Chapter twenty-two: One Night
From Umbar Resurgent, by Azgarzîr son of Zôrzagar, F.A. 84
Of the fleet that was sent against Minas Tirith, not one ship returned. Of the armies that answered the call of the Lord Sauron, few men lived to see their home again.
But a fleet can be rebuilt. It had taken nigh on forty years to rebuild after the Great Burning, but this time, the surviving lords of Umbar knew that they did not have forty years. The king of Gondor would not give them forty years. Fearing that spies would be watching their old warehouses, they moved to sheltered coves, and far inland along deep rivers. There they set their slaves and labourers to work, and by the end of the fourteenth year, they had built a new fleet. It was barely half the size of the old one, and the workmanship was less fine, but that mattered not to them. Umbar had a fleet again, and more than just a fleet, she had regained her lost pride.
Fleets can be rebuilt, and armies can be reborn. In fourteen years, boys grow into men: men who were raised on tales of the crimes of the king of Gondor and longed for revenge. Umbar had a fleet, but Umbar had an army, too.
And she had cunning men. She had patient men, who knew that revenge was worth waiting for. Several agents were sent into Gondor in the years before the sailing of the fleet. Some were instructed to wait and bide their time. Others came later, when the time was near. Fearing that the depleted strength of Umbar could not stand against the arrogant might of Gondor, they tricked the king of Gondor into taking the best part of his strength against a phantom foe in the north.
With the king of Gondor away, it was time to move. The army departed first, for they had a long and slow journey. As they neared the southern reaches of old Gondor, they sent birds back home to command the fleet to sail. Gondor had little warning. Men had been mustering in the southern fiefs, but they did so thinking to march away to the north, against the shadow foe. Little did they expect the enemy that fell upon them from the south!
The king of Gondor had an elvish seeing stone, and his people liked to believe that he knew everything, but Umbar fooled him. Umbar caught him by surprise.
The historians of Gondor tell a different tale. They say that the agents of Umbar were ineffectual. They say that the king was never fooled. They claim that the result was never in doubt: that there never was a moment when their future teetered on a knife edge, and their lords came only a hair's breadth away from death.
What are such tales but lies? By trickery, they defeated the Lord Sauron, and they seek mastery not merely over the people of Middle Earth, but over the very past itself.
The rooftop terrace looked different in the dark. By day, it had been a pretty place with views of treetops and gleaming walls. There was no such view at night. Scattered lanterns lit the faces of the drinkers, painting them with jagged shadows. It made them look strange, almost grotesque, and not like hobbits faces at all. This was a soldiers' drinking place, Pippin remembered. During the day, the soldiers had been relaxed, enjoying a pint or two during a break from their duties. At night, they were drinking more seriously, and their laughter was turning raucous.
"Did anything happen today?" Seregon asked again, returning to the table with drinks for the two of them. "Someone said they saw a commotion around the Citadel gate."
Pippin took a long swig of his ale. "No," he said, "nothing happened," but he knew that he sounded unconvincing. It was not in the nature of hobbits to lie. Perhaps the lie was unnecessary – Seregon was an officer in the City Watch, after all – but it was best to err on the side of caution. It would be horrible to have panic spread through the city and know that he was the cause. "It's just…"
Seregon swigged deeply from his tankard. He lowered it clumsily, clattering it against the table. It was almost as if he was drunk already, but Pippin didn't think he was. "What?" Seregon asked.
Pippin took another mouthful. "It's surprisingly different from the beer at home," he said. "We use more hops, I think. Perhaps we should send some of our best Shire beer down to Gondor, now that we've started sending you pipeweed." As he spoke, he caught the scent of it. Somebody nearby was smoking weed from the Shire! It was such a familiar scent at home that he hadn't noticed it until now. He clapped his hands in delight. "Old Toby!"
"So what was-?" Seregon asked, but then he broke off. "Old Toby?"
"Pipeweed," Pippin explained. "It's our proudest invention. You're a soldier, so it probably seems funny to you. You think people should be proudest of inventing a new way to make a sword, or… or a new sort of spear, or something. But we're not like that. We take our delight in simple things. Food, of course, and making sure that we have enough time to enjoy it with friends. Drink. Pipeweed. Parties; we do like our parties. And giving presents. We're inordinately fond of that. And getting them, too, of course." He shook his head, smiling. "But I suppose everyone believes that their own home is the best."
