The Decoy
Arathorn stood in the palisade yard before a dozen men, his Rangers and the men-at-arms who guarded the fort. He chose his words carefully.
"We need to prepare for an attack. Bailiff, how many men can you station on the east palisade wall?" Arathorn said.
"Four or five," said the Bailiff.
Arathorn frowned. It wasn't enough, not even close.
"Mallor, ride out to the surrounding villages and gather as many farmers as you can. Have them bring axes or scythes, anything that looks like a weapon. And have them carry the lids of barrels. From a distance, barrel lids can look like shields." he said.
Mallor nodded, and headed for the stables.
"Dírhaborn, make a dozen scarecrows and dress them like soldiers wearing helms and surcoats. Position them on the east palisade wall, and prop spears beside them," said Arathorn.
"I don't have enough helms," said the Bailiff.
"Dírhaborn, make something helm-shaped out of leather or felt. They don't have to be strong, they just has to be the right shape," said Arathorn.
"Won't the Enemy know they're scarecrows?" asked the Bailiff.
"Not in the later afternoon, when all they'll see is a black outline with the sun behind it. If we put a few real men-at-arms among them, moving naturally, the whole fake garrison will look real," Arathorn said.
-o-o-o-o-o-
Khamûl lay on the dirt floor. His hair felt like tarred rope. Dampness from the ground had soaked into his clothes, but he no longer cared. He was so hungry, he felt faint. When he heard footsteps on the stairs, he didn't bother to lift his head.
"The creature isn't doing well. It's listless and unresponsive," said the first voice.
"I shouldn't have kicked it so hard. It has to stay healthy, or we'll have nothing to trade," said the second.
Trade? They didn't want him for what he knew; they wanted to trade him for something?
"They're outdoors most of the time. I wonder if it's bad for them to be cooped up," said the first voice.
"Or maybe if they're away from evil places too long, they start to fade," said the second.
Khamûl raised himself up on one elbow. "Or maybe nobody remembered to feed him. Did you ever think of that?" he said.
They backed away. One of them was halfway up the stairs before the others pulled him back.
"You could bring me some water, while you're at it," said Khamûl.
They filled a leather tankard from the well in the middle of the room and gave it to him. He'd meant to sip a little and save the rest for later, but he drank the whole thing in one long swallow. When the tankard was empty, he handed it back.
"More," he said. They filled the tankard again and gave it back to him. He drained it a second time, and told them he was hungry.
"I didn't realize you needed to feed. But we can't give you human blood. You understand that, don't you? But I can get you cow's blood, maybe," said the Bailiff.
"I want bread and butter, and an apple," said Khamûl. "And water to drink, or tea, if you have it."
-o-o-o-o-o-
"Lord Zigûr?"
Mairon looked up from the map in front of him. Uvatha bowed and gave his report.
"As you recall, this morning we estimated the strength of the garrison at Sarn Cardh to be ten to twelve men," he said.
That was typical of small forts, and it agreed with what the Ranger spy had told them, once he had begun to talk.
"However, late this afternoon, I counted over forty men on the walls. Soon after, another group of ten, heavily armed and carrying shields, arrived at the fort," Uvatha said.
Typically, a fortification gave the defenders a ten-to-one advantage over the attackers. Mairon had planned to send a hundred Orcs against the fort, now it appeared that he needed at least five hundred. He had three hundred and fifty at the most. If this report was true, the raid on the fort could not proceed, at least not as originally planned. And if the raid was canceled, he couldn't rescue Khamûl. Mairon closed his eyes and cursed.
Mairon made a decision. "The raid is off."
Uvatha's face was still. He said nothing, except in his own thoughts.
Are you sure it was just your finger they cut off?
"I heard that!" said Mairon.
-o-o-o-o-o-
The cell door rattled. Halbaron looked up, not caring that his face was wet. There were two of them. They took him by the arms, pulled him upright, and undid the irons.
They led him down the hall. He walked carefully, with his knees apart, and kept his eyes on the floor in front of him. They entered the chamber with the terrifying machinery. Halbaron couldn't do that again, he just couldn't. He began to weep openly.
The guards took him to the interrogation room and sat him on the stool. Two interrogators were sitting across the table, waiting. The guards who brought him in pushed him onto the low stool across from them.
"There was a problem with one of the things you told us earlier. You said something that wasn't quite true. Would you like to try again?" said the first interrogator.
"What question?" asked Halbaron. He bowed his head. He just wanted this to be over.
"I think you know which one. Let's not play games," said the interrogator. There was a long silence. "Let's start from the beginning. What's your name?"
"Halbaron son of Amarion," said Halbaron.
"Who do you serve?"
"Arathorn, Captain of Rangers."
"Tell me about the fort at Sarn Cardh," said the interrogator.
