Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì thought longingly of her husband as she rode. His handsome face took up permanent residence before her eyes, leaving her to guide her mount simply by instinct. She listened vaguely to every sound in her vicinity, not taking much interest in them. Birds sang cheerfully at the heightening of the sun as tack jingled and children giggled. Adults were appropriately solemn as they left their homes for the unknown East.

Her eyes were bright, but she planned to blame it on the sun if she was asked. No sense in showing weakness, she thought cynically. She fell back to whisper in the ear of a tall man riding a fiesty stallion. He discreetly palmed the small bottle in her hand. Falling back farther, she rode beside the children and their watchers, taking a small girl into her saddle.

"Do you see, child?" she asked, directing the wee one's vision to a pair of bright birds dancing through the air. She kneed her mount into a prance, startling laughs from the girl. A cry broke through the air as a man fell from his saddle... the same man she had spoken to a short time ago. Passing the girl to the man next to her, Inzillomì quickly dismounted, running to the man. He lay on the ground clutching his ankle. He smiled weakly at the lady as she looked at him with grave concern. He moved his hands to show her a spreading bruise across his swollen ankle.

"You'll want to keep that covered with pressure," she whispered, motioning to the bruise. His purple palms went back to his ankle as he cringed against the swelling. An empty vial fell from his sleeve to be pocketed by Inzillomi. "Nîlozâira! We require your assistance." Inzillomi called as the party stopped, milling. The grandmother hobbled her way over to inspect the injury as the man lay stoically still. The guards kept a close watch as the old woman looked closely at the man, glancing sideways at Inzillomi.

"He'll need rest. No movement, that's for certain. Not unless you want to risk further injury." Standing, she looked down at Inzillomi and the man. "Get it bandaged and keep this man still. I'll need time to find my healing bag, buried as it is in those dreadful carts."

"How much time can we expect to waste?" asked a guard irritably.

"At least an hour." snapped the old woman. "Find my supplies yourself if you feel the need to hurry me, but don't blame me when this man never walks again just because you didn't want to wait a short time."

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion sat alone in his thin walled tent, quietly fingering the soft leather grip of his heavy sword. The thought of wielding such a weapon against a fellow Númenorean sent a shiver the length of his spine.

Tucking the sword back into his saddlebag, Marsillion, preparing to turn in, was surprised to see Azarmanô appear in his doorway. Before Marsillion could offer a greeting, the sea captain began. Marsillion listened carefully, relieved that the Captain harbored no grudge for the way Marsillion had handled the situation with the King's Men earlier in the day. The thought of alienating himself from the rest of the group had been wearing on him. He had considered apologizing to Azarmanô and Abârzadan, but had decided against it. After solving the situation earlier in the day, Marsillion felt he had thrust himself into the previously vacant leadership role in the party. It was a role that desperately needed filling, and grudgingly, Marsillion decided to take it upon himself. A leader must be strong. A leader must be respected, Marsillion had thought during the long, dull ride that afternoon. I can not apologize for actions that saved the lives of all, offensive though my actions may be. Pride can be regained, life can not. Very relieved was Marsillion to know that Azarmanô held nothing against him.

“Please come in and we can discuss these issues further,” Marsillion offered, waving vaguely into the tent. “Sit and be refreshed. I have some dried beef and smoked cheese if you will join me,” he said as the older man took a seat in the corner of the small leather tent.

“I greatly appreciate your company, as many of your concerns have been on my mind as well,” Marsillion stated, taking a bit of aromatic cheese from his saddlebag. “For your thanks I am grateful, no more so than for your convincing play of my servant." Marsillion said, cracking a smile. "You catch on quickly Captain.” Taking time to slowly chew a bit of dried beef, Marsillion thought on the matter of Thoronmir.

“Thoronmir is, as I think many political minds can be, a bit eccentric. Loyal to our cause he is certainly, yet I do wonder how long it will be before he pushes us back into the fire. He acted very foolishly yesterday, no denying it. Perhaps the two of us should approach him in the morning, for we can certainly ill afford him to endanger our mission so rashly again. Tell me, how did Abârzadan swallow the events of yestermorn? Do you trust him Captain? He is brave, almost to a point of admiration, but how can we trust him with our very lives? The time must soon come that the truth is wrung from this young drifter.”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô stared at Marsillion a while and thought about the questions that he had raised. When he answered, he did so in a low voice so as not to attract the attention of the other men, particularly those whom he was speaking. The party had many dangers that threatened it from the outside; they could not risk having an internal rift split it from within.

“Yes, we must certainly approach Thoronmir and warn him against making such an impetuous decision in the future. Our chief goal must be to complete our mission alive, avoiding conflict if possible. The easiest way to Armenelos is not through bow and axe but stealth and cunning. I worry that some members of our party seem to forget that.