"Yes," said Seregon, but he was looking away, so Pippin couldn't see his face.
"And your home's wonderful, too," Pippin hastened to assure him. "That's why this war's so terrible, because what if it ruins everything? Gondor's changed so much in the last few years. It's marvellous how much it's changed! The roads are safe again. There are crops growing in fields that used to be burnt and ruined. You can hear singing in the streets, and children are running around freely. People are free, and there's such hope."
Seregon took another long draught, deeper than before. "People are never free."
"Because they have to obey the law? Is that what you mean?" Pippin said. "During the War, I saw places where there were no laws, nothing to stop wild bands of orcs from falling upon you and carrying you away. When there are no laws, the big and strong get to do whatever they want, and there's nothing to stop us small folk from getting trampled. Of course," he admitted, "I expect it's possible for the big and strong to use laws to trample the little folk, but Str- the king isn't like that. Men are banned from the Shire, you know, and he insists that this includes him, although I can't think of any hobbit who would mind if he popped in for a visit. When the big folk have to follow the same laws as the little folk, then the little folk don't get trampled. And we would have been trampled if Sauron had won. He would have made slaves of us all. But he's gone now, and that was supposed to be the end of it, the end of everything bad."
Seregon said nothing. He was holding his tankard very tightly, his knuckles white.
"But now there's going to be killing again, and dying, and people locking their doors and cowering inside, afraid." This time it was Pippin who looked away, hiding the tears that wanted to fall. "Why do Men do this? Why are there people who just want to pull things down? It's hard for a hobbit to understand. We're not a warlike people, you see. We don't have an army, and we don't carry swords. We don't always like all our neighbours, but we live and let live. When we see something lovely, we want to preserve it. Why do so many people like to destroy lovely things? They tried to do it in the Shire, but we stopped them, and now…"
There was a burst of raucous laughter from the next table. Every one of these men was a soldier, Pippin remembered. Each one was wearing a sword.
He had been wrong to come here. Whatever he wanted tonight, this wasn't it. "But listen to me, prattling away!" He tried for a smile. He scraped his hands across his face, scouring away the tears that had not quite started to fall. "I think… I'm sorry," he said. "I think I'd rather go back to the Citadel, after all."
If he was going to be saying these things, he wanted to be saying them to Merry. Who was Seregon but a chance-met acquaintance, a stranger who couldn't be told the truth about so many things? Pippin had no secrets from Merry. Oh, when Merry was sad or scared, Pippin would try to put on a brave face to cheer him up, but he knew that Merry wasn't fooled. Merry did exactly the same for him, after all.
"Thank you for the drink." Jumping down from his seat, Pippin gave Seregon a small bow, such as any polite hobbit would give to his host after a jovial evening. "I just want to…" Go home, he thought, because although the Citadel wasn't the Shire, it was home, in a way, because it was the place where he didn't need to guard his tongue.
Seregon said nothing. "Well… goodbye, then," Pippin said awkwardly.
Seregon watched him go without a word, just picked up his tankard and drained it to the end.
He would do it tonight. It had to be tonight.
He wanted to wait. Just one more day! Just one more day alive! Just one more day to think about what he going to do and work out every last detail of it. One more day to be certain that he hadn't missed a better way. One more day.
But what was one more day? He had waited fourteen years for this. Fourteen years since the king of Gondor had destroyed the young men of Umbar. Fourteen years of biding his time, and now…
Someone passed him a drink. He accepted it, smiling. The smile felt to him like a skull's grin, but nobody seemed to notice anything amiss.
One more day. After fourteen years, he couldn't risk throwing everything away because he was too rash, too hasty. But everything was already falling apart, crumbling around them like the fallen towers of Mordor. The agents in the city had surely failed. Their hidden hand was revealed, and the king and his army were returning from the east. It could be that this was his only chance. It could be that tomorrow would be too late.
What would happen if he waited? His mind was so full of his goal that he was afraid he might talk about it in his sleep. They were a small party, less than a hundred, and they were riding for haste, without tents to slow them down. He was eating and sleeping barely a stone's throw from the king. He had never been so close to him before. He was afraid…
No, he was never afraid. Of course he wasn't afraid. But this king of theirs had powers beyond those of mortal men. What truths could he glean with those keen eyes of his? What secrets would he learn during another day and night of this?
