Chapter 85
A Question of Morality
To my infinite relief the political and historical background was not so different in this particular region from what I had read in the book. It was only with the War of the Ring that everything had been thrown off course. Why this was no one knew, certainly not Boromir and I, but I strongly suspected that the reason why the whole thing hadn't been turned on its head was in no small part due to the fact that Kate and her descendants didn't have a hand in messing everything up.
And no matter what Gandalf said about making ripples of my own, I didn't make nearly as many as I had initially feared. Now that I had finally come to terms – more or less – with my place in this world, I even began to find it annoying, which is still putting it mildly. So far my successes were Boromir and Théodred and the latter was not so much my influence as Aragorn's healing hands and one hell of a lot of luck. And seeing as how we had lost Théoden far too early – and I must admit that I had hoped he needn't die at all – I didn't feel my part in all of this had been a huge, overwhelming success.
No, when it came to this quest, it was Thráin who made ripples. And anyone who knows Thráin can tell you that he does not merely make ripples; he makes tidal waves. I don't even think he sets out to do it, but at some point in the proceedings his temper gets the best of him and he says things that upset the balance or he makes friends where he shouldn't.
And believe it or not, acquiring one of the Enemy's Mûmakil was not the most revolutionary thing he's ever done. That wasn't to say that it didn't have much of an effect on the war, because it did…
Thráin
Waking up to Gimli's face hovering over his was not the way Thráin would ever like to wake again. It was not an improvement when Gimli realised Thráin had opened his eyes and he backed away, startled.
'He is awake then,' Legolas observed. Thráin sat up and found him across the campfire, looking pleased with himself, which was not too different from the norm. 'You have worried our companions, my friend.'
Gimli grumbled something unintelligible that Thráin took for his agreement.
Now that he sat up he realised that the situation was a trifle different from the last time he had opened his eyes. All around him were caves and he heard running water nearby. His head ached, a pounding that fast increased in intensity. His back was protesting his movement as well, though not as vehemently as his head.
Before he could ask what had happened, his memory returned to him. He'd fallen off a Mûmak's back and it had been a long way to the ground. After that he knew nothing until he had woken up here, but it seemed considerable time had passed.
'How long was I unconscious?' he asked, which was the sensible thing to ask.
'A good eighteen hours.' Faramir was the one who answered. He emerged from the shadows and sat down next to Thráin. 'You scared us, my friend. But Master Legolas here had faith that you would recover and so you did.'
Legolas looked more pleased with himself. 'You are a dwarf and dwarves, I find, are seldom as obliging as to meet the expectations the world has of them.'
'I should hate to disappoint,' Thráin returned, before turning back to Faramir. 'What of our venture? Were we successful?'
Faramir nodded and then began to smile. 'We had such a victory as we had never hoped to achieve here. The Haradrim scattered. Some ran for the protection of Minas Morgul, others for the Black Gates. We killed those that we could. Two of the Mûmakil also died, but the one you so valiantly rode survived. If you are strong enough to stand, I should like to show you.'
'I am.' The act of doing so took more effort than usual, but once he stood, he was steady enough on his feet. So long as he didn't wince when he walked, his friends would not worry needlessly over him. The bruises would fade. If something else was truly amiss with him, someone would have told him by now. Seeing as how they had not, he could only conclude that he was recovered enough to resume his normal duties.
Faramir led him to the edge of the cave, to an opening that looked out onto a secluded valley below. There was a waterfall – the running water he had heard – that cascaded down into a pool next to which stood the beast he had stolen from its previous owners. The hut had been removed from his back and Faramir's men had removed the string of spikes from around the tusks. It almost looked harmless now, even more when it sucked up water in its trunk only to spray it all over its back the next moment.
He felt a smile tug at his lips. 'How'd you get it in here?' he asked.
'We have our ways,' Faramir responded enigmatically. 'And the beast was surprisingly docile.' He pointed back inside the cave. 'We found the one in charge of the Mûmak you rammed after the battle. We have taken him back with us so that he may instruct us in the art of riding it. That way we can perhaps prevent sticking many more knives in it.' He gave Thráin a meaningful look.
'The notion was not mine,' he pointed out. That had been the elf's and no one else's.