As for Abârzadan, he is more of an enigma to me now then he was at the start of our journey. He seems always dower and bitter, rarely speaking to anyone or attempting to strike up any sort of camaraderie with the other men. He seems distant in a way, separate from the rest of the group, as though he does not belong. Surely he is not of the Faithful, yet still he risks his life trying to save our leader. I have not seen very much of his face since the Faithful incident, but whenever I do see him, his countenance has been filled with disgust. In my heart I do not completely trust him, yet I can not bring myself to confront him. Perhaps it would be best for us to leave his history undiscovered. I do not think he would betray us, for he could have done so already. He is not dangerous as much as he is puzzling.”

Azarmanô yawned and blinked repeatedly, the weight of sleep resting in his eyelids. The day had been a long and eventful one, perhaps too long and eventful for Azarmanô’s taste. He hoped sincerely that tomorrow would be much more boring and commonplace than today: one close encounter with dying had been quite sufficient. He would be happy if he did not see another man of the king’s guard for the duration of the journey, although he had a sinking feeling that they would meet quite a few of them before all was said and done.

He focused his attention back on Marsillion and said, “I grow weary from our long day. I will go back to my tent now and we shall approach Marsillion together tomorrow morning and speak to him about his rash actions. I think it best if we keep a close eye on Abârzadan for now.”

He bid Marsillion a good night and returned to his tent, falling asleep as soon as he had burrowed into his warm bag.

[Himaran]

The following morning was bright and sunny, but the pleasent weather did little to raise Abarzadan's spirits. After it was announced that they were moving on, he quietly began to pack his few belongings. His poor mood was further doured upon finding that an animal had left a small surprise on his axe case, which had formerly been a beautiful item. He swore, and kicked it across the tent, only to find that the still wet fecal material splattered over the rest of his belongings. This evoked further rage, but the spell lasted only a few minutes. "Probably something Marsillion set up," he mumbled, surveying the now collosal mess.

Cleaning up was no easy task, but Abarzadan was glad that the others did not seek to know the cause of the brief ruckus inside his tent. Despite his anger over various issues, the man was happy that they were leaving - he wanted to get out of this wilderness and reach the city. Once there, the group was not a necessity to him. The man could leave descreetly if he so wished, and never return; after all, the "Faithful" were sailing away. It did not matter, really. They didn't want him anyway.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The party had continued onward some two hours after the fall. Inzillomi gave her reins over to a willing hostler and rode in a cart beside the man. His leg was well-bound and his symptoms were uncomfortable. She felt bad about the rash, but they had washed the oils off his hands before it could spread beyond his leg. They had managed to bandage him before the itching had began, and so all that the guards could see was a bruised swelling. The swelling itself was impressive... she hadn't been sure if the liquid would work. Inzillomi had been rushed through her brewing of the three-leaved plant... she had almost splashed herself with the mixture more than once, but when finished, she had almost a half dozen vials of the deep purple stuff. She chastised herself over the rash... she needed to think of a way to separate out the effects of the plant... In the mean time, the man beside her was the very picture of hidden discomfort. She knew that he must itch like mad, given the expanse of skin that he had "bruised" for the sake of the cause.

She favored him with a smile, assuring him that the rash would clear up quite soon with the old woman's remedy and that his leg would stay swollen for awhile, but that he was quite brave and that he was quite deserving of praise. He smiled back and stretched out as much as he could in the cramped space. He longed to be back on his mount, but good actor though he was, it would be entirely too hard to convince suspicious guards that the recipient of a very recent broken leg was comfortable enough to ride.

Inzillomi stayed with him until the crushed herbs began to soothe him, speaking softly of sea shores and salty winds. As he dozed, she left him, walking for a time beside the children. Eagerly they showed her what they had found during their "break". As she praised them over the discoveries of shimmering black stones and delicate white blossems, small hands found their way into hers. A short time later, she found her mount once more and rode with the young ladies, gossiping about the handsome young men said to inhabit the eastern shores. Time passed slowly and all the while, her mind rested on her husband... she could only hope that the rescuers were making as good progress as she was.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî woke early, still groggy from her restless night. She took a long drink from her water bottle, trying to wash the sleep taste from her mouth and shook her head. Tiru still slept, curled in a ball in a mound of blanket and cloak, near the entrance to Marsillion’s tent. She could see her cousin’s shadow moving through the thin fabric walls of his shelter. Azârmanô and Thoronmir she did not see.

Abârzadân was up as well, Kâthaanî could not tell what he was doing, but he was moving jerkily through the grass muttering in a loud voice and a pile of his belongings lay on the ground beside him. She approached him uneasily and paused a moment before speaking. “Good morning, friend. Does all go well for you today?”

