III.) A Prize beyond Measure
Elendil stood on the forecastle of Ar-Pharazon's flagship, shielding his blue eyes against the hot Southern Sun, and staring ahead. There, on the horizon, lay a thin dark line, the coast of Middle Earth, of Near Harad to be precise.
Elendil's face beamed with excitement. Although he was thirty-one years old, he was still young by the measure of the Numenoreans, and it was the first time he had journeyed beyond the shores of his island home. Thus far, had led a cosseted life in his father Amandil's palace at Adunie. Yet in spite of his father's misgivings, Elendil was very pleased to be summoned to war by the King. Amandil, though a great sea-captain in his youth, was a scholar by inclination. Elendil, by contrast, had always had a taste for adventure, and he lept at the opportunity to test his mettle in war, with little care for the dangers he would face.
"It appears our destination is within sight, Admiral" said Elendil as he turned to the man beside him. "The day of reckoning is at hand. Sauron the Accursed will surely send out his hordes to meet us before we draw near to his realm."
"Aye, and we'll be more than ready for them!" replied Minastir, Captain of the King's flagship, and Admiral of his Fleet. He was a massive, rough-hewn man of fifty years, near seven feet tall, with a black beard and stern blue eyes. "Our lads have been cooped up below decks for weeks, and they're champing at the bit to have a row of Orc-necks lined up for them to hew!"
"Always looking on the bright side of things, eh Admiral?" laughed Elendil. Then he looked towards the shore again, and frowned.
"What's that dark cloud moving close to the fleet?" he asked, pushing a lock of brown hair out of his eyes. A large, black could was indeed fast approaching the fleet, even though it moved against the wind.
"Strange" frowned Minastir. "It almost looks like...a flock of birds perhaps? Or..."
"Ravens" said Elendil. He gazed at them with eyes so sharp of vision as to be Elven-keen, gifts of his distant Half-Elven ancestry. "I see them clearly now. Hundreds of Ravens, circling around the vanguard of the fleet. But what are Ravens doing so far from shore?"
Minastir stared at him, and frowned.
Standing in his observatory atop the Barad-dur, Sauron could see through the eyes of his Raven-servants as they hovered above the distant Numenorean fleet. The Dark Lord was far from pleased. He had fully expected that his provocation would swiftly lead the Numenoreans into open war against him. That was his fondest hope; for, while he could not challenge the power of the Numenoreans at sea, he planned to swiftly crush their armies on land. He would draw them into an ambush, and overwhelm them with the vast hordes of Orcs and wild Men at his disposal. Then nothing would stand in the way of his dominion over the mortal lands of Earth!
Sauron, who could cast his gaze over any part of Middle Earth, was unable to see beyond its Western shores. Yet, that had not prevented him from using more mundane methods to learn all he could of Numenor, its strengths, weaknesses and ambitions. The wild Men of the South had long visited the Numenorean colony of Umbar as traders, bearing wood and ivory in exchange for iron and wool. Through his agents amongst the Southrons he had bribed and blackmailed some of the high-ranking officers and nobles stationed at Umbar, and through those officers and nobles in turn had purchased information from several particularly venal courtiers at Armenelos, where corrupt officials were as easy to find as worm-ridden apples in an orchard. Sauron's agents at Armenelos had led him to expect that Numenor would dispatch a powerful fleet against him. In this they had been correct.
But while Sauron sat secure in the Barad-dur, reveling in his own immense strength on land, these corrupt courtiers had not made clear to him the truly awesome military power that Numenor was capable of mustering, on land as well as at sea, once its wrath was incurred. "There are over a thousand ships" thought Sauron to himself, staring at the gleaming armour of the Men encamped on the decks, "and each ship has a thousand Men, professional soldiers, on board...those fools at Armenelos did not say there would be even a third as many...how can they be ambushed, when they outnumber my own forces?"
The Dark Lord began to feel traces of a gnawing doubt, such as he had not felt since his exile after the War of Wrath all those centuries ago. Had he been overconfident? Had his plans finally gone awry, after so many centuries of successes?