'Be that as it may,' Faramir said. 'We do not know how to ride the beast, nor how to care for it. We've kept him down with it, but we have yet to question him. I should like you to be there when we do.'
'Why?'
Faramir's smile widened into a grin. 'Because so far you are the only one mad enough to even attempt to ride it,' he pointed out. 'And another force of Haradrim moves north as we speak, the last group, like as not. I am of a mind to acquire a few more Mûmakil if we can and I should like you to ride the one we already have into battle, if you are willing.'
Willing was perhaps too big of a word – he had not enjoyed this venture much – but he was prepared to do it again, which ought to suffice. 'Lead on.' After that Faramir would have to train his own men, which he would.
Down into the valley they went. The decline was steep and hard. He could do it, but at a far slower pace than he would like. The others said nothing, but they adapted to his pace. Gimli of course took it one step further and tried to offer Thráin his arm to lean on, which he stubbornly ignored. His kinsman had shown remarkable restraint since finding out what Thráin was supposed to become, but every now and again his control slipped. Best to pay no attention to it at all.
Most of Faramir's men were in the little valley. Thráin was not a little surprised to find he was greeted with nods of respect and even the occasional bow. He had perhaps done something admirable, though he was sure Duria would have been very quick to dismiss it as suicidal and give him a very stern talking to for risking his life so needlessly.
It was not needless, Thráin thought. We gained an advantage. They had few enough of those as it was. Each and every one counted. Thoren would understand even if their sister did not.
They found the rider on the ground some feet away from the beast. His hands and feet were bound and he fixed all of them with a stare so fierce it should have had them burst into flame on the spot. When he registered Thráin's presence however he startled. This did not surprise Thráin; the last this man had seen of him was most likely Thráin on the back of a Mûmak bearing down on him at full speed.
'Your name?' Faramir asked.
'Hadnor.'
The one word alone sounded aggressive and hostile. Thráin had been to Harad, but only once, nearly thirty-five years ago. He had found it a harsh and inhospitable place. Its people spoke a tongue that made every word sound like a lash of the whip and they had the friendliness to match. He had looked his fill and decided that this was one part of the world he had no wish to ever return to. So he hadn't.
'Tell us how to ride the Mûmak.'
Hadnor spat on the ground by way of an answer.
This would get them nowhere fast, so Thráin attempted a different tactic. 'You must know that we will work it out eventually, of course,' he said, and just thinking about the words he was about to utter made him feel dirty, but he had to: 'We cannot afford not to use the beast in battle, but that meant that we had to hurt it the last time. I mislike hurting beasts when there is no need.'
He spoke nothing but truth. If the need arose, he would do it himself the next time in order to win this war. He didn't like what it did to him. If he was on the battlefield, he would fight and he would kill, because his opponents would kill him if he did not. That was the kind of fighting that no dwarf would shy away from. But this was very different. This was double-dealing and backstabbing and threatening. It made his skin crawl. Dwarves were not made for this.
'You would hurt such a noble beast for your own gain?' Loathing dripped from Hadnor's every word.
'Not my own gain,' Thráin said. 'Never my own.' He looked into the man's eyes. 'You cannot be so ignorant of the true nature of the one you serve. He only seeks the death of good people, innocents not guilty of any crime.'
'Such is the way of war,' Hadnor replied, unperturbed. 'Gondor does the same to us when it gets the chance. The time has come for them to pay for once.' His words more than implied that Sauron was the means by which this could finally be achieved.
Beside him he felt Faramir almost trembling with rage, but he did not take the bait. Thráin admired him for it.
The more he heard of these petty grievances, the more they vexed him. 'You are all men,' he said. 'And yet you turn on one another as happily as orcs. Among my people we call that kinslaying and rightly so, because you were all made of one mould. Sauron only seeks to give you vengeance so long as it suits him and then he will turn on you as well. It is not in his interest to support an independent Harad.' He studied the man. 'And I reckon that you are not so great a fool as to believe otherwise.'
Something flickered across his face and was then gone again. He did know. But the hard expression returned. 'And you are a fool if you think the Steward of Gondor will ever give us justice.'
'Lord Denethor is old and will not live forever,' Thráin said. 'The one who comes after him is of altogether more noble disposition.' Here he had to take care with his words again; he had not yet broached the subject of Aragorn with Faramir. He should like to do so soon, but not in front of an enemy.