Abârzadân glanced up at her quickly, before turning back to his piles. “It is nothing.”

Kâthaanî raised an eyebrow at the man, but asked no questions and soon turned to wake the sleeping Tiru. The servant rose reluctantly, stretching and yawning in the mild morning. Kâthaanî could hear his joints creaking and snapping as he moved. Her eyes widened at the sound. Tiru, noticing her surprise, smiled wryly and commented, “You are from a long-lived people, Little Mistress, but I am no longer young among my own people. My limbs may be accustomed to long days, but they do not always like it.” She nodded in silent understanding and bent quickly to help the smaller man fold his bedroll.

While the two of them worked to pack their things, Azârmanô and Thoronmir returned to the camp with their wet hair plastered to their foreheads and full water bottles slung around their shoulders. The party finished loading the Kariborim in silence and, mounted once more on Nitirú, Kâthaanî slid back into place behind Azârmanô as they left their campsite behind.

The mood among the rescuers was somber, the haunting fear that had settled on them during the previous day’s mishap still lingered around them. There was no singing and very little speech among them during the day’s journey, but the travelling was fast and the roads were deserted and they made good time. Marsillion’s face was grim at the front of the column, and Thoronmir’s equally so at the rear; and the urgency that all six felt weighed so heavily that they did not stop riding for lunch, but ate plain bread and sipped water as they rode.

As evening fell and Kâthaanî began to feel Nitirú’s pace slacken, Marsillion called for a halt. “The ground is higher here, and this is as much cover as we will find tonight. I think we should stop here.” One head after another began to nod as the group silently dismounted, stretching their aching legs and unloading their mounts. Captain Azârmanô built a small fire, and prepared for the first watch while the others prepared the campsite. The grateful Kariborim, now unbridled, lowered their heads and began to graze, as one by one the rescue party unfolded their bedding and dropped wordlessly into it

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion awoke before sunrise and packed his gear for another long day of travel. As far as he could tell the rest of the party still slept, nobody was about. After taking a bit of food, Marsillion quietly slipped away to refill his canteen and freshen himself for the day ahead. The campsite sat in a small, but dense growth of woods atop an isolated hillock. From a spring near the top of the hill a bubbling brook ran careening through a rocky course onto the far sweeping plains below.

Marsillion stooped down beside the brook and splashed the cool water on his face. He took a large mouthful and reached for his empty canteen. As he did so, his attention was caught by a light in the woods above him, not far off. The sun, although still not risen was sending a pink glow sweeping across the horizon when Marsillion began to crawl hand and foot toward the perceived light. As he drew nearer he could see that indeed a small fire was burning a short distance off, and he thought he could make out the silhouette of a man sitting back to him. Marsillion crept closer, until he was only a few yards distant, tucked quietly behind a tangled bush of thorns. From this position he could clearly see three men sitting around a small watch fire and one dozing on the ground not far off. The men were unmistakable. Here, camped on the same hill as the rescue party, was the patrol of Kings Men that had confronted them the previous morning. Marsillion felt his stomach clinch in knots, his arms and legs falling simultaneously numb as he picked up the conversation around the camp fire.

“I suppose they think they are mighty clever. Why don't we just shoot 'em now and be done with it,” demanded a young soldier. “I've a quiver full of good arrows, the traitors would never know what hit 'em.”

“Because, you ignorant louse,” barked the captain, “our commander has a better fate planned for them. They are to be allowed unhindered to the capitol. The high priest knows of their journey. They will not succeed. Our mission is simply to follow at a distance, not to interfere. One of them has something the High Priest desires I think.”

Marsillion had heard enough. Willing himself to move he slowly inched back down the slope. I must get back to camp before the sun betrays me, was all he would allow himself to think about. When he reached the spot where he had bathed himself earlier, he stood and ran clumsily through the woods the short distance back to camp. He gathered the party, which by this time was fully awake and awaiting his return, hastily around and told of what he had learned. “A new plan must be constructed,” Marsillion stated plainly, pinioning his overwhelming emotions deep within. “The lives of many hang in the balance.”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô listened attentively as Marsillion informed them of the three men of the king’s soldiers that spied on the party, paying attention to every detail of his account. The news was devastating, particularly so because they had just escaped the clutches of this same foe scarcely a day before. His premonitions about future encounters with them had indeed been verified, although Azarmanô sincerely wished that this had not been the case. Their mission seemed to grow more perilous as it proceeded. And he was also sure that there would be more such tribulations in the days to come as they inched closer to Armenelos, Abârpânarú’s prison, and Sauron himself.