His agents would pay for their failure to report with complete accuracy.
But in the meantime, what was he to do?
Sauron reflected on two points. First, as long as he had the One Ring in his possession, he could tap reserves of power of which Men could not even guess. It had been so long since the Numenoreans had dealings with the Elves that it was doubtful they understood what the One Ring was, or what it could do.
And second, no matter how strong the army of Numenor, Men themselves were weak. Not merely weak and frail in body, but weak in mind and character. This he knew well. If force could not avail him against the Men of the West, then...
The beginnings of a new plan formed in Sauron's mind. Once again, he permitted himself a trace of a smile.
As the Sun began to sink into the West, Ar-Pharazon's fleet pulled into the mighty harbour of Umbar, its walls built of red sandstone, its flat, grassy shore lined here and there with date palms and fig trees. The sunlight gleamed off the red and gold sails of the fleet, and the snow white planking of the ships.
Ar-Pharazon stood on the rear deck of his flagship, and contemplated the scene. The fortress here, he reflected, had been founded long ago by the Numenoreans, and now it was their chief bastion and outpost along the South-western coast of Middle Earth. He himself had been here before on several occasions in his youth, as a General leading punitive expeditions against those wild Men from the interior of the South who, under Sauron's sway, had sought to harass Numenor's profitable trading with the wild Men of the coastlands.
From Umbar, two weeks march to the north would bring his army to the southern frontiers of Mordor. There, the mountains were low and with many passes, far easier to penetrate than the sheer wall of the Mountains of Shadow that lay along the western marches of the Black Land. A further two weeks march north would bring them, an army a million strong, to the Dark Tower, the Barad-dur itself. Then let Sauron tremble before the might of Numenor, and the wrath of Ar-Pharazon the Golden!
"Ho, Minastir!" called Ar-Pharazon.
The Admiral came rushing towards him. "My liege?"
"Send word to the Commander of our garrison at Umbar" said the King. "Let my quarters and those of my Admirals and Generals be prepared. He is also to assist in the disembarkation of our soldiers from the ships, which I estimate will take the best part of a week, given the limited number of docks available. When our army is encamped and ready on land, I will then summon a council of war."
"At once, my liege" replied Minastir, who saluted, and then turned smartly and marched towards the main deck, searching for a messenger to take a skiff to the fortress.
Ar-Pharazon turned his gaze back to his fleet, and smiled. Soon, very soon, Sauron would be vanquished. The whole of Middle Earth would then bow at his own feet!
A week later, the army of Numenor was encamped outside the fortress of Umbar, magnificent in its tents of blue and gold and white. Within the great hall of the fortress, built of gleaming white marble gilded with gold, ebony and ivory, King Ar-Pharazon had summoned his council of war. Present at the council table, which was carved out of some dark jungle hardwood, and shaped like a half-moon, were Minastir and other Officers of the fleet; the Generals of the army, flower of the nobility of Numenor; and Kimhilkad, Captian of the Garrison of Umbar. Also in attendance, though ordered by the King to remain silent throughout the council, was the youthful Elendil. Elendil was torn between impatience at the tedious deliberations of the council, and eagerness to learn the strategy they would soon employ against the Black Land.
"And what news of the movements of the Enemy, Captian Kimhilkad?" asked the King, who was ensconced in the middle of the space between the horns of the half-moon table, on a small golden throne that was kept in the fortress for his exclusive use. "Has the dog of Mordor sent any of his lackeys closer to our forces, now that we have disembarked here at Umbar? By now he must surely be aware of our presence."
"Beyond doubt he is aware of it, your Majesty" replied Kimhilkad, an aging bear of a man with a long, grey beard and hard brown eyes. "But it is odd. The last contact our scouts had with the Enemy's forces was on the day of your arrival. At that time his nearest armies were encamped a week's march north of here, beyond the Crossings of Harnen, guarding the road to the southern borders of the Black Land. Since your arrival, our scouts have not been able to locate any of Sauron's forces there. Still, I cannot imagine that the Enemy would completely abandon his southern marches, since they are the least mountainous and so the most vulnerable to invasion. At the most, it may be that they have withdrawn farther north into the western marches of Mordor, between the river Anduin and the Mountains of Shadow. That would allow them to attack our flank, as our army marches north into Mordor. In any case, the Enemy's forces have definitely not moved any closer to our armies here at Umbar."