Hadnor scoffed. 'And you would swear to that, would you?'
'I would,' Thráin replied without hesitation.
The swiftness of his response took Hadnor somewhat by surprise, but it did not last long. 'Words are cheap and easily forgotten.'
'Among men that is often the case,' Thráin said. He knew dealing with the men was often an exhausting and frustrating business. His father had avoided it when he could, his mother often had emerged from such meetings tired and short-tempered – though by blood she was one of them – and he knew that Thoren had not much patience for it either. It was an experience akin to treading the Dead Marshes after heavy rains, but ten times worse. 'But I am a dwarf. My word is my bond.'
Hadnor studied him some more. 'I would have your word that you will kill only soldiers,' he said. 'Leave my people unharmed.' The fact that he felt the need to ask spoke volumes about the culture he had grown up in.
'Agreed,' Thráin said.
Faramir nodded too. 'You have my word,' he said.
It was clear from Hadnor's reaction that he thought not as highly of Faramir's word as he did of Thráin's, because it was the latter he turned to when he spoke again: 'And I will have your word that you will do no harm to the Mûmak.'
That was not so easily promised. 'We mean to take the beast into battle with us,' he pointed out. 'A lack of harm is not something I can promise you.'
Hadnor snorted in derision. 'Very few things can kill one of its kind in battle.' Faramir nodded at this. 'I do not fear on that account.'
'In that case you have my word on this as well.' Promises made, he turned to the business he had come here for. 'Provided that you will teach us how to ride it.'
Hadnor liked this not, but Thráin and Faramir had made all the promises he had asked for without hesitation and now he had nothing left to bargain with. He could of course have held his silence, but somehow the welfare of the Mûmak was something that was of some consequence to him. The beast weighed more than the lives of folk of his own kind. The follies of the race of men were boundless.
'I shall,' he said.
'Unbind him then,' Faramir ordered his men. They did not particularly like that, but Hadnor was outnumbered here and unarmed besides. 'If he should try to escape, you may kill him without hesitation.' His friend was no fool either.
Legolas arched an eyebrow at Thráin. 'You may claim otherwise, my friend, but you have the bearing of a true king, such as your father never quite was.'
Faramir and Hadnor turned their heads as one. 'A king?' Faramir asked.
Thráin could have kicked Legolas then and not feel guilty doing it. For appearance's sake he refrained. 'Not yet,' he said.
He'd not spent much time thinking about that fate, but whenever he was in danger of succeeding in banishing it from his mind altogether, Legolas was quick to remind him of it. He had yet to decide if this made him a poorer or a better friend, though he reluctantly leaned towards the latter. He was no man that he avoided the truths that were not to his liking.
'Does your brother not rule the Lonely Mountain?' Faramir was still confused. And how could Thráin blame him for it?
'He does and if I have my way he will do so for many years to come.' Nothing was certain in war, but Thoren was a dwarf in every sense of the word. He was strong, made to be durable. He was an able fighter too. Thráin should not be surprised to learn that he would live out the war with nary a scratch to show for it.
Would that the same could be said of Jack.
'This is a long tale, my friend, and I should like to tell it when we have sufficient time to do it justice,' he continued. He would not share it in front of a known enemy with whom they had only just struck a very fragile truce. 'Legolas spoke of things he had no business to.' It was not an elf's place to spill a dwarf's secrets, friends though they were. He left it at that and turned to Hadnor, who had now regained the use of his hands and feet. 'Are you ready?'
The man nodded. The hatred in his eyes was badly concealed. Thráin misliked having to test the strength of his word – he valued it little – but in this he had very little choice.
They walked over to the Mûmak, who had finished drinking and spraying itself, and watched their coming with interest. Relieved of its weaponry it did not look exactly harmless, but decidedly friendlier than it had done on the battlefield and less malicious too. Gimli hung back, but Thráin did not. Any fear he showed was sure to be exploited, so he hid his trepidation and approached the beast at a steady pace. To his own surprise the Mûmak held out its trunk. Not sure what to do, Thráin petted it awkwardly. It must like it; it did not try to trample him. Quite the contrary; it leaned into his touch.
Thráin frowned and re-evaluated his judgement on the beast. 'It seems not so dangerous now.'
