Khamûl
Khamûl dozed in the saddle. His head lolled and his hand clutched the saddle horn for support, while someone led Shadow by the reins.
"We have arrived," Adûnaphel said.
Khamûl lifted his head and blinked. They were in front of Guldur's Main Gate, an arched tunnel through the Gatehouse tower. The drawbridge was down, and the portcullis had been raised. He couldn't remember going through the village, although they must have come that way.
Sauron waited for them inside the main gate. "Did they harm you?" he asked.
Khamûl shook his head, and his eyes closed again. Strong arms helped him to the ground. Someone took Khamûl's wrist and pulled his arm across their shoulder. Someone familiar. His Master. His assistance was all that kept Khamûl from sinking to his knees.
Together they climbed the steep incline under the main gate. Khamûl felt a tingling pressure on the side of his head just inside his skull, and sensed that he was no longer alone. The presence expanded, reaching wider and going deeper into his mind.
It roamed through his mind at will, and when it paused to touch something, an image sprang up: being knocked from the saddle and hitting the ground, resinous fumes that brought tears to his eyes, gnawing hunger from the first few days when they starved him.
Khamûl's cheeks burned. He could have blocked the intrusion, at least for a while. He chose to drop his defenses and submit to the search, because it was better than having to answer endless questions about his captivity. He wasn't in the mood to talk right now, he just wanted to be left alone.
They entered the lower courtyard and passed familiar structures built against the curtain wall: barracks, wood sheds, and chicken coops. They stopped in front of the infirmary, its doorway flanked by beds of medicinal herbs. His Master released his arm, but kept a hand on Khamûl's elbow to steady him.
"Find him a bed and let him sleep it off, and treat him for the sickness that follows intoxication," Sauron said.
The apothecary and his assistant helped him inside. The dark space smelled of medicinal herbs, fennel, lavender, and mint.
They navigated between the heavy wooden worktables that crowded the small space, and Khamûl's eyes adjusted to the dimness. The tables were covered with medical glassware and the tools for preparing herbs: chopping boards, mortar and pestle, and copper vessels over spirit lamps.
Light glinted from the blade of razor-sharp tool for bloodletting. Nearby, curved needles to suture wounds, enematic clysters, and pliers for the extraction of teeth lay on trays. He flinched and looked away.
Amidst the clutter that crowded every surface, one of the tables was almost bare. Wooden crates full of straw sat on the floor beside them. The apothecary's assistant was unpacking glassware from one of them and placing it on the table. Bits of straw clung to his sleeve.
Against the far wall, there was a row of cots. Each was made up with pillows and clean white sheets, and a blanket folded neatly at its foot. Khamûl would have fallen into the nearest one, but the apothecary asked him to wait while his assistant spread an old sheet on top of the bedding.
The apothecary filled a cup of water and stirred something into it. "Drink this," he said.
The liquid in the cup bubbled and tasted like salty plaster dust. Khamûl held his breath and forced it down. The apothecary handed him a tankard that held a pint or more. Expecting a bitter potion, Khamûl took the smallest possible sip, but the tankard held nothing but cold water from the well. He drained it in a few gulps.
Khamûl handed back the tankard and was finally allowed to collapse onto the bed. The room spun, and he grabbed the sides of the bed to steady himself. Adûnaphel laid her hand on top of his, and kept it there. Something scraped against the flagstones, and he heard the apothecary say, "I'm putting a bucket here, right beside your head."
He was falling. He found himself at the bottom of a well in an inch or two of water. The sides of the wall were made of round river boulders, with wildflower growing in the space between them. If he stretched his arms as wide as he could, he could just touch both sides at the same time.
Far above, a circle of light showed the way out. He found handholds on the boulders and climbed until his feet were higher than his head had been. But the stones were slick with moss and algae, and he lost his grip and fell.
The impact knocked the mud at the bottom of the well further down, where the sides of the well were narrower. He tried to grab the stones, but when he moved even slightly, the floor fell away even more. Soon his elbows were jammed against his ribs and his fists were pressed against his face. The stone walls pressed against his ribs, and he fought to breathe.
Someone grasped his hand, and he hung on for dear life. "Shh, shh, you're among friends, you're safe," Adûnaphel said.
-o-o-o-o-o-
Much later, someone gripped his shoulder and shook him awake. Adûnaphel. "You're wanted outside," she said.
Adûnaphel helped Khamûl to sit up. The varnish must still be tacky, because the sheet he had been lying on stuck to his skin and clothes. His head was throbbing. He burped, and his mouth filled with acid. The bucket was still beside the bed. Good, he might need it.
Adûnaphel pulled him to his feet, and Khamûl allowed himself to be led to the courtyard. A table had been set up on the paving stones just outside the Infirmary. His Master was arranging glass bottles on it. A wooden stool sat nearby, with a basin and towels on the paving stones beside it.
Sauron waved a hand towards the stool. "Get out of your clothes and sit down. Addy, help him," he said without looking up.
He gave Adûnaphel a pair of scissors and turned back to what he was doing. People hung around in doorways, watching.
"Why are we doing this out here?" Khamûl asked. The courtyard wasn't public enough; maybe they could go down to the village and set up shop in the middle of the street instead.
"I heard that," said his Master. "We have to do this outdoors, because of the fumes."
Khamûl sat with a towel across his lap while his Master studied the oily substance that covered his skin, clothes, and hair; he was so focused on the problem, he seemed to have forgotten Khamûl was there.
Sauron scrubbed a swath of Khamûl's arm with soap and water. The substance didn't come off. It didn't appear to have been affected at all.
"Lord Zigûr,[1] I can do that for you," said the apothecary.
"This is my project," said Sauron.
His Master tried vinegar, which did nothing, and neither did mineral oil. He put on gloves and tried spirits, bleach, pine resin, and a variety of other solvents. There were seven swatches on Khamûl's arm, and while a few of them lightened the color of the stain or smeared it a little, none of them took it off. Some of the treatments itched and others burned his skin.
Bees droned among the medicinal plants in the Infirmary garden; lavender and chamomile flowers trembled under their weight. The afternoon was warm. Khamûl's chin fell forward, and he woke with a start.
"I have one more idea. There's a powerful solvent found in bee venom, [2]"his Master said.
"Let's not," said Khamûl.
"Then we'll have to let it wear off by itself. I'm sorry, Khamûl. I'm going to have to cut your hair."
Khamûl's hair hung down his back, elbow length, blue black, and as smooth as obsidian. Nobody was going to cut his hair.
A young Orc, a girl of about ten, came over with a bucket of water and set it down next to the basin and towels.
"Excuse me, my Lord? Cooking oil will get that off, you know," she said.
Sauron stared at her. Domestic servants weren't supposed to speak to him directly. She must be new here, because she kept talking. "My dad's a carpenter. He uses that stuff all the time, and gets it off with cooking oil," she said.
She was sent back to the kitchens and came back with a measure of cooking oil. Sauron dipped a rag in it and wiped it over Khamûl's wrist. It left a swath that was perfectly clean.[3]
[1] Wizard
[2]Formic acid
[3] The stain coming off easily symbolizes that Khamûl came through with no lasting harm.