But how had the enemy gotten word of their mission? Azarmanô looked around at his companions with suspicion. Had one of their own men betrayed the party? Such a question had never entered his mind until now. There were strangers in the group, men whom he did not know well enough to be certain of their loyalty. Thoronmir, one such stranger, was rash and impetuous, but his quick actions seemed to be done for the benefit of the Faithful, if not with careful consideration. But Abarzadan loomed large in Azarmanô’s eye, especially due to his caustic, sour attitude, and a clear separation between him and the Faithful. He had been quite an enigma up until now, and Azarmanô still did not know his true motives. Although he had not been interested in digging up these secrets, recent events had caused him to view the situation in a different light. Why had the king’s men confronted them to begin with if their mission was one of espionage? The only reasonable conclusion, at least the only one Azarmanô could draw at the moment, was that someone on the inside cooperating with the king had staged the whole incident. And hadn’t Abarzadan been the first one to try and appoint himself as the leader of the group escorting the prisoner? Perhaps he had arranged the ambush so that he could win validity and trust from the group by saving the day. Of course, this was only a theory spun by the onset of shock, but Azarmanô’s suspicion of Abarzadan and his furtiveness nonetheless grew.

A new plan must be developed indeed. The party could not simply march into Armenelos, knock on the dungeon door and ask to speak to the leader of the Faithful. Now that they would be watched, an additional element of secrecy was needed for their entrance into the city. Azarmanô did not relish the thought of arriving at Armenelos and stepping right into the trap of Sauron, earning himself a cell next door to Abârpânarú’s. He spoke with a measure of authority because, he believed, the group was in need of strong leadership at the moment.

“Thank you Marsillion for alerting the group to the king’s spies. Although we scarcely need more dangers in our mission, we will have to deal with them. A new plan is needed. If we act covertly, we may be able to escape their detection, at least for a time. We shall have need of disguises, although I do not know where to obtain such raiment. Perhaps an opportunity shall present itself along the way. We must pose as ruffians whom the king allows to prey upon a group of hapless Faithful. We can boast how we slay them and stole their mounts. Perhaps at night we might hide in the Noirian, the Valley of the Tombs, final home to our kings and queens. I have even heard rumors that there are long, dark passageways within the underground labyrinth connecting the ancient tombs to the dungeon hallways, though I know not if they are true. How does this plan strike you?”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì woke with the dawn, smiling at the sight of silently sleeping children. She knew that the quiet would not last, but it was a small blessing to know that the younglings saw this trip as an exciting adventure. When they realized that they would not be going home after a few days away, things would change and the tension would rise.

"My lady, a word?" A young guard spoke to her. It was not so much a question as a command, but Inzillomì followed wordlessly a short distance away from the group. "They are precious, are they not?" He nodded toward the children and she allowed him a smile.

"Yes. They most certainly are. They do not understand this trip, and I would prefer that it long stay that way. There is no need for them to be afraid."

The guard bristled. Though he worked for the King with devotion, he was kind and compassionate. "Inzillomì Elendili, we guards are no fools. Any tricks and your mounts will be given into the service of the King and his men. Should any mishaps occur this day, we are on a tight schedule and will not stop. Care should be taken by your people."

She looked at the man shrewedly. He knew of the fall, that much was apparent. What she did not know is if he had seen fit to share that knowledge. His eyes were kind... he understood their reluctance, and knew that a certain number of tricks were to be expected. He was young, but he was one of the brightest. "Sir, I thank you for your words of wisdom," she said, revealing nothing. "I can only hope that no more unfortunate accidents will happen... we cannot afford time lost, and I would hate to see a good man such as yourself blamed for our tardiness."

She walked back to camp to take a crying infant into her arms. He calmed quickly as she walked slowly beneath the trees. There will be no tricks this day... she thought. We cannot afford to draw suspicion... I can only hope that my Cerveth is safe and travelling quickly... There is nothing that I can do now to help...

[littlemanpoet]

It was midnight. Mabalar had eaten his fill and soothed his throat with cool, clean water. Târik stood just inside in Mabalar's cell, informing him that the unholy temple of Sauron was engorging itself on victims sacrificed to Morgoth.

"I asked of Tar Miriel last we spoke. Tell me of her now."

Târik nodded. Sorrow came to his face. "She suffers. Not by Sauron's or any man's hand. But she endures a living death. Faithful she is, but cannot show it or say it."

"Are you then Faithful?" Mabalar asked.

Târik's face became eager. "Aye, lord! I would flee this accursed isle with the Elendili had I the chance!"

Mabalar smiled grimly. It could be that the boy spoke the truth. He exhibited a naiveté that suggested idealism; but that could be a ploy of a devious mind. He would have to search out this boy's heart and make his own judgment.

"Tell me of the Queen."

"She hides deep within her rooms each night when the Temple is ablaze with its unholy red light. But in the morning she climbs the Meneltarma and looks west over sea. It matters not what the skies let loose, weather hail or storm or portentous thunder.

