Chapter 34

Far Harad

28 February TA 3019

Thannor slumped in his saddle. Then he pawed at his face, growling under his breath.

He didn't understand it. He should have caught up with Saldís and her mysterious companion by now. It was not arrogance to state a Dunedain had superior stamina. Rangers could travel vast distances on less rest and less sustenance than common man. With Thannor mounted and the pair on foot, catching them should have proved simple.

Should have.

No matter how Thannor pressed himself and his mount, he did not gain on them. Instead, he lost ground, falling ever farther behind. It defied belief.

The man was to blame. Somehow, he gave himself and Thannor's cousin unnatural speed. If not for the faint tracks left behind, Thannor would have doubted his own conclusions, but the proof was written upon the Haradrim sands.

The horse beneath him exhaled gustily, his neck drooping. Thannor reached forward to deliver a commiserating pat.

The tracks had led into enemy lands as he'd anticipated, but they skirted the Haradrim. Every time the duo's path intersected the Easterlings', the two took pains to slip by unseen.

He is not a Haradrim, Thannor had been forced to conclude. Nor is he a Gondorian or Corsair. So who in blazes was he? More to the point, what was he?

Thannor rubbed grit from his eyes. The tracks he followed thus far had been a straight shot towards Black Númenórean lands. Should they hold to their current pace, the two would arrive in Caeldor soon.

If they were not there already.

His lips flattened. If the unknown male proved to be a Black Númenórean as Thannor was coming to fear—an Arcanist—he'd have a surprise when he reached home. The Black Company would be waiting. Eru let them spy the pair before they enter Caeldor.

If not…

He dashed the gloomy speculations from mind. Tracking cost him time, and he was certain by now it was unnecessary. He knew his destination.

Kicking the horse into a canter, he abandoned any further attempts to read the pair's progress. Now, he had one goal: to reach his father. Fast.

5 March TA 3019

Pelargir

Bifur sank to a seat on the cold, stone ground, accepting the futility of further struggles. While his cousin looked nowhere near ready to do the same—glaring all around them, he was, as if some boon source of help was liable to suddenly appear—Dori slumped beside Bifur with a sigh.

"Well. That's that," Dori said.

Aye, so it was.

Chained, the lot of them from the White Arrow, along with what looked to be the entire surviving male population of Pelargir that was not repairing Pelargir's defenses under duress. Like Dol Amroth, 'twas a skillfully wrought city, this port. Truly, it was a shame it had been brought so low as to end up in Corsair hands.

From beneath lowered eyebrows, Bifur studied his surroundings. All of the shackled men and dwarves were staked in lines in the center of a stone courtyard. There was no privacy in which to plan an escape or even talk. Their wardens had prohibited the use of Khuzdul, a decree with substance. Bifur had the bruises to prove it.

Less pressing but altogether galling, there was no privacy for a dwarf to use the privy, either. He scowled at the aromatic pit a handful of yards away serving as a crude latrine. If one wished to make use of it, his whole line of chained companions perforce had to join him.

Still, he'd experienced worse. Well did he remember the long weeks in Thranduil's dungeons. There, the chance for escape had been slim but for one invisible hobbit. Here, escape would be difficult, aye, but it was possible. The Corsairs were an unruly lot. Not a speck of discipline among them to be seen. Sooner of later, they would make a mistake.

Bifur scratched an itch on his chest idly, his heart aching with fear for his daughter. Ye don't ask much of a dwarf, do you, Mahal? Was she hurting? Was she safe?

He would escape. To aid his daughter, he'd have to, so he would see it done. A sudden thought caused his lips to twitch the barest bit. By Durin, Nori, you chose the wrong time to absent yourself.

Aye, a thief's nimble fingers sure would be useful about now.

The Fords of Isen

6 March TA 3019

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, listened to Halbarad with growing disbelief. The other Ranger wouldn't lie to him, but Aragorn briefly wished he could believe the older man's words untrue as he told a tale of ancient foes secreted away in the south. A lie would be preferable to what he was hearing now.

The chieftain's hand lifted, halting the flow of words. He faced the east, face chiseled as stone. Mithrandir, you departed too soon. There had been no alternative, not after the Nazgûl attack and Pippin's actions. But by the Valar, he wished this news had arrived sooner.

He turned until he found the one he sought. "Gimli."

The dwarf's boisterous banter with Legolas halted, and the red-head's face turned his way, his expression a question. In the snapping light of the campfire before him, Gimli's hair glowed a burnished copper.

Aragorn walked the short distance to join his friends, Halbarad silently trailing behind.

