CHAPTER XXIV: Greagoir's Great Escape
For the first time in his brief career as a scribeling, it was Tatya now who insisted that Greagoir cease his recitation. Tatya's alarm for his master's deteriorating state grew by the hour. The old man's skin was sallow, with a sunken gray cast about his lidded, staring eyes, and his breath came and went in shallow heaves. It was as if the tale itself was sapping the master's spirit. Too weak to protest, Greagoir meekly allowed Tatya to guide him to his bed. Tatya reverently placed a coverlet over his master, and begged him to get some rest; but only after the briefest of respites, Greagoir's inherent stubbornness again came to the fore, and he demanded in no uncertain terms that Tatya fetch his quill and parchment so that the story might continue.
When Tatya became indignant and started to protest, Greagoir merely replied, "Humor me just this once, dear Tatya, there will be time enough for rest once I have done with these recollections."
Tatya acquiesced begrudgingly, but would not allow his master to rise from his bed; instead, (and to the master's great consternation) Tatya propped Greagoir up with a bolster of blankets, and took recitations at his bedside. After a good deal of grumbling, Greagoir sighed, "Surprisingly, my escape from Bajazet was aided by the sudden defensive stance of the city." Greagoir offered a reflective shrug and then continued the tale in earnest:
It became obvious that the Lord of Mordor had fully expected a negative response to his demands, and had already encamped his armies somewhere south upon the plains of Hildor. Soon there was such an influx of frightened tribesmen fleeing from the oncoming legions of Mordor, great comings and goings of troops, and a burgeoning crowd of petitioners within the palace itself, that my limited movement as an enslaved scribe to the Hierophant went relatively unnoticed. Given greater freedom to move about the great halls, I quickly mapped out a means of escape. Obviously, a chance misstep meant certain execution for this prodigal prisoner (the Hierophant in no sense was a forgiving man), but I was intent on taking my leave as soon as practicable.
The opportunity presented itself when the first wave of assaults struck Bajazet from the south. The Lord of Mordor had wisely chosen not to storm the citadel directly, given the improbability of success against such an impenetrable bastion. Nay, Urzahil of Umbar -- called the Deathless and Mouth of Sauron -- planned for a permanent state of siege against the desert city-state, destroying the commerce that was the life's blood of Bajazet by severing the arteries by which its sustenance flowed – the trade routes. No mean feat was this undertaking, for the logistics of such an all-encompassing enterprise was daunting to any but the most powerful and ruthless of lords; and in the Fourth Age of Man, none but Urzahil had such a will to dominate and the means to see such a task accomplished.
If I were a braggart, I suppose I would say my plan of escape was audacious and bold; however, in retrospect it was merely rash, decidedly fortunate and relatively easy. During a particularly heavy evening of bombardment (although Mordor's armies did not attack the walls directly, their investment included a nightly pounding from arbalest, catapult and other Orkish modes of siegecraft), I merely walked away from the palace, unheeded and unrecognized. Granted, I stole a uniform from a wounded soldier (who lay abed and had no current use for it), and with forged documents (supplied, of course, by my own hand), I simply requisitioned a horse and rode freely through Bajazet, making for the north gates.
With only a modicum of scrutiny from the listless guards (and assisted greatly by their illiteracy), I passed under the great northern archway with its twin portcullises (which alone of the five principal gateways now offered egress from the embattled city). Making my way down the steeply circuitous path from the plateau, I guided my mount by its reins rather than sitting astride the steed due to my ill ease over the vertiginous drop-off. But just as I was congratulating myself on the relative ease of my flight from Bajazet, fortune deigned to deliver one last blow to my vanity. As the path descended, it wound in a sharp angle to the right and away from the view of the gate wardens. The night sky was ablaze with a myriad stars, allowing me to pick my way downward slowly but surely toward the desert floor; yet even as the anonymity of the desert beckoned and I reached the end of the path, there was a certain scent of unease in the air, or perhaps stench would be a better description. I caught the distinct odor of rotten peas malingering on the vague desert breeze.