"Doubtless the enemy's dogs are not eager to rush out and meet their doom" opined Ar-Pharazon. "Admiral Minastir!"
"Yes, my liege?"
"You will leave a small flotilla of your ships here at Umbar, to guard the harbour. Take the bulk of the fleet and sail in power north along the coast, until you reach the mouth of Anduin. Then sail north up the river, past Pelargir, and begin deploying your fleet along the Eastern banks of the Anduin, as far north as Cair Andros. Whenever you see any sign of the Enemy's forces, deploy your catapults against them. Douse them with burning pitch! We will turn the land between the river and the Mountains of Shadow into a sea of fire, from which Sauron's forces will have to flee. Meanwhile, our army shall march north under my command, to the Crossings of Harnen. We shall encamp there and observe the reaction of the Enemy. Those of the Enemy's armies that still lie across the Harnen, faced with raging fires and fleeing armies at their back, and an irresistible doom to their front, will be infected with panic. They will either flee, surrender, or if some be rash enough to fight they will be cut down by our Men! The way will then be open to us to march north, till we reach the wastes of Gorgoroth and stand before the Dark Tower."
"As you command, my liege, so it shall be done" saluted Minastir.
Ar-Pharazon, who had studiously ignored Elendil, then turned his attention to him. "Whelp! Look at your King when he is talking to you!" barked the King. Elendil's face flushed with humiliation at being addressed before the Nobles and Generals of Numenor as if he were still a boy.
"Since, despite your being past the age of thirty" said the Ar-Pharazon, "you have never proven your manhood in war, you are doubtless keen for an opportunity to do so. I will give you that opportunity. You will take command of the vanguard of our cavalry, and lead it as a scouting force to the Crossings of Harnen. You will venture north of the river, and seek out the enemy's forces. Ride as far north as the Mountains of Shadow, if you must, until you spy them from afar. When you have observed the course the Enemy's armies appear to taking - whether they are preparing to flee, to surrender, or to fight - you will then report back to me with that information."
Elendil was still burning under the shame of the King's earlier insult, yet his heart leapt with joy at the prospect before him. Command of an entire cavalry division, on a mission of great importance! He rose from his chair and saluted the King, right fist clenched in front of his left breast, in accordance with custom. "I am honoured, my liege" he said, in the loudest, deepest voice he could muster. "I shall not disappoint you."
"I trust not" replied the King, staring coolly at him, "for I will not brook failure in any of my servants. Now get you gone to the camp, and take command of your cavalry division! As for the rest of you, return to your posts. This council is adjourned. To victory! For Earendil and Numenor!" he shouted, standing up, drawing his sword and brandishing it, arm stretched out and rigid, toward the ceiling.
"To victory!" the Men before him shouted, likewise rising from their chairs and drawing their swords in reply. Then they sheathed their swords and went forth to issue commands to their soldiers.
As Elendil strode out of the room, Minastir caught up with him, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations my lad!" said Minastir. "May the Valar protect you!"
"Many thanks, Admiral" replied Elendil proudly.
"Twas the customary thing to say, to an officer newly granted his command. Still," cautioned Minastir with a grim smile, "offering my advice as an old soldier, you'd be well advised to rely first and foremost on your own sword for protection."
Elendil laughed. Yet he could not help feeling, for the first time, a trace of nervousness about his great adventure.
Eight days later found the vanguard of the Numenorean cavalry encamped some twenty miles north of the Crossings of Harnen. Riding hard, it had taken them only four days to reach the Harnen. South of the river, Elendil knew, the King's army had recently arrived, and was setting up a vast fortified encampment.