Yes, it had to be tonight. When the watches had been drawn, he had drawn the darkest hour of the night. Two others were assigned alongside him, of course, but two men were no challenge. He had poisons in his pouch, and powders that would cause a man to drift into a quiet, gentle sleep. And he had his knife and his sword and his bow, and he knew how to move silently in the dark.
Tonight. It would have to be tonight.
Tomorrow? No, he doubted there would be a tomorrow, not for him.
Éowyn stood unmoving in the doorway, her hand gripping the wooden frame.
She was not afraid. Of course she was not afraid. During the dark days in Meduseld, every morning she had straightened her spine and raised her chin and walked out from her chamber to tend to her lord. When despair had overwhelmed her at Dunharrow, she had girded on her sword and ridden out to face the foe. When the Nazgûl had threatened her lord, she had quailed with terror inside, but had stood firm and faced him.
She was the Lady of the Shield Arm, and her will was strong. She would walk forward. She would let go of the door and take those necessary steps into the bed chamber where she had killed a man.
The servants would have cleaned the blood away. No trace of the killing would remain. Nothing but the knowledge that a man had crept inside their most private chamber and hidden behind the curtains of their bed. Nothing but the knowledge that Faramir could have died, had she been less swift with her sword. Nothing but the memory of him bleeding there. Nothing but the memory of her sword going through flesh, and the life leaving a man's eyes because of it.
I can do this, she thought, and as she had done so often before, she kept her head high.
A night alone in the bed that had hidden an enemy. A night alone in the place where Faramir had almost died. The stains had been washed away, but it took more than soap and water to wash away blood.
"Of course I can," she said, and she took a step forward.
The footsteps that sounded behind her were so soft that she thought that it might be Merry. Then she felt a sudden stab of fear, and she whirled round, wishing for her sword. But it was Arwen who stood before her. The queen had come alone, without any attendants, and was wearing a simple robe, her hair unbound.
"I have asked them to prepare a guest chamber for you, if you would like it," said the queen. "And there is supper in my chamber, if you would like to share in it."
It was spoken softly, almost as a question. I am not afraid, Éowyn said to herself, and she was not. If there had been a need for it, she would have entered without looking back, and endured the long night alone. But there was no need for it. It was only pride that drove her now, and a stubborn refusal to admit that the events of the day had left her deeply shaken. There was no shame in that. Even mighty warriors sometimes wept.
"Yes," she said. "I would like that. Thank you."
Arwen smiled and turned to walk away. Stepping back through the door, Éowyn closed it and turned its key. She let a long breath, and closed her eyes for a moment. Then, opening them, she followed Arwen, through hallways bright with the flickering light of candles.
Soon, Éomer thought. It would be soon. They were free to travel swiftly, now that there were no footmen slowing them down. Within two days they would be level with Cair Andros, and a thousand of his men would be waiting for him. After two weeks of slow journeying, hunting shadows, he would be free to gallop joyfully at the head of a great force of Riders, going openly to war.
That was the sort of war that a lord of the Eorlingas could take pride in! At last the veils of secrecy would be removed, and he would be riding with his ally into open war against Umbar. If there had to be war, let it be an open war! The lords of Umbar had been dishonourable, hiding in the shadows to trick Gondor and the clans into wasting their strength in an unnecessary war against each other. When the enemy played a game of secrets, they had to be countered with tricks and secrets of your own, but it was not the way of the Mark. It was not Éomer's way.
But soon, he thought. Soon…
He looked up, and saw Gimli sitting with a mug in both hands, his eyes gleaming in the firelight as he watched the camp. Legolas sat beyond him, singing quietly. Legolas seemed restful, but Gimli looked as tense as Éomer felt. Aragorn was quiet, his cloak wrapped around him against the growing cold of the night.
Soon, Éomer thought, but not yet. Many secrets were out in the open, but they were still being forced to play the game of lies and shadows. Aragorn suspected that even here, they were not yet free from the machinations of Umbar. Legolas watched the world outside the small circle of their camp, alert for an attacker who came creeping in from the dark, and Gimli and Éomer watched the knights of Gondor, in case the enemy had sworn false oaths and wore the smiling face of a friend. They could not be seen to be too watchful, Aragorn had warned them. If a traitor rode in their midst, let him think himself unsuspected! Let him grow confident and lower his guard! Let him strike early!
