The Threat
The clash of swords; and horns rang out above the sounds of shouting. With a thundering roar, the Host of Valar swept across the battlefield, engulfing the phalanx around Melkor's banner. The black standard wavered, and then fell. The Valar overwhelmed Melkor's personal guard and surrounded him like a pack of dogs. A weapon was raised high.
"Please no please no …," Melkor was sobbing.
Mairon struggled to reach his Master in time, but the battlefield turned to knee-deep mud. He labored through it, but something grabbed him by the arm and held him back.
The weapon came down hard. There was a scream, and then silence. The grip on Mairon's arm tightened, but His Lord had fallen; Mairon no longer cared what happened to himself.
His captor spoke. "You do realize that you're dreaming?"
Mairon opened his eyes. Rain murmured against the roof slates. The fire had died down, but the embers still cast an orange light on the planks of his bedroom floor.
Someone was standing over him, a black profile silhouetted against the dim light from the hearth. Firelight reflected from the droplets on his clothing and the rainwater pooling at his feet. Mairon tensed. He tried to get up, but the sheet had gotten twisted around him.
The figure moved, and light glinted from the hilt of his dagger. It looked like a Morgul blade, jagged and brittle, designed to break off in the wound. Only the Nazgûl wore them. Mairon let out a breath, and his whole body relaxed.
"You said to wake you if anything happened. There's been another message." Uvatha regarded him with a crooked smile. He reached inside the folds of his rain-soaked clothing and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. Mairon untangled himself from the sheet and reached for it. When Uvatha's hand brushed against his own, images from Uvatha's thoughts filled his mind.
-o-o-o-o-o-
A light rain, the clip clip of a horse's hooves. Dropping to the ground with a thud and continuing on foot.
Wet boards that reflected the light. A darker shadow that became a rock that sheltered a fold of parchment, the dry spot beneath it soon eroded by the rain.
The drumbeat of hoof beats, the shelter of the gatehouse arch, bright with yellow torchlight.
A folded piece of parchment, its corners wet, the writing on the outside blurred by moisture. The seal broke with a crack. The damp had not yet reached inside, the writing was still sharp and clear, and it said …
-o-o-o-o-o-
Mairon looked at the fire. It sprang to life and cast yellow light on the whitewashed walls and the chessboard on the table, still set up like the Sirith Bridge. He broke the seal and read.
I'll trade your creature for my man on the Sirith Bridge at noon tomorrow. Return my man alive and well, or I'll leave your creature's lifeless body on the bridge, without its hands.
It said the same things as the first note, with the addition of the threat.
But when Mairon read it a second time, he noticed that, due to slight difference in wording, it didn't have the feel of a trap that the first note did. The second note proposed a straightforward trade, the spy for Khamûl. That was all. The implied condition for Mairon to be present wasn't there.
If this really was a simple prisoner exchange, it was a good deal. Mairon couldn't attack the fort before tomorrow night, and when he did, the raid carried a certain amount of risk to Khamûl, greater than the risk of conducting the trade.
-o-o-o-o-o-
The guards took Halbaron to a part of the dungeon he hadn't seen before. They stopped in front of a wooden door with a small opening covered by iron bars at eye level. One of them selected a key from the bunch at his belt and worked the lock. When the lock snapped open, he pulled on the door, and after a moment, it began to move. When the gap was wide enough to admit them, Halbaron was shown inside.
The cell was furnished with a simple bedstead made up with a pillow and blanket, and on the opposite wall, a small table and chair.
The jailor sniffed. "Oh, and you might want to have a wash. Soap and water's over there," he said, pointing to a pitcher and basin on a washstand in the corner. Then he left the cell and pushed the door closed behind him. Metal ground against metal, and the lock snapped shut.
Halbaron was exhausted, but he couldn't sit still. He didn't understand why they were treating him differently. They were planning something, but he didn't know what.
He didn't trust what they were showing him. The most recent session with the interrogators, the one interrupted before they did anything to him, could have been staged. The servant who spoke kindly to him earlier, the one who urged him to give them what they wanted, could have been reading from a script. Even the terrible screams he heard before they'd tortured him could have been staged.
He looked through the iron bars of the door. Two sentries were stationed outside his cell. They stood silently, one on each side of the door. He asked them why he was here, but they didn't answer.
The jailor brought him supper on a tray. It looked more like tavern fare than like the prison swill they'd brought him earlier. It smelled good, and he was hungry. He started to reach for it, but stopped himself. It could be drugged. He imagined himself peaceful and floating, his tongue loose, telling them whatever they asked him and giggling like a little girl.
Later, the jailor came to collect the tray. "Not hungry? Then you won't mind if I have it?" The jailor dipped a piece of bread in the gravy and chewed happily.
A bell rang. There were footsteps in the corridor as new people arrived. It sounded like a change of shift. "All you have to do is watch the door. Stay awake, and if one of you needs to take a break, the other one has to stay here."
The night shift stood at their posts in silence only until the footsteps of the others receded down the hall. After the others had left, they passed the time in idle conversation. Halbaron stood close to the door listening, but learned nothing other than the older one thought his young assistant was a peasant, and none too bright. There's no need to speak unkindly; farm people are simple folk, but they're honest and helpful.
Perhaps the new guards were part of a trap being set for him, although it didn't seem likely. His two interrogators had been cunning and shrewd. Even the servant who brought their tea had seemed intelligent. These two did not; he thought they were just guards, low-ranging ones who'd drawn the night shift.
"Mind the fort for a minute, will you? I've got to drain the dragon[1]," the older one said.
When Halbaron judged the guard was out of earshot, he spoke through the grating to his assistant. "You do know why I'm getting special treatment all of a sudden, don't you?" Halbaron said to the young farmhand, as if they were sharing a secret.
"Oh, aye. You're being ransomed," said the youth. "And they cain't sell no damaged goods."
It was the best possible news. And suddenly, he was so exhausted he could barely stand.
He would have fallen into bed, but the sheets were white and newly ironed. He couldn't bear to lie between them the way he was. He felt soiled. He would never be clean again, not as long as the filth from the dungeons clung to his skin, not as long as he could hear the answers to their questions being given to them in his own voice. He shook his head to silence the memory.
He stripped off his clothes and dropped them on the floor. They were stiff and gritty to the touch.
He stood over the washstand and poured water over his head. He watched the water run back into the basin, grey and oily. He rubbed the towel with soap and scrubbed his face and body. The towel turned grey wherever it touched his skin.
When his skin had air dried, he bent down to pick up his clothes, but gagged on the smell of stale urine and fear. He pinched the fabric between thumb and forefinger and deposited the stinking rags in the far corner of the room, then climbed between the sheets and instantly fell asleep.
[1] drain the dragon – to pee