Elendil walked to the edge of his cavalry division's camp, and looked at the flat expanse of the brown, sunbaked lands about him, so unlike the lush, green mountains and plains of fair Numenor. Dry grasses stirred in the occasional hot breeze from the East, and the sweltering air shimmered with dust. A lonely falcon, far overhead, gave out a shrill cry. Strangely, although Elendil had longed for adventure abroad all his life, he now found himself missing his fair island home, though he had been parted from it for barely a month and a half.
Elendil's far-seeing eyes scanned the northern horizon. Out there, several of his lieutenants were leading small detachments of cavalry as scouts, trying to see if they could find any signs of the Enemy's forces. Elendil himself had led these scouting missions the previous three days, and had enjoyed them, but he felt it was wise to allow some action to his subordinate officers, rather than rushing to do everything himself with the eagerness of a neophyte.
His own scouting missions had turned up no sign of the Enemy's forces. For that matter, no one had seen any sign of Sauron's armies since the Numenorean fleet had disembarked at Umbar more than two weeks before. It was as if the Enemy's forces had turned tail and run at the first hint of the armada from Numenor.
"Has the Dark Lord lost his nerve?" wondered Elendil aloud, and he laughed at the thought.
"He has not lost his nerve, but he has come to his senses" said a high, clear voice behind him.
Elendil, startled, turned around, grasping for the hilt of his sword. How had anyone managed to creep up on him without his hearing or seeing them?
Before him stood a very tall Man, nearly seven feet from head to toe. He looked young, perhaps in his twenties or thirties. His eyes were a clear blue, his long hair jet black, his skin as white as marble, his lips ruby red. He was so fair of visage that he reminded Elendil of Gil-galad, High Elven-King of Lindon in the North-west of Middle Earth, whom Elendil had seen visiting his father's palace at Andunie years before. Indeed, but for the Man's round ears, he could easily be mistaken for an Elf. He was dressed in robes of white cloth, with a flowing cape of scarlet. He bore no weapon, or any adornment other than a golden ring on his right hand, inscribed with curiously glowing letters in Elvish script. Elendil briefly glanced at the script, which formed words that seemed to be barbarous gibberish, and not any proper language of Elves or Men.
Elendil was still staring in astonishment when the tall figure before him spoke again. "I see my presence here was not expected" the Man laughed, a pleasant sound like the ringing of silver bells. "But perhaps that is not surprising, is it, my young friend Elendil?"
"How do you know my name?" replied Elendil, his alarm resurging. "How did you approach me so silently, and unseen? Who are you, and where did you come from?"
"Ah, the inquisitiveness of youth" sighed the Man. "To answer your questions, I know many things, and can walk unseen and unheard if I wish. My name is Sauron of Mordor, and I am your prisoner."
Elendil's mouth dropped in astonishment. Sauron? This Man standing in front of him, who looked as fair as an Elf, and was dressed like a noble taking his leisure in one of the gardens of Armenelos, was the Dark Lord of Mordor? The Lord of Werewolves and Vampires in the days of old? The Right Hand of Morgoth, Dark Enemy of the World? And he had simply strolled up and surrendered himself without even a pretence of a fight?
"You jest" replied Elendil, frowning, though he could not hide his growing fear and amazement. He wondered if he should pinch himself, to see if he was dreaming.
"It is no jest, Elendil" said the Man in his clear, ringing voice. "I have seen your fleet and your army from afar, and know that your King, Ar-Pharazon the Golden, has come to wreak his vengeance upon me. Strong are my armies, and far is my reach, but it seems that for all my long years I am not as wise as I might wish. It was folly of me to challenge the power of Numenor, the Queen of the Seas, verily, the Queen of the all the Earth should she wish to be. I have always wanted nothing more than order and harmony in my realm. I would not needlessly sacrifice my loyal servants in a futile attempt to defend myself against the invincible army of the Men of the West! For their sake, and to preserve these lands from war, I surrender myself into your power, Elendil, so that you may bear me to your King. My fate is in his hands now."
Elendil still could not believe his ears. "You surrender to me because you are concerned for the welfare of your followers?" has asked. "Are you the same Sauron who severed the head of the King's cousin, and returned it in cruel mockery? I was not under the impression that the Dark Lord of Mordor was so compassionate."
