The Ransom Note

Now that they had captured a hostage, Arathorn had to deliver the ransom note, but he had absolutely no idea how to do it. "We could walk up to the gates of Dol Guldur under a flag of truce and knock, but I don't have a death wish," he said.

"It's too bad the creature's horse didn't return to Dol Guldur without its rider. Then we wouldn't need to deliver a ransom note," said Mallor."

Arathorn disagreed. An empty saddle meant nothing. The rider usually showed up a few hours later, ill-tempered and covered with mud.

"We could release the horse with a ransom note in its saddlebags," said Dírhaborn.

"What it they don't find the note right away?" asked Mallor.

"They will, if we send it with the creature's robes and weapons. And that will prove we have the rider," Arathorn said. The others agreed.

Arathorn called for parchment and ink.

You have one of our people. We have one of yours. I suggest a trade. Meet me on the Sirith Bridge at noon tomorrow.[1]

The Sirith Bridge was on the road between here Dol Guldur, accessible to both sides. More important, it was in a narrow, heavily wooded gorge, easy to defend in daylight.

Arathorn wished the trade could take place today, but almost a day was required just to exchange messages. If the riderless horse arrived at Dol Guldur late in the afternoon, and the Enemy left his reply on the bridge during the night, a Ranger could collect it at sunrise. Noon tomorrow was the best plan he could think of.

He picked up his pen and started to add,

Send a reply to the fort at Sarn Cardh.

but decided it would be unwise to tell the Enemy where they were, or more to the point, where they were holding the prisoner. Instead, he wrote

Leave your answer on the Sirith Bridge, and we will find it.

He folded the letter and addressed it to,"The Necromancer of Dol Guldur", Sauron's title. He tied the folded parchment with a string, and dripped wax on the knot to seal it.

The clop clop of horses' hooves echoed in the yard. Mallor was leading two horses, his own bay and a coal black horse. A bundle of black fabric was tied to its saddle, with a sword and dagger tucked under the ropes holding the bundle in place.

Arathorn went outside and joined Mallor in the yard. While Mallor held the reins, Arathorn waved the letter back and forth to harden the wax, and pushed it into the center of the bundle.

"Get as close to Dol Guldur as you can, and release the horse within sight of the fortress," he told Mallor.

Mallor nodded. One of the men-at-arms opened the gate, and he kicked the bay to a gallop. The black horse followed on its lead line. They took the road east, towards Dol Guldur. Arathorn watched the road until the dust raised by the two horses was no longer visible.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Khamûl leaned against the wall and stared into the darkness. He didn't know where he was.

The sticky substance glued his clothes to his body. His skin itched as it dried, and whenever he moved, the fumes from pine resin make his eyes water.

His shoulder ached from hitting the ground and the back his head throbbed in time to his pulse. When he touched the place that hurt he felt a lump the size of a river stone, and his hand came away streaked with blood. Wonderful.

He called silently to his Master, I am here, I am here, I am here. There was no reply.

The wall across from his prison was piled high with barrels, and in the middle of the room, there was a stone structure with an iron grid over it; it looked like a well. Every stronghold was the same; the storerooms were filled with provisions against the day it was besieged.

When Khamûl was knocked from the saddle, he thought his assailants were robbers, but ordinary highwaymen wouldn't have the use of a stronghold like this.

But Rangers might. The Rangers were a volunteer force who roamed the woods in small bands. They were formidable enemies who could take on companies of Orcs far larger than themselves. He didn't know how simple yeoman acquired such skill as archers and swordsmen, unless, as Sauron believed, they were professional warriors descended from the Kings of Arnor.

Khamûl had seen Rangers in the woods before. Usually they avoided him, so why did they attack him today, and why did they take him prisoner? Obviously they wanted him alive. That's what their leader said, anyway.

They must want him for what he knew. Sauron confided in him, and over time, Khamûl came to know much of his Master's secret plans and intentions.

Khamûl thought about what he could give up under interrogation without harming his Master. Their most carefully guarded secret, Sauron's false identity as the Necromancer, had been exposed thirty years ago. Khamûl could admit to that under questioning, if he had to.

Furthermore, the Rangers must already know the layout of Dol Guldur. Sauron abandoned it once, centuries ago when the Valar came looking for him. While he was away, anyone could have gotten into the fortress and explored it at leisure. Khamûl could reveal details about the fortifications without telling them anything they didn't already know.

Except that his Master might think it disloyal, and that was something Sauron would never forgive. That left Khamûl with only one course of action, and it wasn't going to be pleasant. Whatever the Rangers did to him, he wasn't going to talk.

The Rangers hadn't tried to question him yet, and he wanted to put it off as long as possible. When he woke up in this tiny cell, he pretended to be deaf, and turned his face to the wall when they spoke to him. Soon, they stopped addressing him directly and spoke only among themselves. Khamûl hoped to keep it that way.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Mairon Artano stood at a window in the highest tower in Dol Guldur, far above the tree canopy of Southern Mirkwood. From this great height, he could see beyond the edge of Southern Mirkwood, across the River Anduin all the way to the edge of Lothlorian, the ancient elvish stronghold.

He was watching the road leading to the fortress. It was mid-afternoon, and Khamûl hadn't yet returned from morning patrol, but Mairon wasn't really worried yet. Twenty years ago, Khamûl was seriously injured when his horse slipped and fell on the shale slopes, an area of loose rock with unstable footing,[2] but he didn't ride across the shale slopes anymore, and nowhere else along his route was as dangerous.