"The black sails of Ar Pharazon have long since disappeared beyond the horizon, but still she looks, but not for the King. I think she looks for some sign of mercy out of the West."

"None shall come," remarked Mabalar. "Not now that the fool has gone on his blasphemous quest."

Târik nodded. "Aye. She looks without hope, for she cannot cease. 'Tis an evil time to be the faithful queen of an unfaithful land and lord. I do not envy her lot."

There was a clanging noise down the corridor. Târik looked back fearfully. "I must not be seen here, my lord!" He passed out of the cell, locked the door, and slipped away. Darkness closed in as his torch disappeared around a corner.

Another dim light from another torch came slowly toward his cell. There were five guards. "Open the gate," ordered one. "'Tis this rogue's night to join the line. We shall see how hungry the altar is, eh?"

The guards laughed as they forced Mabalar to his feet and reclasped his chains so that he could take small constricted steps, surrounded by guards bristling with knives.

[Himaran]

Abarzadan awoke with a splitting headache. He had gotten them often as a child, when many a night was spent crying himself to sleep with both hands clasped to his forehead in a futile attempt to make them leave. Now, the pain only increased his poor mood. Each morning, he found himself with a group of strangers that he was following for an unknown reason. Pushing the nagging thought to the back of his mind, the man poured some water from his canteen onto an old rag, and pressed it to his forhead. The liquid was far from cold, and did little to numb the pain. Cursing, he tossed the useless scrap aside and stomped outside the tent. Unwelcomed sunlight hit his unajusted eyes, furthering his discomfort.

Glancing around, Abarzadan saw Marsillion dash out of the woods and bend over momentarily, catching his breath. The man motioned to everyone nearby, and called out to those not seen. Once the party had gathered, the self-appointed leader proceeded to relate the short tale of his run-in with the King's men, who obviously knew a lot more bout the group than any of them had anticipated. "A new plan must be constructed," Marsillion boldly stated, and looked around the circle, searching for suggestions. Azarmanô answered his silent call, and talked briefly about hiding out in a series of tombs. Just what I've always wanted to do.

Suddenly, Abarzadan had the feeling that many sets of eyes were boring into him. What, they think I'm a mole? That I tipped the guards off, and all this was due to me? Actually, the idea was not that far fetched. The man realized that he did indeed fulfill most of the requirements necessary for being spy; he was relatively unknown, yet had showed up at the captured man's house and presented himself as an old friend. Furthermore, he had indeed acted rather strangely recently. He decided to keep his mouth shut for the time being. Better not act like I know anything about the guards and their operations. I'll just sit this one out.

[littlemanpoet]

Mabalar was led through a maze of underground corridors, the guards' torchlight the only means to see. He lost all sense of direction as they roughly forced him to walk faster than his chained feet allowed. He tripped often and his knees and shins were streaked with blood. Far ahead he could hear someone shreaking in pain.

At last he was brought into a great dome, the inside of which was lit with red glowing torches. In the center of the dome was an altar on a dais. Standing by the altar was a figure in black. Mabalar knew who it must be. There was a fire on the altar and a stinking smoke rising to the dome's zenith. The figure turned toward him.

Mabalar saw those eyes. They pinned him where he stood. He lost all track of time as Sauron's probing eyes studied him. He felt as if he was being flayed by the tyrant's very glare.

"Bring him forward!" Sauron commanded.

The guards shoved him toward the altar. This was the moment he had dreaded. He caught his balance and did not fall. But now the guards were not forcing him beyond his chains' pace. It was as if they were reluctant to go too near the altar, as if they might be the next victim of the Dark One's whim. Mabalar had dreaded this moment, but now that it was upon him, he found that he was clear of mind and not afraid to die. He feared the pain only.

He came to the dais and climbed the levels, which were just barely within reach of the limits of his chains. The guards did not follow him.

"Ah, Mabalar Melethroch," Sauron whispered, "you see your doom."

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion listened attentively as the respected captain articulated his plan. It was solid, so far as Marsillion could tell, and at any rate, something must be decided immediately. “Very good Captain,” Marsillion said at the conclusion. Feeling the eyes of the party on him in this moment of decision laid heavily on the young man's mind as he strove with all his being for wisdom. Father, send me your guidance, he prayed as he began to speak.