Legolas's keen eyes studied his face. "Something is amiss," the light-haired elf stated without doubt.

"A great deal if the word that was brought to me proves true," Aragorn said. To Halbarad, Aragorn murmured, "Would you ask your son to join us?"

"At once." The older man bowed shortly and hurried away.

Aragorn squatted, one arm resting against the hilt of his sword. To Gimli, "More than once, you've told of the quest to reclaim Erebor."

Merry shot a questioning glance between himself and Gimli, eyes bright with curiosity. Unlike Pippin, the more circumspect Merry chose to puff on his pipe, content to wait and listen.

"Aye," Gimli said, brow creasing.

"You told us about the members of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield," Aragorn said. "And you mentioned a dwarf named Bifur and the lost daughter he sought. Saldís, you named her."

Gimli's bushy brows climbed higher. "Aye. A daughter of men. Bifur, Bofur, and Nori found her alongside the road in the Lone Lands." The dwarf grunted. "She was lost in her eighth year. Abducted, but she was never found."

So. That much of the tale is true. Aragorn's hand fisted, then relaxed.

"You have reason to broach this topic," Legolas interjected, expression intent.

More to Gimli than Legolas, Aragorn answered, inclining his head to Halros as the younger Ranger joined them, "Halros here was hunted down by a group of dwarves as he kept watch over the Shire."

"Dwarves?" Merry sputtered, his grin flashing. "In the Shire again?" The hobbit's smile faded. "Why do I get the feeling this wasn't a happy event?"

"Because the reason for their visit was not social," Aragorn told them.

"What was it?" Gimli asked, eyes narrowing. "What does this have to do with Bifur and his lost daughter?"

Aragorn met his gaze somberly. "It seems she is kin of mine. She is descended from the Dunedain, and according to my kinsman, Halbarad, she was found in Dale not long ago."

"But that is great news," Gimli exclaimed.

"Somehow, I don't believe so, my friend," Legolas said.

"Halbarad tells me she was molded by enemies of ours from the day she was stolen. Now returned to your people," Aragorn told Gimli, "she offered a window into our enemy's actions."

"That's still good news," Gimli grumbled with heavy suspicion, plainly waiting for—as his short friend would say—the ax to fall.

At Aragorn's gesture, Halros answered. "The dwarves who located me were led by a Lady Dís of Ered Luin. With her was a woman calling herself Saldís and a dwarf named Bifur."

As his friends reacted with vary degrees of surprise, Aragorn continued, "The dwarves and woman ride with more of my kin to try to avert disaster. Their mission is to undermine and destroy an army of Black Númenóreans."

The term meant nothing to Merry or Gimli, but Legolas instantly inhaled in a hiss. Aragorn nodded. "It seems not all of them perished," he told the elf. "It was they who stole Saldís."

"Who are they?" Gimli demanded.

"Of the same bloodline as the Dunedain," Legolas told Gimli. "But turned to wickedness. Before Sauron's defeat, they served him willingly." The elf's eyes glittered as they turned to Aragorn. "They practiced the black arts."

"Sorcery?" Merry yelped, dropping his pipe. The small hobbit slapped out cinders that spilled onto his trousers, his eyes as wide as saucers.

Aragorn was moved to compassion as he watched Gimli stiffen until he resembled rough-hewn stone. Gimli knew Lady Dís and the dwarf Bifur. Just as Aragorn knew the Rangers marching beside them straight into enemy lands.

Aragorn's hands rubbed down his face. Those were his men. His kinsmen and his responsibility. Tread safely, Barhador. The fate of us all may rest in your hands. Hands dropping, he spoke in a soft voice, "When Sauron marches, he may have more than orcs filling his army."

Long into the night, the small group spoke. Aragorn discussed what they might encounter when Mordor unleashed its might, sharing tales of past sorcery, but Gimli sat nearby and peppered Halros with questions. From the little Aragorn overheard, the dwarf insisted that the younger Ranger describe each member of the team headed for Tovennen.

To Aragorn, it seemed as if the dwarf was bent upon proving Halros's tale riddled with error, that the dwarves involved were not those he both knew and loved as kin, but in the end, Gimli's questions petered out. The dwarf stared blankly into the fire.

Merry and Legolas spoke to and around him, but Gimli remained quiet.

Aragorn could not fault his friend. He, too, feared. For their loved ones. For those even now touched by the shadow of Mordor. For them all.

Caeldor, Tovennen

Ten-year-old Zobi stalked after Ne-Zahmir, small scimitar clenched in his fist and chest shuddering with silent sobs. Darkness reigned as they left the vicinity of the barracks into the night-darkened, emptier parts of town.