In fact, it seemed rather desperate for affection if the way it kept gently pushing its trunk against him when he stopped petting it was any indication. He knew it could be dangerous, but right here and now it was about as violent as Thoren's soft toy from childhood that he had dragged around with him wherever he went.
Hadnor scowled. 'He is not an it.'
'Very well,' said Thráin. 'Does he have a name?'
Apparently he had asked a foolish question now. 'Names are for people, not beasts.'
Thráin found that hypocritical. 'Yet your care is for the beast and not for the living people who might be killed by him.' This man had been built of contradictions and inconsistencies from the ground up.
'Perhaps we ought to name it then,' Legolas said, mischievous twinkle in his eye. 'Thráin captured the beast, so I propose that the privilege of naming it should therefore be his as well.'
'Mûmakil have no names,' Hadnor insisted.
'That might have been true whilst it belonged to your people,' Faramir said. 'But it belongs to Gondor now. Do you have a name in mind, Thráin?'
He had to think about it, but only for a brief moment. 'Aye,' he said, with the image of Thoren's soft toy fixed in his mind. 'His name shall be Teddy.'
Cathy
'What am I supposed to make of this, Duria?'
Cathy was close to throwing up her hands in exasperation, but refrained for the sake of maintaining the peace. It was hard work, for Duria was not making it very easy on her.
'I believe his story,' her sister replied, far too calm.
'It's exactly the sort of story that an enemy spy would tell, yes,' Cathy pointed out reasonably. 'A little tragedy, a small helping of desperation, a side dish of urgency all followed by a dessert of tears and pleading puppy eyes.' She could not believe that her sensible sister of all people had been taken in with this. 'And you apparently fell for it hook, line and sinker!'
Duria's composure frayed at the seams, enough for her to unleash a glare at Cathy. 'Yet you seem equally determined not to believe a word of it, despite not having met him at all.'
'I don't have a tendency to fret over everything and everyone who seems vulnerable,' Cathy returned. 'What's got into you lately that you now feel the urge to adopt and coddle every lost little lamb that crosses your path? We're at war, if you'll remember, and we have seen too much of wolves in sheep's clothing of late to be so naïve now.'
'Not all men are our enemies,' Duria insisted.
'No, the good ones are in here with us.' Cathy was not so easily stopped. 'You will recall that they were the ones who sought shelter here to escape the onslaught of Easterlings, of which your new best friend is one.'
'He is not my friend,' said Duria.
'Well, you could have fooled me.' The way she stuck up for him did not sit easy with Cathy. Duria's judgement had been questionable enough of late and this sudden trust in a stranger did not change Cathy's mind on the matter. If anything, it confirmed her worst fears. Is her mind failing her? Is that what is happening here?
The truth was that she was no longer entirely certain.
'He is an innocent in need of help,' Duria pressed on.
'If he is what he says he is,' Cathy retorted. 'Maker be good, Duria, I've already got folk keeping an eye on Farulf, several guarding the thieving thugs from Esgaroth in the northern quarters, a cartload of them guarding our ever dwindling food stores that we can't so easily replenish and now you tell me that you've brought in an Easterling who claims he's the good kind. So that's another fellow who needs close watching. Do you suppose that guards grow on trees by the dozen, Duria? Shall we delve them from our mines instead like we do precious metal? Oh, and will you look at that, it's also another mouth to feed from aforementioned dwindling food stores.'
She rolled her shoulders to alleviate some of the tension that had piled up in them. Mahal only knew how Thoren did this, day after day, without going utterly mad. Folk whined and complained about everything under the sun until they were blue in the face. Nothing was ever enough and none of them could ever be bothered to see past their petty complaints to the bigger picture behind it. No, she could not give them more food, because that would mean there would be even less of it in the days to come. She couldn't stop the war either with a wave of her hand, which seemed to astound some of them. All things considered, Thoren definitely had the easier job; if his frustrations ever reached boiling point, he had some enemies on hand whose heads he could definitely bang together if he wished.
Would that she could do the same. With the way things stood, Duria's head was first in line for such a treatment.
Duria looked at least a little sheepish. 'I did not mean to put you to any trouble.'