“Your plan is well thought out my friend, yet let me add more. With no objections, the party shall hence forth be split. Captain Azarmanô, you shall lead Thoronmir and Abârzadan west with all speed toward Rommena. The King's Men will see you ride. Let them. With luck, they might presume that you have abandoned the mission and have gone to seek refuge. Ride hard, and hide not. Circle the city before approaching from the east. Disguise yourselves and enter the city in secret. As for myself, my noble cousin, and the brave Tiru, we shall ride slowly and secretively through the Valley of the Tombs. Halting and hiding often, we may be able to occupy the soldiers long enough for the rescue party to find and free my uncle,” Marsillion said, clasping his fingers tightly around his heavy leather belt, hoping none of his comrades would see the shaking of his hands. “Once inside the city, seek out Monôizindu Igmizadan, he may be able to aid you. Gentlemen,” Marsillion said, facing the three proud men of Númenor, “you are still free to leave. Your stake in this affair is small, yet you risk death. Proceed only if you feel you must.” The faces of the three remained still, the solidity of their resolve showing blatantly. Even the mysterious Abârzadan's face shown with grim determination. Seeing their faces hard as stone, Marsillion knew they would go on. “The speed and strength of Tulkas I wish for you,” Marsillion said quietly. “With the grace of the Valar, we shall all meet again soon.”

With that, camp was hastily broken, and the Kariborim readied. Shortly before leaving, Marsillion pulled Azarmanô aside to speak to him in private. “Captain, I thank you for your dedication to my family,” he said in a low whisper. “I ask you now for one last favor. Keep both eyes on this Abârzadan. How the King's Men know of our plans I do not know, but be sure Abârzadan is kept close.” Azarmanô's sharp nod was all the confirmation needed. With that the two men clasped arms briefly, and led their two parties off down the slow descent of the lone hill in separate directions.

[Meneltarmacil]

The party discussed their options. It was agreed that part of the group would ride as fast as possible to Romenna while the others would stay in Armenelos to rescue Abarpanaru. Thoronmir listened until Marsillion was through, then spoke once he had the chance.

"Marsillion," Thoronmir said. "A word with you, please?"

"Yes?" the other man said.

"No offense, but I really do not find the idea of running away from this place while Abarpanaru remains here appealing. I request that I be allowed to stay and help in the rescue effort. I know the layout of the city well and could be of some service to you here."

"No," said Marsillion. "I'm sorry, but it really would not be best to have someone as conspicuous as you wandering the city here. The King has already declared you a criminal, after all."

"You're probably right," said Thoronmir. "I suppose I'll start leaving. I wish you luck. I hope we meet again soon!"

With that, Thoronmir walked off to get ready to leave.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi's eyes widened as she rode into view of the sea. Time was running short. Sails danced in the distant wind like captured clouds. The sea breeze tickled her face, teasing strands of her hair from her braid. Her skirts flickered gently about her ankles as she rode as slowly as humanly possible.

A guard trotted up beside her. "My lady, it is here that we leave you. Your party will continue on to Romenna... it is there, m'lady... just in sight. We will stay upon this ridge and watch... to make sure there is no trouble."

"I understand." she stated softly. He grasped her arm, looking into her eyes. Their horses danced, nervous to be so close.

"Inzillomi... may the Valar bless you and keep you in their sight." As her eyes widened in pleasant surprise, he blushed faintly and rode away, calling to the group.

"You will ride on! Our escort ends here. Romenna is there-" he pointed. "and you will reach it very swiftly. The lady Inzillomi assures me that arrangements have been made for your living. Ride straight to the shore. Farewell, and ride safely. I would hate very much to be forced to come after you."

With those final, seemingly uncaring, words, the guard of the King's Men gathered together, leaving the large group alone, and looking small and scared. Inzillomi dismounted, walking from family to family.

"We have made it, friends... In the distance you see Romenna... we will soon be in the company of my father, Elendil, and my brothers, Isildur and Anarion. Our trip has been long, and filled with unfortunate accidents... with luck, we shall find solace here. Come, my friends, and let us ride!"

With that, she mounted her mare once more, and rode onward to the city, the dignified head of a line of weary travellers. Varda may you light the path for my daughter, and the darkness for my husband. Aule, I pray for strength for us all... The time has come when our hastily conceived plans must come to fruition, or not. Eru above, please bless us and all of our endeavors.

[littlemanpoet]

"Ah, Mabalar Melethroch," Sauron whispered, "you see your doom."

Mabalar swallowed the bile in his throat and said nothing. If this was the end, there was nothing he could do. He raised his eyes and silently besought the good will of Eru.

"Bring the victim forward!" Sauron cried suddenly. Mabalar looked in surprise at Sauron as a young man in chains was dragged up the stairs of the dais to the altar. He begged for mercy, tears and spittle staining his face. Sauron grinned and faced Mabalar.

"I would have you watch your doom. And know, Faithful," he spit the word, "that I give you one last chance to turn away from the lies of the supposed gods of the illusory western lands, and swear your loyalty to me. If you do, I will promise you great power, for if you earn my favor I have a great reward. I see in you, Mabalar, a strength of will that I would not see wasted upon the sacrificial altar. I have Rings of Power, and I would give one to you, to be a lord of one of my realms, if you but foreswear the Valar. What say you?"