They couldn't take Hashad. The other boy was Zobi's world. Born within weeks of each other, they'd been fast friends before becoming Novices. When the Hands had found out, they'd been so mad, they'd almost sent one of the boys to another House. Zobi and Hashad had faked a bad fight and pretended to hate each other ever since.

It wasn't fair. They'd been good. Why, he hadn't even talked to Hashad in…in…months!

But he'd noticed how Hashad had begun to struggle. Unlike Zobi, Hashad fumbled to use his sword, and Zobi feared the Hands had lost patience with him. Was Zahmir going to kill him?

The terror of that happening goaded him into rash action. He couldn't let Zahmir reach his destination—what if there were other Arcanists waiting? With a low cry, he rushed at the two. Crash! His sword met Zahmir's.

The Arcanist kicked Hashad to the ground before facing Zobi. "Ho-ho, what have we here? This does not concern you, Novice."

"I won't let you kill him," Zobi said, bracing himself. A strand of brown hair flopped into his face. He blew it away, his focus never straying from his target.

Zahmir smirked. "Is that so? Are you so eager to die, mahebe, that you challenge me?" The Arcanist stalked closer, and Zobi swallowed heavily. Behind Zahmir, Hashad was shaking his curly mop of black hair wildly, no.

"You need to learn your place, Novice." Zahmir's booted foot lashed out, yanking Zobi's from beneath him. The instant Zobi's back slammed onto hard pavement, a hard kick plowed into his gut. Then another and another as Hashad yelled nearby. Zahmir growled, "You." Kick. "Do." Kick. "Not." Kick. "Question!"

Zobi wheezed as he tried to scramble away, his belly hurting awful bad.

Hashad jumped on the Arcanist's back, clawing and ripping the earrings from Zahmir's earlobe. "Leave him alone!" he friend shouted.

Zahmir roared. Whipping about at the waist, he grabbed Hashad and threw him into the nearest wall. Zobi moaned, hand to his belly, as his friend collapsed. Then he watched, horrified as Zahmir lifted one hand into the air.

It glowed blue.

Zahmir was stealing Hashad's air. He had to…he had to stop him! Zobi crawled to his sword, recalling all of Hand Faruvir's lessons. But then he, too, gasped. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't br—

A black shadow separated itself from the darkness behind Zahmir, one shorter than the Arcanist. Zobi moaned, frantically trying to inhale as tears leaked down his face. He was gunna die. He and Hashad both.

But then, the stranger pulled a dagger from his waistband and struck Zahmir in the neck before the Arcanist realized he was there. The blade pulled free as Zahmir's body fell to the ground, its length glistening with wet red blood.

Hashad tripped over his own feet, hurrying to Zobi's side. Zobi blinked back tears. It wasn't fair. By the Eye! Ar-Tagan made it clear the Arcanists were more important to his war plans than any Weapon or Novice. That this man had murdered one?

He can't leave witnesses, Zobi thought with terror.

Zobi watched as the slender man bent over Zahmir's body, wiping his dagger on Zahmir's pants before returning it to its sheath. Though the man—Weapon?—was small, Zobi remained perfectly still, unwilling to draw his attention to where Zobi and Hashad huddled.

With the standard black garb the man wore, especially with the headscarf over his face, he could be anyone. All that Zobi could see that set him apart was a blue marking beneath the man's left eye. It looked like a rune to Zobi, but it sure wasn't a language he knew.

Suspicion touched him. Only Haradrim tattooed their bodies. No Black Númenórean would mar his face like that.

Then "he" spoke, and Zobi realized "he" was a "she". "Return to your barracks," she said in a soft voice.

"You aren't gunna kill us?" Hashad burst.

The skin around her dark eyes—gray? brown?—crinkled. Zobi fidgeted, uncertain what that expression meant. "No. I've come to save you."

"Save us?" Hashad echoed.

She tapped the mark beneath her eye. "Honor," she told them.

Honor? What did Zobi care about any House's honor?

"Our loyalty is to one another," she continued as if hearing his inner thoughts. "No House deserves it."

Zobi almost scoffed aloud. Hashad had his sword, but Zobi knew full well they two were alone. Anyone else would turn on them in a heartbeat. Before his lips did more than part to say so, Hashad scowled at him. Grumbling, Zobi knew Hashad was right. The Weapon must be insane to spout off on things like loyalty and honor. The last thing Zobi wished was to have her turn on him or Hashad.

A sound down the street drew her head up. "Quiet," she hissed.