She rubbed her neck, but the tension and the headache refused to leave. She was weary to the bone, but there was no rest to be had, not for her. 'No, I know you did not.' Cathy knew that, but it changed nothing of the circumstances. 'But… ' How to put this into words? She settled on: 'This was never my part to play. It's as though you play my part, being all naïve and trusting and blindly optimistic even in the face of so much common sense. And here am I, being you. I've got to be all sensible about everything and I'm sick and tired of it.'
I can't fall back on you anymore like I used to, back when I neither wanted nor needed it. Perhaps that vexed her most of all. Duria was always the sensible one, the rock on which they all built their lives in the sure knowledge that even if the world crashed down around them, she'd still be standing. But when the world did come crashing down, Duria had been the one who had fallen.
So what's left to cling to? Ordinarily that would be Halin, but he had gone with Thoren. In his absence she usually turned to Elvaethor for advice, but he was not here either. The only uncle who was here, Ori, was up to his ears in work and Fíli had ridden out as well. So it was to Duria she turned and Duria so far refused to live up to popular expectation. Reliable? Not so much of late.
Duria took some moments to process these words with the consideration they deserved. 'We have taken each other's place,' she realised.
'And it suits us both ill,' Cathy said. She couldn't go back to how she had been before the war and neither could her sister. Too much had passed already. 'We were not made for such times.' She reckoned nobody was. Had war been intended in the original making of the world? Cathy rather doubted it.
Duria nodded. 'So it does.'
There was nothing to be done about it now. They had been given their parts to play, so play them they must. 'I suppose I shall speak with this Easterling,' Cathy sighed. 'And then we'll see where we are.'
She still misliked it. So far Farulf had done nothing he should not have, but she found she did not rest easy with him on the loose. Last night she had wondered whether it was at all possible to pack him off to the war and hope that he would die on the field of battle. It would solve a lot of problems.
But that was the mannish way, not hers.
'Where is he?' she asked.
Duria replied promptly: 'I had the liberty of having him brought here. Alfur should be waiting outside the door with him.'
Cathy had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. It was at times easy to remember that they had Dori for their uncle; Duria modelled her conduct almost exclusively on him, something that had never yet failed to vex her. Well, at least that had not changed, so she supposed she ought to be grateful for that much, even if it did involve Duria presuming to know what to do and acting on it without consulting anyone else.
'Bring him in then,' she said. She might as well get it all over with. And hope he gives a good reason for being expelled, she thought to herself. It would save her another headache or two.
Duria only gave her a stern glance before she did as she was bid. As she had said, Alfur stood behind the door waiting with a man who was clearly of Easterling descent. His colouring was lighter than she had expected, but the face itself proclaimed his background for all with eyes to see.
'Your name?' she asked, drawing on her memories of her father confronting those he did not like in the most cool and regal manner that he could. She sat up straighter, her hands folded on the desk before her in a façade of calm. She wasn't, but he did not need to know that. 'Alfur, please remain within the room and close the door behind you.'
This made the man before her suitably nervous; he wrung his hands and looked over his shoulder as though he should like nothing better than to run away as fast as his legs could carry him. He is not brave, this one, Cathy thought, until she remembered that this might very well be an act.
At last he looked back at her. 'Mubul, my lady.'
It meant nothing to her.
'My sister tells me that you have defected to our side,' she said, taking care to not sound very interested in whatever he had to say. Let him work for it. Either he exposed himself in trying too hard or she might find his sincerity underneath. She reckoned it was going to be the first. After all the treachery they'd had lately it seemed unlikely to find one who genuinely shared their aims.
Mubul drew himself up to his full height, eyes blazing with defiance. 'I was never on their side. When I told them so, they beat me and dragged me into their army anyway.' He pushed down his tunic to reveal a nasty scar on his shoulder. That at least looked genuine.
But could it be trusted? He could take any old battle scar and spin them a story about how it was obtained. She had no way to ascertain the truth of it. The fact remained that he had shown up just as the last traitors had been rooted out, when the Enemy had no more agents within the walls of Erebor. Yes, she found that suspicious to say the least.
'That is what a spy might say,' Cathy pointed out reasonably. 'Can you prove to me that you are not such a one?'
Fear flickered across his face. He looked to Duria for support, who did look sympathetic. Thank the Maker that Thoren had left Cathy in charge and not Duria then, because Cathy was not sympathetic at all.