The horrid recollection of the smell coincided with a sudden jarring collision, as an unseen assailant sent me sprawling. Disoriented, I groggily attempted to rise from the desert sand, but a knife gleamed dully before my face while the full weight of my oppressor landed fully upon my chest.
"We meet again, eh scribe?" a disembodied voice hissed in the darkness beyond the knife. "Only death can come between us, you and I. But you did not kill me out in desert when you had a chance; now death comes for you."
There was no need for a reply. As my sight became accustomed to the scant light, I beheld the beastly yellow eyes of Marfach-Suil glaring menacingly down upon me from the shadows. He had escaped a public hanging, a knife-wound, a voracious were-worm and the merciless desert itself to find me once more. If it were anyone else, I would have found his persistence admirable; in this case, however, my considerations were not the least inclined towards admiration.
"What, no flowery speech from great scribe?" Marfach mocked. "No jokes for poor old Marfach, eh? I have seen your tricks, scribe, but I fall for them no more. You shall pay for what you did to Marfach -- pay in gold and death!"
Although Marfach's blade pricked my throat, I smiled inwardly. Even now, after all the insults and injury I had rendered unto him, Marfach's greed outweighed his need for quick and final revenge. Since he had not killed me outright (as I certainly expected), it seemed I still had a slim chance of escape. "And what will you do now that you have me at last, Marfach?" I sighed in feigned resignation. "What grand scheme will satisfy your need for vengeance against me?"
In reply, he offered a wicked backhand slap across my mouth. "No schemes or ransoms!" he growled, "no long wait for gold this time! I sell you back to Hierophant for reward! You are escaped slave and for that you die!" He chuckled slyly under his breath and added, "And I take back the great black pearl you stole from me in the desert!"
The mention of the pearl steeled my fortitude. I must get back to Leannan, no matter the consequence. Marfach grabbed me by the hair and dragged me up to my knees. As he bound my hands, I caught sight of a strange series of lights -- like dancing candles rising from the dunes to the west. As they grew closer and more intense, I whispered to Marfach, "Your intention may be to bring me back to Bajazet, but I don't think they'll let you."
The rapidly oncoming glow of thousands of torches kindled the desert sands to a ruddy sheen. The armies of Mordor, it seemed, were preparing a night sortie against Bajazet's northern gates. Marfach snarled and cursed at the capricious whims of war and the necessity for an abrupt change in plans, as it was obvious the forward elements of the sortie were already too close for us to escape back up the causeway. He then quickly tied a rope around my neck, and fastened the other end to the pommel of my horse's saddle, which he promptly mounted, dragging me off eastward at a brisk pace.
And so for a third time in my brief career I was a prisoner of that malodorous miscreant, Marfach-Suil; but to put a fortunate spin on an unfortunate situation, I was at least heading in the right direction. We traveled quite a long way through the desert that night -- for miles it seemed -- and only stopped when Marfach was certain both he and his prize were out of harm's way (an uncanny knack seemingly inherent in thieves of Marfach's dubious stature). That he knew this arid and forsaken region like the back of his hand was evident as well, for we spent the waning hours of the night in an abandoned (or at least currently unused) encampment of Marfach's thievish tribe. The thieves' camp was a squalid affair, littered with bones, broken jars and clay pots, and the strata of refuse piled in flagrant neglect over countless seasons of brigandage. For all of its resemblance to an offal pit, the camp was strategically placed, having a small well, and hidden from prying eyes by rocky outcroppings on three sides that were also proof against the unforgiving desert sun, offering continuous shade throughout the hottest part of the day.
Marfach rifled through my saddlebags and made himself a meal and judiciously fed the horse as well (since I was to be executed soon, he had already decided the steed was his). In an effort to taunt me further, he waved Leannan's black pearl in my face, and then carefully placed it in one of the saddlebags for safekeeping, patting the bag and smirking at me in mocking satisfaction. As an afterthought, he was gracious enough to offer me water; after all, it would me much more difficult to transport me if I died of heatstroke. He then stared at me silently for some time -- which was of course unnerving, what with those feral amber eyes of his -- but I had no interest in striking up a conversation, even though sitting tied up in the middle of a desert is perhaps the most tedious situation one can imagine.