"Oh yes, poor Lord Armeneltir" replied the Man, a look of consternation crossing his fair face. "I am afraid that was an unfortunate misunderstanding. Your ambassador spoke proudly, but some of my Orc servants are not as patient as I am. They were so offended by his haughty words, they struck off his head without warning, and dragged his body away before I could stop them. They slew his bodyguard as well."
"Indeed," continued the Man, "Orcs are not the most reliable of servants. I returned what was left of the poor man to your city of Pelargir as a peace offering to your King, but it appears my actions were misinterpreted. And now His Majesty will have his revenge against me."
"Say you so?" replied Elendil. His heart warned him that the Man's words were a ridiculous pack of lies. Yet his mind, which felt dimmed as if by a fog, was beginning to believe that everything the Man had said in that clear, soothing voice was eminently reasonable and sound. Moreover, neither Elendil's heart nor his mind could resist the growing conviction that, though it seemed incredible, this truly was Sauron who stood before him, and that his desire to surrender was utterly sincere.
The Man – was he a Man? – no, the Thing smiled. "But let us not stand here and engage in idle banter all evening, my young friend" he said, in that clear, ringing voice. He thrust two pale, slender wrists out before Elendil. "Bind my hands, and take me as prisoner to your King."
As if in a dream, Elendil watched himself take a length of rope that hung from his belt, firmly but gently bind the creature's hands, and lead him into the camp...
On the golden throne that he carried with him on campaign, King Ar-Pharazon sat in his tent of cloth of gold and blue, in his camp just south of the Crossings of Harnen. The King was wearing armour of gold and silver, and was wrapped in a magnificent black cape of velvet, bearing the White Tree design of Numenor stiched on it in silk. Notwithstanding his royal dignity, he openly gloated at the scene before him.
Stretched flat on the ground, with the boot of a black-tunic'd soldier placed none too gently on the back of his slender neck, was Sauron of Mordor! The so-called Dark Lord of the World, humbled and humiliated at the feet of Ar-Pharazon the Golden, Lord of the Seas and King of Men! And all without the craven worm-heap Sauron putting-up even the pretence of a fight. He had simply surrendered to that whelp, Elendil, and then Elendil had dragged him back to the King's camp!
Initally, the King had been very skeptical. The one claiming to be Sauron had offered him a pack of lies to excuse the murder of Lord Armeneltir and his bodyguards. The weak-minded fools who purported to be the King's Generals had actually seemed to believe the excuses, although Ar-Pharazon himself was not so gullible. He knew that Sauron was a liar and a murderer, and he was highly suspicious of this supposed surrender. How did he know that the one before him was not a decoy, and that the real Sauron was not leading his armies towards the camp at that very moment?
Yet as the King listed to the prisoner apologize for his negligence, and place himself at the Royal mercy, Ar-Pharazon became increasingly convinced that this was indeed Sauron sprawled in the dust before him. For one thing, during his interrogation, the prisoner had mentioned many ancient events, and made many curious references to arcane and esoteric topics, with which only a great master of lore could have been familiar. It had soon become clear that the creature's mastery of lore far surpassed even his own, and Ar-Pharazon had one-and-a-half centuries of learning under his belt. Since all those living Men who served the Dark Tower were barbarians – and the invisible Black Riders who served the Dark One were hardly capable of impersonating living Men – the King knew that even an imposter in the service of Mordor could not possibly have gained a mastery of lore that surpassed his own, no matter how long he had been trained for such a mission.
Moreover, the one who called himself Sauron was as fair as any Man the King had ever seen, and he knew that Sauron had assumed a fair form for as long as Men could remember. In fact, the creature seemed to have uncanny powers of physical regeneration. The King's guards had flogged the creature's marble-white skin all day, and given him several severe beatings, enough to kill an ordinary Man. Each time, the creature's injuries had healed within minutes, and he had looked as fair as when he had walked into the King's camp. Clearly, no ordinary, mortal Man could accomplish such a feat.