She didn't need to tell him twice. Would the Hands blame Hashad and Zobi, too, for Zahmir's death? I don't wanna die.

After a long stretch of silence, the woman hefted Zahmir's body over her shoulder and stood. "Go. Now. You cannot be associated with this."

The two boys glanced at one another. In Hashad's eyes, Zobi read agreement. They ran.

Neither heard the woman's whispered, "This had better work, Adâd."

The next morning, House Herumor awoke to discover Arcanist Zahmir's body splayed upon one of their altars. Commander Ib-Vollan raged, throwing accusations to the Arcanists of his House and railing at the inexperienced Weapons he'd assigned to keep watch during the night, but despite his attempts, he failed to locate the culprit.

His superior, Lord Kavish, met with similar failure. Word reached House Fuinir…and Ar-Tagan.

Overnight, tensions between the Houses ratcheted up to unheard levels. Herumor found itself on the receiving end of a lethal mistrust from all corners. Ar-Tagan snarled obscenities as he commanded the three Lords remaining in Caeldor as well as the six commanders—one from each House—to find the Arcanist responsible.

The next morning, two bodies were found on altars belonging to House Mordhalor. Weapons, both of them belonging to House Vinuir. From an efficient engine of war orchestrating the movements of troops from Caeldor to Mordor, Ar-Tagan found his domain fractured. It was all he could do to prevent outright war from breaking out among the Houses as each night—despite heightened security—more of his troops were slain.

House fortified itself against House, and feline spies were killed in droves. Coordinated efforts between Houses became impossible as the fragile bonds of trust snapped, and with Sauron raging over Saruman's inept failure at Helm's Deep, Tagan dared not allow word of his troubles to leak beyond Caeldor's limits.

He doggedly persisted in attempts to douse the discord destroying centuries of work. But then, the rumors started.

Whispers spread that the Arcanists among them plotted in secret, that they intended to bleed every Weapon and Novice dry for the precious commodity flowing through their veins. Nonsense, of course, but the damage was done. Houses themselves began to crack. Weapons eyed Arcanists with hostility. Novices questioned their Hands, muttering to themselves about honor, but not the concept of honor they'd been taught to keep them loyal to their Houses.

No, they spouted about it as a prudish, self-righteous Gondorian would. Such honor was a useless concept, one that had no business among Tagan's people. By Eru's Doom, where was this nonsense springing from?

Ar-Tagan slew dozens of people, Arcanists and Weapons both, in a search of answers, but instead of frightening his underlings into compliance, his authority eroded daily, a fact he took pains to hide from the absent Ar-Cavendor. (Was it possible Cavendor was behind this? Was this a carefully orchestrated coup by the Weapons?)

Images of the Mouth replayed through Tagan's mind. Ar-Tagan took to stalking Caeldor's streets himself.

He had to stop this. Find the source. And kill it.

Berenor relaxed his vigilance and removed the headscarf from his head as The Brothers regrouped with Himon, Thalon…and the dwarf Ragan?…a good distance from Caeldor upon the Scorched Wastes. With the sun's disappearance, the stifling heat of day had given way to chillier night, and the contrast left his skin pebbled and twitching in small shivers. Eru, but he hated this land.

"Is this a good idea?" Erynor asked, nodding to their dwarf companion.

"Necessary," Ragan grumbled, glowering suspiciously at the lands around them.

"Your grandfather," Himon told Berenor, "decreed it was time to test Caeldor's defenses. We need to know if they are keeping close watch before we can permit the dwarves to assess the city. They cannot exploit its weaknesses if they cannot see it themselves."

And night was the best time to conduct such a test, Berenor concluded with a nod. Though the random boulder and scrub brush dotted the landscape, Tovennen was too flat for anyone's comfort. Night offered a measure of concealment.

"You're bait?" Berenor asked the dwarf with tired amusement.

Ragan grunted. "Better me than Finnin."

Since Finnin had been itching for open combat, Berenor had to agree. The blond warrior's anger climbed with every day that passed with no word of Berenor's cousin.

"Any news?" Himon asked shortly. The thin man slipped his lucky coin from a pocket and flipped it in nervous, rapid succession.

"They're turning on one another," Calenor said.

Erynor nodded. "Our efforts only nudge things along."

Berenor agreed with him. "Whatever caused that first Arcanist's death, we can only thank Eru. It won't be long now before they are truly at war."

"Good," Himon said. His hand closed about the coin the moment it landed in his palm. "Should no Black Númenóreans come investigating the presence of a dwarf, we move on to the next stage."