Mabalar was silent for a moment, allowing the evil one to stand upon a glimmer of hope, thinking that he would betray his family and friends, and the very gods. He opened his mouth.

"I would sooner die the death of a cursed dog than be a lord under the werewolf Sauron."

The evil one's visage turned into a mask of hate and malice.

"I will give you one more chance, fool." He turned on the guards. "Place the victim on the altar!" He turned back to Mabalar. "I will have you watch this fool's dying agony, powerless to stop it."

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô recognized immediately the brilliance of Marsillion’s plan. If the eyes of the guards were focused on the group that they thought was bound for Armenelos, Azarmanô could easily enter the city through a circuitous route and escape their detection. They would have to use deception if they wanted to reach the dungeon alive, since Sauron was undoubtedly waiting for them, waiting to strike and slay them all on his altar. And this plan offered the perfect solution for entering the city undetected. Azarmanô was still quite unsure, however, of how they planned to rescue Abârpânarú once they actually arrived in Armenelos. Surely rescuing a high priority prisoner from the dungeon of Sauron himself would not be easy. Although, in his heart, he felt that somehow they would devise a method for freeing their leader. But the group must solve their problems one at a time, and the first one they had was how to get into the city without getting killed.

Of course, they would need some sort of spectacle to dramatically announce the splitting of the party. Otherwise, the dim-witted guards might not understand what was going on and which section they were supposed to follow. It would have to be melodramatic and theatrical, for Azarmanô wanted to make a profound impact when he announced the group’s fissure. Besides, he rather liked trying his hand at acting a second time, although this go around he found the character he was to portray much more to his liking. Afterwards, he hoped, there would be no doubt to any guard within ten miles what the intentions of the group were.

He leaned forward toward Marsillion and whispered in his ear, “I want to make sure our guard friends know which group to follow. Play along”

Spinning around he assumed his character with an arrogant grin, he bellowed loudly, “I do not care you lout. I will not go another inch accompanying you on this folly mission to Armenelos. I value my life too greatly to throw it away on some crazy rescue mission. Come I am abandoning this quest and returning home. Let every man who wants to live follow me. There is too much danger in trying to continue and I do not wish to find my fate on the altar like our leader. We must leave immediately.”

After his harangue, Azarmanô leaned close into Marsillion again and whispered as softly as before, “The trap is set; let us hope that the mouse will bite. Thoronmir, Abarzadan, and I shall leave in a period of ten minutes. At which time you must find a hiding spot and keep quiet till nightfall. After we ride west for half a day’s journey we shall inspect to make sure we are not followed, turn around, and approach the city from the east. Fear not for we shall ride with speed and shall not stop to rest, though we may be weary. With regards to Abarzadan, I have suspected his loyalty for quite some time and will be sure to watch him closely. He shall not try any trickery on us without my knowledge, for I have a keen eye for treachery, one trained by many years of commanding crews on the sea. Far thee well.”

“Onward men,” he shouted and lead Abarzadan and Thoronmir away from the rest of the group. As he watched the others fade slowly in the distance, he wished fervently that they would unite once again with Abârpânarú free to lead them.

[Meneltarmacil]

After arriving in Romenna and having something to eat and drink, Thoronmir stood on the balcony outside his room, waiting for the rest of the party to return. Clouds of smoke blocked the stars from view in the west and obscured Thoronmir's view of Armenelos. Thoronmir felt uneasy, as if something terrible were about to happen. Was it his imagination, or were the seas and the mountain more restless than usual lately?

He continued to watch for any signs of people coming from the west. If the unnatural turbulence in the land and the sea continued, they would need to get away fast. If they waited too long, they very well might be killed. Either way, none of them would ever see Numenor again.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi walked alone through the streets of Romenna, her eyes fixed on the ghosted face of her husband. She saw everything, yet noticed nothing. She had spoken to her father just moments before, sharing a tear-filled reunion. Elendil was unhappy to learn of the capture of his son-in-law, and unhappier yet to learn that his grandchild accompanied the rescue party. Inzillomi had begged of him more time, but feeling the groaning of the earth beneath their feet, Elendil promised her nothing, stating only that they must hurry. Now she reflected, wishing that she could share her thoughts.

She had seen to the comfort of her travelling companions, unveiling small bags of sweets for each child. As their faces lit up with enthusiasm, Inzi could not surpress a smile, but now as she walked, a troubled look adorned her pretty face. Suddenly a familiar face snapped her from her reverie. Was it her imagination, or had Thoronmir just walked past her line of sight?