Let him be discovered! Éomer reached for the drink that someone had brought him, and took a long draught. Let the enemy be discovered tonight, and then they could throw aside all masks, and ride openly to war!
His mouth still felt dry, and he took another draught from his mug, and then he yawned deeply. He had been awake most of the night before, waiting for Aragorn to return. Then had come a long fast ride, and now a restless night, waiting to see if a traitor attacked.
It had to be tonight, he thought, yawning again. Let the masks of the traitors be ripped away, and then they could safely rest, free from the threat of knives in their backs. Open war against open enemies, and to sleep safely in a camp full of trusted friends!
Soon, though Éomer. Let it be soon!
The tables around him were empty. Beneath a chair, a discarded mug lay shattered on the tiles. The landlord appeared at the top of the stairs, a broom in his hands, and looked pointedly at Seregon.
Seregon remained where he was. He had drunk too much to trust himself to speak, but not enough to forget the need for caution. Above him in the Citadel, a bell sounded twice. He was on duty at dawn, and dawn came early in the summer. He should have been in bed hours ago, so he could wake up rested, ready to guard the gate. Ready to stop enemies passing through, he thought bitterly.
Perhaps he shouldn't…
He stopped that thought. The landlord worked around him, sweeping up crumbs of bread and scattered petals blown by the wind. Seregon had brought the hobbit here in the hope of gleaning information. Since he had handed the token over, he had heard nothing. Was the man who had taken it even now in the Citadel, laying his snares and preparing to strike? Was he dead? Had he been captured? Had he taken the token, the token Seregon had risked his life to obtain, and cast it away as worthless rubbish?
Every hour, every moment, he had lived with the absence of news. Was the other man even now talking in prison, revealing his name. Footsteps passed on the lane below. Were they coming to drag him away?
Tutting, the landlord crouched down, reaching for the shattered pieces of mug. Seregon looked at the curve of his back and the fall of his hair across his cheek. A free man, who owned his own establishment. In Umbar, he would not be free.
That was because Gondor was weak. Weak and foolish and fond of spouting lies. They took things by cheating, and then liked to fool themselves into thinking that they had won them because they were better and more deserving than anyone else. The sooner Gondor fell, the better, and then he could go home! Then he should shed the false name of Seregon and take up his old name of-
He surged to his feet, pushing the chair back so ferociously that it teetered and fell. The landlord looked at him pointedly, but no knife was drawn, and there was no threat of violence. "Best be going now, sir," he said politely.
"Yes," Seregon rasped. "Yes. Best be going."
Where? he thought, as he began to descend the stairs. Back to his bare quarters? He had nothing in Gondor. For twelve years, he had been armoured in the knowledge that this was not really his home. Soon the time would come to leave it and take up his old life again. No friends. No wife. No home. No roots. Just twelve years spent living a lie, waiting for the chance to shed it.
He could barely remember his real name.
The sooner Umbar wins, the better! he thought, stumbling on the stairs and almost falling. He was at risk of losing himself. Once it had become clear that the hobbit wasn't going to reveal any secrets, it had occurred to him that he should take the opportunity that had been presented to him, and kill him. Let the people of Gondor know that their king's power was not without limit! Let them see the king' honoured guest murdered in the king's own city! Let the enemies of Gondor take heart!
Yes, I should do it, he had thought, and thought repeatedly. But then the hobbit had talked, his eyes alight with love for the world that the lords of Umbar were trying to tear apart. The words meant nothing, of course, but…
I must do it, he had thought, and, "I must do it," he said now, but he had sat there unmoving and let the hobbit depart, and now… Now…
I don't know what to do, he thought. Then he almost sobbed it, stumbling blindly along the lane. "I don't know what to do."
Earlier, Mínir had struggled to drag himself out of the dreaming. Now it was impossible to fall asleep again. The king's token had been stolen. He had lowered his guard and let it get taken from him, and then, to make it worse, he hadn't noticed for two whole days.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw it. Sometimes he sank into waking dreams in which a swordsman went on a killing rampage in the Citadel because he had won entrance with the token that Mínir had lost. The king had entrusted him with it. He hadn't thought it had meant that much. Why should it? He wasn't anything special, so why would the king give him something powerful and rare? Lots of people had tokens like it; of course they did.
