced herself long ago that her childish devotion to dwarves was the byproduct of a colorful imagination, the desperate longing of an ignorant and fanciful child for things that did not exist. Affection and kindness, both a simpleton's tale.
But in their presence—the Khazâd, some part of her contributed—doubts arose. A tiny inner voice flared to life, screaming and clamoring. It kicked up a fuss that turned her palms clammy and drove her heart into her breastbone like a frightened animal.
No. She would not be undone by the blatherings of childhood, be they memory or imaginings. Her chin firmed. She had not clawed her way to a position of command to let some weakling remnant from the past self undermine all her work.
Akhora steeled herself, her anger rising. Blasted dwarves. What were they doing here? And what had this to do with her?
Ar-Tagan and Ar-Cavendor returned to the dais. Tagan fingered his Eye-medallion, his pale gray eyes narrowed, and Cavendor folded arms before his chest, his thin brows lowered.
The three captives were pushed to stand before the dais, but not one said a word aloud. They didn't need to. Their outraged glares and rigid frames were eloquent enough. The bruises and cuts upon their bodies bore evidence of their treatment and were likely the reason for their belligerent silence. All had thin braids at their right temples and one had a second braid at the left. House and marriage braids, she remembered slowly.
She studied them with caution, uncertain she wished to recall anything more. He of the blue eyes and white hair, he wearing the most braids in his beard, had a faded scar that ran from his hair line, across his nose, and to the edge of his beard. Though she believed him older than the other two, Akhora judged him the most dangerous. It was not his appearance, though that was fearsome. It was the way the dwarf carried himself: shoulders back, chin lifted, and a slight swagger to his step. This one was a fighter confident in his abilities. He'd be no one's slave.
The second white-haired dwarf had a rounder face, one more fleshly and ruddy. His beard was plaited into two thick braids. One, she knew at once, signified his status as a master miner. Why she would recognize it, she didn't know, but she trusted the instinct. He possessed a large nose, large hands, and brown eyes.
Last was he of the dark brown locks and eyes a shade of brown lighter than the miner's. This one was cagey, but she didn't believe him as dangerous as the first. Young, she deduced. Not a…dwarfling? But no full-fledged warrior, either.
"Welcome to Caeldor, Master Dwarves," Ar-Tagan purred with a small smirk. "I trust you've had a pleasant journey."
Silence. The young dwarf looked like he was about to respond, but an elbow in the side by the round-faced miner ended it.
Ar-Cavendor stood mute, but Tagan glided forward, again descending the stairs to circle his prey. "Be assured, this will be the last land you ever see. You will not find it pleasant." Step, step, step. Each soft pad of his feet was clearly heard in the deafening silence of the hall. "Long have I heard of the superior craftsmanship of the dwarves." A serpent's smile. "For your sake, I trust it will prove true. If not, your blood will bathe the altars as others have before you."
The scarred dwarf stiffened, muscles in arms and shoulders bunching. Akhora fingered her scimitar. If he so much as inched towards Ar-Tagan, she'd cut him down.
But give me reason, dwarf. These dwarves threatened to awaken something long dormant inside of her. Instinct cried to end the threat before that could happen, and Akhora trusted that intuitive warning. She wouldn't permit anything to jeopardize her position.
She needed them gone. The conviction flared suddenly and fiercely. Stamped out, removed, she didn't care how.
"Ib-Akhora." Tagan's focused changed like quicksilver, his icy eyes slashing towards her.
"My lord." Akhora bowed.
"Tell me, my Weapon. You lived among these bearded cave-dwellers for eight years. It is said their braids speak of their professions and ranks. What can you read about these?"
All three dwarves reacted, faces incredulous, then lighting with some realization. Mutters flew between the two brown-eyed dwarves in their native language, one that caused her head to hurt as it struggled to dredge the words from the cobwebbed recesses of her memory. But the older, blue-eyed warrior spat something and they subsided, returning to silence. All three stared at her with an intensity she felt even as her gaze remained upon Tagan.
Her composure developed cracks. Do not betray them, that once-dormant part of herself begged.
Akhora stamped it out, refusing her muscles permission to coil tighter as they wished. It was all she could do to hide her inner turmoil, for to betray an inkling of that might well cost her everything. With a bland expression and cool eyes, she said, "I'd thought that time nothing but the product of a child's fancy, my lords." With utmost determination, she allowed her gaze to drift over the three dwarves, the full force of her iron will brought to bear to keep the resulting rage, fear and upheaval off her face.
"Indeed?" Tagan's voice cooled by several degrees.
"She was, after all, but a child, my lord," Kimilzor interjected, further disturbing her composure. Why would Kimilzor intervene? He had to see a benefit to himself.
Kimilzor's penetrating green eyes flicked her way. "House Sangahyando has ever been your loyal servant." A minute smile. "So long as I am its lord, that will not change."
Akhora forced herself to speak without inflection. "I can tell you he of the white hair and brown eyes," she indicated the middle dwarf with a wave of the hand, "is a skilled miner."
"That is all?" Cavendor interrupted, displeasure in his voice.
"Give them to us," Kimilzor said at his persuasive best. "I'm certain if given time, Akhora will remember more." He stepped closer to the dais, circling around the dwarves with his fluid, lazy gait. "We have more Arcanists among us than any other House. Let us see what other interesting gems of information we can extract from them."
No. The vehement denial was instant. Her gut contracted, and as infuriating as she found it, Akhora could not stem the surge of outrage pulsating through her body at the idea.
By the Eye, what was this? She wanted nothing to do with these dwarves!
Tagan pivoted to face Kimilzor. "If they are skilled, we can make use of them. The war approaches, Lord Sangahyando."
Akhora lost the thread of conversation as the crusty dwarf warrior met her eyes briefly. Significantly. His fingers twitched. Iglishmêk. A stab of pain tore through her skull. The knowledge was there, but it refused to come.
"Stop it," she growled. Metal rasped against metal as her scimitar slid from its sheath. The dwarf blinked, his face betraying nothing.
"Ib-Akhora?" Cavendor, a bite to his voice.
"He was trying to communicate in their sign language," she spat.
"Indeed?" Tagan stalked across the marble floor. His hand whipped out, cracking against the dwarf's cheek. "Angaimo."
An elf-thin Master Arcanist stepped forward from the line of guards along the right wall.
"Thirty lashes."
"My lord." Angaimo bowed, collected a dozen Weapons, and hauled the warrior from the room.
The entire time, Akhora felt the scorch of the dwarf's blue eyes.