'I would not know how,' Mubul said, looking forlornly at his feet.
Cathy nodded. 'So you see the dilemma I am faced with,' she said. 'If I should let you in, I expose my people to further risk. So it is their lives weighed against yours. I am sure you know which one weighs heavier to me.'
'Theirs,' said Mubul. He now had the tone to match his miserable expression. 'I understand, my lady. Keep me in your dungeons if you must, but I beg of you not to send me back!'
Odd. 'You would consent to spending the duration of this war in a cell to avoid being sent back to your own people?' What was this, the truth or an elaborate ploy devised to disarm her and trick her into allowing him the freedom to move around Erebor as he pleased? Either way, the idea had merits. Yes, she'd have to feed him, which was a worry, but at the very least she did not have to fret over whether or not he was about to tear them apart from within.
Mubul nodded. 'Yes, my lady.'
She couldn't deny that it solved a fair few problems in one go. 'Very well, then…'
'I have a better proposition,' Duria interrupted.
There were days when it would be so easy to strangle her sister and have done with it. 'Yes, Duria?'
This had better be good.
'Mubul here is a fisherman, he told me,' Duria said, a gleam in her eyes that Cathy neither liked nor trusted. 'You must admit that Mubul will not be much use to anyone if he sits in a cell and does nothing.'
There was no denying the truth of that, of course. 'It is his own wish,' Cathy reminded her. 'You heard him make the request yourself.'
Duria's eyes perfectly communicated that she fully believed that this particular offer had only been made because Cathy refused to do that rational thing and believe that their Easterling guest had all their best interests at heart. 'Should we not give him a chance to prove himself?'
If this had not been war and if they hadn't been drowning in traitors since the start of it, Cathy might have had agreed. She had been that foolishly optimistic once. But she had seen the cost of such reckless trust. How could she in good conscience now make the same mistake again? Duria knew this. At least she ought to know this.
'I am listening,' she said, which was all that she could do. And she would have words with her sister later about this questioning her in front of a potential spy. Honestly, what was wrong with Duria?
'He is a fisherman,' her sister began anew.
'So you've told me.'
'So let him earn his keep,' Duria proposed. 'We've a river nearby that we've used for water, but there are fish in it aplenty that have not been caught so much of late.' Most of the fishermen had gone away with the army and their wives refused to leave the safety of the Mountain. 'We must all eat, must we not?'
This brought her up short. The plan was far more devious than Cathy had ever expected of her prim and proper sister, who had always firmly disapproved of anything that did not strictly adhere to the code of living that dwarves abided by. This was mannish cunning, elvish cunning even. Cathy had always had it in spades, but never Duria.
Has the world been turned upside down and inside out? Where was the old reliable Duria who would have baulked at this blatantly undwarvish scheme? Would that she could speak about this with a healer, but she was not sure what they'd make of it. And yet, should I not?
Having said that, it could work, even if it did rub her the wrong way. Exposing one who was likely friendly to them to such danger did not sit easy with her, but it might solve some of the issues they had. Food was in short supply. Fish could augment their diet at least until they came under siege. If this man knew how to supply said fish, could she afford to refuse him?
Durin's stinking beard, how she had come to hate this game of politics!
She turned to Mubul again. 'Would you be prepared for such an undertaking?' she asked him.
He had perked up at the very mention. 'Yes, my lady, if the gear can be provided.'
That shouldn't be a problem. 'I can supply what you need,' she said. 'Is that your choice?'
Mubul nodded eagerly. He had something of an excited puppy dog about him. 'Yes, my lady. I should be honoured to perform this task.'
'Very well.' She bestowed a look on Duria that hopefully told her that whatever came of this was on her head and her head only. 'You will provide this Mountain with fish then. You will however remain under guard at all times until I am assured of your loyalty. You may not walk these halls unguarded. Do you accept these terms?'
He beamed at her so widely it was as though she had offered him the keys to the kingdom instead. 'I do, my lady.'
I just hope I made the right decision.
Next time: help comes from an unexpected source for the Free Folk Alliance.
By the way, apologies for the delay in updating. Real life happened (in a very good way for once) which meant I have barely been home yesterday. Next week's update will be on Saturday as always.
Thank you so much for reading. Reviews would be very welcome!