Yet it had not been any one of these things that had led the King to conclude, beyond any doubt, that the fair-seeming one before him was Sauron himself. Ultimately, it had been the inmost promptings of his heart, as well the rational arguments of his mind, that told him that the Dark One had truly surrendered to him without a fight, and was now his prisoner.
For this surrender proved to Ar-Pharazon what he had known in his heart all along. He was indeed even more powerful than he had dared believe himself to be! Was not this surrender proof of his own omnipotence, his excellence, his destiny? Had he not always, in his heart, known himself to be so powerful, so irresistible?
Even Sauron of Mordor knew that it was true, that Ar-Pharazon the Golden was invincible! That was why the cowardly wretch had surrendered himself to the King and placed himself at his mercy, rather than making a desperate last stand! Sauron had driven the armies of the accursed Elves before him, had insulted the King from the safety of his Dark Tower, but when the King moved against him in righteous might Sauron did not dare to risk open war against the Heir of Earendil the Mariner! The foul creature must have recognized that throwing himself on the King's mercy before war began was his only hope for survival.
Ar-Pharazon had fully planned to have Sauron executed, once he had inflicted sufficient pain and humiliation on him. A sharp axe and a chopping block should get the job done, if nothing else would. Yet, for all Sauron's cowardice, there was something about the wretch, now that the King had seen him in person, which he found strangely alluring. Was it that clear, golden voice, which so fairly acknowledged Ar-Pharazon as Lord of the Seas and of the Earth? Was it the fact that a being as ancient and wise as Sauron recognized Ar-Pharazon's innate superiority, his destiny, when the lofty Elves and his own treacherous nobles would not?
The latter Ar-Pharazon had long resented in particular. He knew that they grumbled behind his back about how he had seized the throne by force, and sneered about how he had married his first cousin the Queen, against the laws of Numenor. The lopping-off of a few swollen noble heads had reduced the grumbling, but not eliminated it entirely. Behind his back, Ar-Pharazon knew, his own nobles mocked him. How he burned with anger at the thought! If only he could prove his worth to them...
He turned his attention back to the prisoner at his feet. "Guard, release your foot from the prisoner's neck!" barked the King. The guard did so at once, but Sauron did not rise. He remained sprawled face down in the dirt, the very image of defeat and humiliation.
"Dog of Mordor!" said the King. "Hear me well. You have broken the ancient law that the person of an Ambassador is inviolate. Moreover, you have murdered my cousin Armeneltir, and his bodyguards, in cold blood. For these things alone, you deserve sentence of death, and your execution would be a just thing indeed."
Sauron remained prostrate and silent. Ar-Pharazon smiled. "But a King must know when to dispense the royal prerogative of mercy, as well as administer justice. I am of a mind to offer you mercy, in spite of your crimes. Approach my throne, take my right hand, kiss my signet ring, and swear your loyalty and obedience to me, and to any heirs I may produce. Do this, and I will commute your sentence of death to imprisonment for life, which I dare say in your case is forever, in the Palace of Armenelos in Numenor."
Without fully rising, Sauron crawled towards the King's throne. Without looking up, he took the King's outstretched hand, and kissed his signet ring. Then he said "King Ar-Pharazon the Golden, Lord of the Sea and the Earth, is both wise and fair. I, Sauron of Mordor, am proud to swear fealty to him and to his heirs."
"It is done!" said the King, who stood up, exultant. "Arise, my vassal!"
Sauron stood up. The scratches and bruises from his latest beating were once again rapidly healing.
Ar-Pharazon, his silver-bearded face beaming, his blue eyes shining keenly, looked at his prisoner. Here was a prize of which the most powerful Kings of old had not even dreamed! An ancient, immortal being of legend, and one who recognized Ar-Pharazon the Golden as his lord and master! Nay, as lord and master of all the seas and lands of Earth! What nobleman of Numenor would dare to laugh at him behind his back again, after seeing the infamous Sauron of Mordor humbling himself before the King? Truly, thought Ar-Pharazon, his triumph, his revenge, would be sweet.
While the King was in his reverie, Sauron permitted the trace of a smile to cross his lips.