But someone had seen it. Someone had targeted him. Someone had taken it.
"They listened to me in the end," Lainor had reported. "I don't know what happened afterwards, of course, but somebody went rushing off."
And now nothing. Just silence. It didn't count as dreaming because he was still awake, but he saw a hundred different disasters that could have befallen because of him.
He struggled to rise. Lainor was gone, and when the healers came to see him, they wanted to give him sleeping draughts, but he pushed their hands away, and shouted, "No, no! I need to know!"
It was dark outside, and everything was silent. He managed to sit up; managed to swing his legs off the bed. He tried to stand, but the world lurched around him. He threw out a hand for balance, and an earthenware jug beside the bed teetered and almost fell. Out of instinct, he tried to grab it, but instead he tumbled to the floor. The jug fell, shattering into fragments.
Slowly, slowly, he raised himself to his knees again. Somebody was approaching the door, he realised, and the sound of it was strange, as if they were using a stick. When the door opened, he was slow to recognise the man who entered, but when he did, he was glad that he was already on his knees.
"My lord," he gasped. "Lord Faramir." Why was he here? Had he come in judgement? But, no, he was walking on crutches, one foot bandaged and unable to bear his weight. "What-?" Mínir rasped, but was unable to say any more.
"I am sorry, Mínir," Lord Faramir said gently. "They told me you were hurt. I made sure you were well tended, but I forgot to bring you tidings. It must have been a hard day for you. I am sorry."
"The token…" Mínir gasped. "Someone stole the king's token."
"I know," Lord Faramir said, "and he tried to use it, and he is dead now. No lasting harm was done." He gave a crooked smile. "I find myself unable to help you up, I'm afraid, but if you can get yourself back into bed, I will sit with you, if you will allow me."
"My lord…" Mínir said. "But…"
Faramir sat down wearily, propping his crutches against the wall. "My chamber is large and seems unduly silent," he said, "and I find that I cannot sleep. I would welcome the company, if you…"
But Mínir was unable to speak; unable to muster any words that could be said without weeping.
All around him, men were sleeping.
Now, he thought, and now that he was decided, the last of the doubts slipped away. He would try this thing. He hoped that he would succeed, but if he failed, at least he could die knowing that he had tried. He was the last of them left, or so he had to believe, and he could die knowing that he had lasted longer than the others.
And he could die knowing that by doing what he was doing, he was striking at the heart of them. He hoped he would kill their king. If he did not, at least it would be known that he had tried. They thought him a loyal man of Gondor, and they would have to live with the knowledge that one of their own had turned on them and come so close to destroying what they held most dear. Distrust would tear them apart like a wolf rending its prey. They were so proud, so confident, thinking themselves the masters of the world. Now they would spend their time afraid, forever glancing fearfully into shadowed corners, and fearing treachery behind every smile.
He was the only one on watch now. Two others had been drawn alongside him, but they were asleep now. He had no idea what dark magics lay in the powders he had carried with him for so long, but they had kept their potency over the years. They sent a man into quiet dreaming, but so gently and smoothly that they had felt nothing amiss. That was what he had feared most: that they would feel sleep creeping up on them and raise the alarm. But they had not. No alarm had been raised, and he was the only one left.
Now, he thought. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms, and heaved in a great breath, then let it out again. Now, he thought again, and he closed his eyes, then opened them. The sky was clear above him and the thin sliver of a moon had already set. He had hoped for more cover, but they were still a day out of Ithilien, with its deep valleys and tall trees.
"Now." He moved his lips as if he was saying it aloud. Then he really was speaking, and it was only when he did so that he realised that the decision had really been made, and he was really doing this thing, and doing it now. "I saw something," he said quietly, little louder than a whisper, but without the hissing esses of a whisper, that could carry so far . "Probably nothing, but I need to…"
He trailed away, and listened. Nothing. Nobody moved. Nobody answered. Then he heard a sound, and turned round, but thought it was just someone turning over in their sleep. Slowly, silently, he drew his sword, sliding it from its soft sheath.
"I need to tell…" he said quietly, and stood up. "No, you stay here."