After an indeterminate amount of time, Marfach stood up from his predatory crouch and gazed at the sky along the hazy eastern horizon. "We stay here for now," he grunted, "until storm passes. Storm will drive Orcs from the Northern Gates, then we go back to Bajazet."
"I have never heard it said that Orcs minded a little rain," I replied out of boredom. "What makes you think this storm will drive the Orcs away?"
Marfach grinned, showing his fetid teeth. "Rain?" he said scornfully. "No rain in desert. This is sand storm. Wind howls and sand bites like needles. It rips flesh off horses and men."
"Bloody wonderful," I grumbled, and then settled back into silence, deciding it far more interesting to watch the oncoming storm than engaging in any further dialogue with my cretinous captor.
Great sand storms in the desert are awesome phenomena to behold – from afar. The formless horizon beyond the dunes begins to undulate in waves of heat and wind. Soon there is neither horizon nor sky, there is only sand: great flails and funnels and fuming gusts of brown and gold -- a dark and shining chiaroscuro as the retreating sun's bleak beams seek a fragile foothold in the revolving chaos. Then the burgeoning storm blots out all light like a monstrous moving wall of granular night, and from the seething midst of the maelstrom rise fell voices of malevolent spirits howling and shrieking as they ride the whirlwind, driving onwards in furious abandon, intent on obliterating all living things in their primal rage.
Terror-stricken, I leaned back against the ragged outcropping for support, but sliced my hand on a jagged shard of pottery jutting from the sand. I gasped at the sudden shooting pain, but my outburst was muffled by the bitter wind swirling in the gully. Marfach also failed to hear my cry as he was busily attending to the horse, nor did he notice that I was feverishly grating my wrists against the shard, trying desperately to fray my bonds. In another moment, I would have freed myself, but the full force of the storm smote the thieves' camp with a vehemence that stole my very breath. Sputtering and blinded, I lurched to my side in a vain effort to rise from my prone position, which proved difficult as my hands were still bound behind me and the sand gave little purchase for my floundering feet; yet Marfach managed to stagger over to me and half-dragged me to the far end of the camp. There the standing rock acted as a windscreen that mitigated the harshest aspects of the storm.
Unbeknownst to Marfach, his rough handling in our struggle to reach shelter had finally caused my bonds to break. Now, I am not a violent man necessarily, nor did I bear any particular ill will against Marfach-Suil at that point in time; as a matter of fact, I was really feeling rather sorry for him in a way. He was an inveterate gamesman who always gambled everything on one alluring bet after another, but the grand prize forever eluded him. He could smell it, touch it, taste it – but he was an unfortunate man in a game where good fortune was everything. I hefted a large rock in my hand. "Better luck next time!" I whispered with a shrug, and bashed him as hard as I could on the side of his head. He dropped like a stone.
Odd as it may seem, the storm instantly stopped in so inexplicable a manner I would have likened it to a brewer suddenly turning off a beer barrel's spigot halfway through pouring a pint of porter. It became eerily silent save for a continuous, nearly inaudible moan. The sky was a preternatural shade of hazy yellow the color of sand, as if the atmosphere was permanently tainted by the desert. I scrambled up the rocky slope to get my bearings, and was astounded at what I saw. The virulent storm had not stopped; indeed, I was surrounded by it on all four sides – the desert rearing up great ethereal mountains of dust in all directions. I attributed the phenomenon to tales I had heard from seafarers describing hurricanes on the Eastern Sea – what they referred to as the 'eye of the storm'. Realizing then that the storm would soon resume unabated, I turned to clamber back down to the safety of the thieves' camp, but my way was barred.
There stood Marfach-Suil, his head and neck covered with blood and his dagger poised for a killing thrust. "You…you…," he growled with inchoate fury, his face grimacing maniacally in alternating bouts of pain and rage. "I kill you here, scribe," he panted groggily, still reeling from the savage blow I had given him, "no more I wait...I have my revenge now!"
His brazen blade swept toward me just as the storm hit.