Mairon's eyes were on the forest, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The Valar knew where he was. Mairon couldn't understand why they hadn't attacked yet. They were planning something, but he didn't know what it was.

On that terrible day when Melkor fell, the remnants of his people fled before the Host of the Valar, who hunted them down like dogs. Mairon no longer cared what happened to him, so he walked into the enemy camp and surrendered. He was told to appear for judgment and then released. Mairon had meant to stand trial at first, but he'd put it off for a day, and then another, until he realized it wasn't going to happen. He'd lived as a fugitive ever since.

Mairon had avoided capture so far, but the false identity that sheltered him for two thousand years was ripped away when Olórin got into Dol Guldur and recognized him. Olórin was a spy for the Valar. Once he knew where Mairon was hiding, the Valar knew, and could come for him at any time.

It was a disaster. Mairon, who had been horribly injured at the end of the Second Age, was still too weak to defend himself. If they came for him now, he was finished.

He watched the forest for signs of danger, but days became weeks, weeks became years, and nothing happened. Seventy years later, he still kept a vigil, but the Host of Valar had not yet smashed in his gates, and he had not yet been brought before the Council of Valar and forced to listen as the charges against him were read, except in the dreams that came to him night after night.

He was distracted by a commotion in the lower courtyard. A sentry on the wall pointed towards the road. The Main Gate opened; one of the guards went outside and came back leading a horse by the reins. There was shouting and the clattering of hooves, faint and far away at this height. He couldn't see what was happening; the wall between the upper and lower courtyards blocked his view.

"We have to tell Sauron," someone said.

A minute later, footsteps pounded up the stairs built into the wall of the Keep. Judging from the weight of the tread, it must be one of the men-at-arms.

Mairon reached for something to cover his face before the man arrived, then tossed it aside. Why bother, when his identity as the Necromancer had been unmasked. Everyone in Arda knew who he was: from the Valar, to the Rangers in the forest, to the servants in his own kitchens and the soldiers in the guardroom.

The man reached the upper level of the keep and knocked on the door of Mairon's room, even though it was open.

"Lord Sauron!" he shouted, out of breath.

Mairon ignored him. He refused to answer to that name, even though he was seldom called anything else.

"I mean, Lord Zigûr. Zigûr is Black Speech for Wizard"

Mairon looked up.

"Number Two, that is to say, Lord Khamûl's horse came back without its rider. His robes and weapons are tied to the saddle."

Mairon shoved him out of the way and raced down three flights of stairs, emerging in the sunlight of the upper courtyard. The horse was Shadow, Khamûl's mount. The robes and weapons ties to the saddle were Khamûl's as well. The dagger was a Morgul blade, Mairon had made it himself.

A man-at-arms handed him a note addressed to the Necromancer of Dol Guldur. Mairon broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

You have one of our people. We have one of yours. I suggest a trade. Let's meet on the Sirith Bridge at noon tomorrow.

It was a ransom note. It took Mairon a moment to figure out who they meant by "one of our people" until he remembered the poor unfortunate who'd wandered too close to the fortress the previous day and been detained for questioning.

It happened often enough. Usually it was someone from a local village, gathering mushrooms or hunting deer, but occasionally it was a spy. They still hadn't figured out which of those this most recent one was, even though they'd been questioning him for more than a day.

The terms of the note seemed reasonable, and Mairon's first impulse was to accept. But something about it wasn't right; it seemed too good to be true.

The trade was uneven. Khamûl was a great lord, and the other man was a nobody. But even had they been equals, Khamûl wore a ring that made him immortal. That ring was worth more than anything Mairon currently owned, and Mairon was desperate to get it back.

Khamûl's ransom should have been staggeringly high: his weight in gold perhaps, or even the surrender of Dol Guldur. Why were they asking such a low price?

Mairon read the note a second time. It seemed to require that he be physically present when the exchange took place. Did it really mean that? The note was addressed to him personally, and it said "Let's meet". But why would it matter if he was there? Did they think that one of the Rangers could defeat him in single combat? They were just Rangers, they couldn't hope to take him on.

The hair rose on the back of his neck. It was a trap. What had happened in Umbar was never, ever going to happen again.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Late in the Second Age, Ar-Pharazôn challenged him for his title, Lord of the Earth. The Númenorian king's forces had been so overwhelming that when Mordor's army saw them, they dropped their weapons and fled.

Ar-Pharazôn had summoned Mairon to Umbar, where he forced him to kneel before him and swear an oath never to take up arms against him. It had been humiliating, but Mairon did it to preserve his realm. Afterwards, Mairon was to return to Mordor, where he and his armies would be required to stay within his own borders.

But when Mairon got up to leave, Ar-Pharazôn ordered him arrested. Mairon protested, but Ar-Pharazôn's men seized him, and he was marched through the streets of Umbar in chains to a ship waiting in the harbor. It would be over fifty years before he regained his freedom.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Mairon already knew the Rangers were in alliance with the Noldor Elves, who themselves served the Valar. It was possible the Rangers, in conspiracy with the Elves, were trying to lure him out in the open where he could be captured and turned over to the Valar.

The Rangers were descended from the same ancestors as Ar-Pharazôn, and Mairon didn't like them any better for it.

[1] sirith = flowing stream

[2] see "The Flight from Dol Guldur", Chapter 5, The Perimeter