With almost a hundred men sleeping near each other beneath the sky, it was unavoidable that some would be awake. Some would be fully conscious, struggling to fall asleep. Some would be lying in that state between sleep and dreaming, when they could hear words only dimly. Let them think that they were hearing a quiet conversation between two of the men on watch! All was well. Nothing much to worry about. Go back to sleep. And if one of those watchmen should then been seen wandering through the camp with a naked blade in his hand… Nothing to worry about. Hadn't he said that he was going to report the unimportant thing that he had seen?
He started to walk. "What…?" someone asked, but he shushed them with a reassuring, "Nothing. Go back to sleep."
Another step, and another. There had been far more powder than he needed for two men, and before his watch had started, he had managed to seed pinches of the stuff in various jugs and barrels across the site. The camp fires helped. They made everyone who looked at them temporarily blind to the darkness between and behind them. Many of the men of Rohan had sunk early into slumber. Gimli the dwarf was snoring loudly. The king was…
He did not know about the king. I do not fear him, he thought.
Another step. There were no tents on this swift ride of theirs, and everyone slept out in the open, even the king. More luxuries had been brought for the horses of Rohan than the men of Gondor, and-
Something crunched beneath his feet. He froze, waiting for the challenge, but no challenge came. He tried another cautious step, and realised that somebody had scattered the charred remains of a cooking fire. It was now just blackened powder beneath his feet, speckled with sparks of fierce orange.
One more step. Another one. Another one. He passed Éomer of Rohan, fast asleep with a fallen tankard at his side. The elf was sitting up, his back resting against his pack. His eyes were open, his eyes gleaming with reflected starlight.
He stopped. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed; swallowed again. Should he speak again? Should he murmur something about coming here with a report for the king? He tried to do so, but he could not persuade his tongue to move. He tried to take another step, but only shifted his weight forward a little, his feet not moving. The elf did not move. His eyes were open, but he did not blink.
He let out a breath, and it sounded far too loud to him. Another step. Still the elf did not move. Could this be the end of it; so easy? Because that was the king there, asleep beneath his grey cloak. He was melting into the darkness, almost invisible there, but it had to be him, because Éomer and the dwarf and the elf surrounded him, as if they had hope to guard him before sleep had taken them.
Another step. Could he say it? Sire, he thought, I thought I saw something. If nobody moved, then everything was going well, but if the king was awake, at least he had an excuse for being here with his sword in his hand. He could salvage things, pretend he meant no harm, and go back to his false life as a knight of Gondor. He would live until tomorrow, and then…?
No, he thought, and he was almost there. No hand darted out to grab his ankle. No-one shouted in alarm. And finally he was there, standing over the king. There was just enough light to see the toppled tankard beside him. He was close enough to hear his slow, deep breathing: the breathing of sleep.
He tightened his grip on his sword. This was wrong, he thought. This should have been done with his blade raised high above his head, gleaming in the sunlight. It should have been done with a loud battle cry of, "Umbar! For Umbar!" But he couldn't afford to say a word. He couldn't risk raising the sword high, in case anyone saw it.
Half a step more. Closer. Closer.
For Umbar, he thought. He thrust the blade downwards, aiming at the king's chest, but the king rolled away and it was too late, too late to change the direction of his thrust. The sword tip gouged across the king's back, but the feel of it was wrong, as if it was sliding over armour. He pulled the sword back, desperate to land another blow, and someone grabbed his arm from behind; someone kicked the back of his knees, driving him to the ground; someone pushed him downwards, further downwards, and suddenly all around him people were shouting. His mouth was full of mud and ashes, and all he could hear was shouting.
There was no avoiding it. Legolas, Gimli and Éomer had moved and acted in silence, but the sudden burst of activity had awoken another man, and his shout had roused still more. Within moments, half the camp knew what had happened. The rest were oblivious, lost in a drugged sleep.
The assassin made no attempt to claim innocence. How could he? He had been caught in the act, after all. He was on his knees, flanked by two captains of Gondor, who held him down with a firm hand on each shoulder. The whole scene was lit by a ring of flickering torches. Beyond the circle lay the scattered forms of the men who had fallen foul of the sleeping draught. That had been a surprise. Too many men had fallen asleep before Aragorn had realised what was happening. By then it had been too late to do anything without alerting the assassin.