"A stone tower of three rooms, stacked one on top of another. A wooden palisade around it, with a wooden gate in front." Sarn Cardh was no different from any other small fort. There was no harm in telling them about it.
"How long could they withstand a siege?"
"Two weeks, maybe."
"Are there any secret entrances?"
"A nearly invisible postern door, hidden in the back." They must have caught him in the lie. His mouth went dry.
"How many men defend the fort?"
"Ten or twelve." Halbaron didn't know that one either. He had no role in the defense of the fort. He'd only been there to eat and sleep, and last time was several months ago.
"That's not what you said earlier. I don't like being lied to. Let's try again. How many men man the fort?" said the interrogator.
"I don't know," Halbaron said. He had nothing left to give.
"There's a lot you don't know. I think it's time to go to the next step," said the interrogator. He spoke in a quiet, silky tone which Halbaron found more threatening than the angry shouting from before.
Halbaron hung his head. He just wanted it to stop.
A black-clad creature was watching from the doorway, its face invisible beneath the hood of its cloak. The wraith beckoned the interrogator to come outside. He sighed, and followed the creature out into the hall. A heated discussion followed, with arm waving on both sides. The interrogator said, "Who ordered this?"
The interrogator stomped back into the room and said to his assistant, "That's all for now." He turned to the Orc guards, "Take him back to the cells."
-o-o-o-o-o-
Mairon leaned against the side of the window frame and looked over the forest of Mirkwood, now cloaked in darkness. Then he stood bolt upright, listening. The thoughts of his servant came through so clearly, Mairon could make out the individual words.
"They need … me healthy … trade..."
Mairon saw the same images as before, stone walls and iron gratings. He had the impression his servant hadn't been harmed, and that he was no longer being starved. Perhaps they really did want to trade Khamûl for the spy, and they weren't just use Khamûl as bait. In that were so, the trade was back on the table.
Mairon cringed when he remembered the letter he'd written rejecting their original offer. He'd lied about Khamûl's value, then mocked them by asking exorbitant terms for their man. Soon he would receive the Rangers' reply. He dreaded what it would say.
They would almost certainly come back and ask for Khamûl's true value, and Mairon had no one to blame but himself. If they asked for gold, he would give them all the gold he had, although it was only a few handfuls. If they asked him to surrender the fortress … Mairon bit his lip, thinking. He didn't want to, but he was willing to do it.
He paced back and forth. A lamp burned in the room below, and through the cracks between the floorboards, he could see leather-bound books and expensive carpets, along with the oak chairs where his Steward and Purser sat when they gave their reports on business concerning the fortress.
It was too soon to return to Mordor. Mairon was still weak, and in no condition to stand up to the forces of Gondor. Instead, he would go north to Arnor to look for Isildur's heir.
Isildur took the Ring from Mairon at the end of the Second Age, and was last seen traveling home to Arnor with the Ring on a chain around his neck. It would be an heirloom of his house now, and might still be in Arnor. Long ago, Mairon sent the High Nazgûl north to look for it. His most powerful servant established a base in the north, the Witch Realm of Angmar, but the search for the Ring was interrupted when they lost the Battle of Fornost and the Witch Realm had to be abandoned.
Mairon thought about practical matters. What they would take with them? The gold, the horses, his personal papers. The other livestock: the chickens, pigs, goats, even the dogs would have to be left behind. The workshops of blacksmith, cooper, leather worker, and carpenter were stocked with specialized tools, expensive and hard to make. Those would have to be packed.
He summoned his Steward before he remembered that his Steward couldn't hear his call, so he sent a servant to fetch him. A few minutes later, there were footsteps on the stairs, and he went down one flight of stairs to meet his Steward in the study. He took his place in the massive chair behind his desk and delivered his instructions in an impassive voice.
"Tell all of the skilled craftsmen, and also the healer and the apothecary, to pack anything they can't replace. They should start now," Mairon said.
"But … most of them have gone to bed already," said the Steward.
"Wake them. I want everything packed by morning. Then gather up my important papers: records of those who work for us secretly, the interrogation records, my personal letters, and the account books. Don't burn them yet, wait for my order. And when you're finished with that, pack up the best of the books and maps," said Mairon.
When his Steward left, Mairon removed the casket of gold from its hiding place. He transferred its contents from the casket into a leather pouch, and put it the table with three gold rings with gemstones[1].
You make decisions too quickly. Slow down. You haven't even seen their counteroffer yet.
That's what Angmar would say. Whenever he thought Mairon was about to do something stupid, he said so. Mairon usually didn't take it well. Sometimes they screamed at each other, and sometimes they came to blows. But Angmar wasn't here to advise him; he was far away in Minas Morgul. Mairon had few close friends, and he missed Angmar fiercely.
Mairon ignored his imaginary adviser and continued packing.
[1] The three remaining Dwarven rings.