"You serve Umbar?" Aragorn asked sternly.
The assassin said nothing. Aragorn had noted the faces of all the men who rode with him, but there had been nothing about this one to draw his attention. His colouring was suggestive of the south, but there were many in the coastal parts of the southern fiefs whose colouring was much the same. If hatred had blazed in his eyes before he had made his move, Aragorn had not seen it.
"I know that you do," Aragorn said. In truth, it was supposition rather than knowledge, but Aragorn knew what stories were being told about him. Need, not choice, had led him along the Paths of the Dead, but the tale of it had spread across the southern kingdom and beyond, and had grown in the telling. He was a mortal man, but the way some people told it, there was nothing that he could not do. He moved closer, and Gimli stepped in, grasping the assassin's chin and moving his head upwards, forcing him to meet Aragorn's gaze. "I know it," Aragorn said quietly.
For a moment, choices warred in the assassin's eyes, but then Aragorn saw it, the moment that he decided to admit the truth. "Yes," he declared. "Yes!" He raised his head still further, pulling it out of Gimli's grip. On either side of him, the captains drove down hard, keeping him down on his knees. "I am from Umbar! I am from Umbar, and we are coming for you! We will have our revenge!"
"But you swore oaths," Aragorn said.
"Oaths to Umbar!" shouted the man. "I have only ever been loyal to Umbar."
"It is no crime to be loyal to an enemy," Aragorn said, "even to an enemy who has sent no declaration of war. Justice should be tempered with mercy. Many men of the east and the south came suing for peace, and were allowed to return safely home. It is no crime-"
"No war had been declared when you led the forces of Gondor against the fleet in Umbar!" the man shouted. "You came in under the shadow of night and you burnt it. You killed the Captain of the Quays yourself, or so they say. If I sought to commit a crime tonight, then it is a crime that you have already committed."
"It is not a crime to strike down an enemy captain in time of war," Aragorn said, "and Umbar had already declared war by attacking the coastal villages and enslaving their people. It is not a crime to strike down an enemy captain in time of war, but the man who does so must surely know that if he is taken in the attempt, his life will be forfeit." He stepped even closer. "But oath-breaking is a crime, in Umbar as well as in Gondor."
"I swore-"
"You swore oaths to Gondor," Aragorn said, making his voice as soft and cold as snow. "You swore them, or you would not be here. You swore them, meaning to break them. Justice should be tempered with mercy, but oath-breakers can expect no mercy, and there is not a kingdom or fiefdom in Middle Earth where they would receive it."
"I-!" the assassin started to protest, but then he stopped, and swallowed hard. He looked almost dignified as he knelt on the ground, clearly a prisoner, surrounded by a ring of merciless faces, and beyond them, only the dark. "I expected as much," he said, "if I failed."
It would be a swift death; Aragorn would grant him that much mercy, at least. He was not Isildur, to curse oath-breakers with thousands of years of restless death. But before that, there was one more question to ask; one more truth to ascertain, although he was sure that it would only be answered with lies.
He crouched down, and turned his gaze upon the man, and held it there until the man raised his eyes and met his gaze. "Are there others?" Aragorn asked quietly, too quietly for anyone but the nearest to hear. "Others have been taken. Are you the last?"
"There are others!" the man declared. "Many others. Countless others. We have sworn your hollow oaths and we hide ourselves amongst you, and we will never stop coming against you. We will never stop."
Reflected flames flickered in his eyes. Aragorn nodded, and stood up, and turned to walk away. "It will be done at dawn," he told the captains. "We will grant him the rest of the night to ready himself for it in whatever way seems fitting to him."
Éomer fell into step beside him as he headed out of the circle of light. "He was lying?"
"Yes," Aragorn said. "He believes himself to be the last."
"That's good," said Éomer. Earlier, he had almost fallen asleep himself, due not to a sleeping draught, but to simple exhaustion, but now he seemed fully awake. "Is it over at last?"
"Over?" Aragorn shook his head. "We have a war to fight." And there would be deaths in it, of course. There always were.
"Yes," said Éomer, with a quick bark of laughter, "but war I know. War is a game that I understand."
Yes, thought Aragorn, and it is a game that I hoped we would seldom have to play again, yet here we are.