She sped up, half hoping, to meet the man whose seeming so matched the man she had known for many years. She was not mistaken... it was him.

"Thoronmir!" she cried, drawing him to a stop. She fell silent with a look of utter confusion. It changed to tenacity just as she opened her mouth, but he hastily covered her lips with his palm, drawing her into the shadows.

"My lady, do not fear. All is still well."

"Do not play tight-lipped with me, my lad." She spoke quietly and kindly, but every word was punctuated with an uncharacteristic sharpness. Why are you here? You have my forgiveness and my pity if you have left the mission, but I do not see the look of one such on your face. Where is my family?"

"My lady, I do not know." He silenced her with a raised hand. "I will lead you to Azarmanô. He will explain."

"Azarmanô is here?" she began, but he silenced her once more, taking her by the hand and swiftly leading her through the shadowed streets, avoiding the gaze of the curious.

"Azarmanô will explain." Thoronmir stated once more, performing a seemingly random series of taps upon a heavy oaken door before disappearing as quickly as he'd came into the crowd of people in the street.

[Himaran]

Abarzadan sat at a polished hardwood table, hunched over the series of maps spread out before him. No matter which entrance the group took into Armenelos, there would undoubtably be trouble. Even getting to the city itself was an issue, as random patrols of guards were still combing the wildnerness for signs of possible intruders. The man pounded his fist on the table angrily. There just had to be a way! Every city had weaknesses, every fortress had soft spot. Still, the weakness of Armenelos was doing an excellent job of hiding itself from Abarzadan's generally clever mind.

Then came the knock. A carefully-planned series of taps rang out on the apartment's heavy oaken door.

Abarzadan stood quickly. Thoronmir must have finished his errands. The man slid open several sturdy latches and swung the door inward. There, standing before him, was the last person in all of Numenor that he would have expected to see, save Abârpânarú himself: Lady Inzillomi.

Without saying a word, Abarzadan stepped inside and turned towards the apartment's single stairwell. "Azarmanô!"

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô was extremely surprised to see Lady Inzillomi appear at his doorstep in Romenna. The sudden appearance of a woman whom he had not seen for weeks struck him with astonishment. However his expression changed when he realized what a pleasure it would be to talk to her again. Although he had not thought often of her on his journey, he was undoubtedly pleased to see her. An amiable smile spread across his face at the sight of such an old friend coming to visit after so long an absence. She was someone he could trust, someone with whom he had worked for years as a member of the Faithful. He could confide in her the events of the journey and relay to her the perils that they had faced along the way. Such trust he could not share with other members of his group, particularly Abarzadan who was still as unfamiliar and cryptic as ever, although Azarmanô now no longer harbored the same suspicions against him that he once did. If Abarzadan had wanted to betray the group, he could have done so earlier with all the soldiers spying on the group. In that respect, Abârzadan had risen in stature in the eyes of the sea captain, although he still did not feel at ease with the stranger.

With a heartfelt greeting, Azarmanô directed Lady Inzillomi into his room at the small inn near the center of the city. It was one which many Faithful were using to lodge until the time came to leave for the mainland and forever abandon their ancestral homeland, something he too would have to do. As he escorted her to the main room, he saw her visage troubled and pulsing with questions about their journey and her still-imprisoned husband. She must wonder at my presence here more than I wonder at hers, he thought. How did she ever come to find me in this large city and how did she know even to look? No matter, I will answer her questions forthright and feed her voracious need for knowledge if not quell her vexed heart.

“My lady,” he began as soon as he sat down,“It is indeed good to see you again.” He briefly inquired if she had seen his family since arriving in the city, but she was unable to give him any further information as to how they fared. He waited for a short period of time trying to think of the proper explanation and carefully choosing his words before proceeding calmly. “We have not yet rescued your husband. The group drew near to Armenelos before discovering that the king’s men had placed spies on us and would surely kill us as soon as we drew close enough. Therefore, we decided to split the group into two. The other half was supposed to wait near the city and attract the attention of the guards while my group rode west pretending to abandon the task and flee to Romenna. We were to then turn around after half a day’s journey and approach the city in secret from the east to rescue Abârpânarú. However, after the appointed time for reversal arrived, I sensed that we were still being watched. After I rode a little further, my fears had been validated as I noticed a royal guard stalking our party as we moved. I gathered that the guards suspected some sort of staged plan and followed me to make sure that I was indeed abandoning the mission. I had no other choice but to ride all the way Romenna at great haste, reaching the city just over ten hours after we had started.

After I was sure that the guards had dissipated and disguises had been acquired, I made plans to leave for Armenelos under cover of darkness. I was finishing my final preparations to leave in a few hours when you arrived at my door. What brings you here my Lady and how did you find us? Fear not for we shall leave for Armenelos as soon as night falls to rescue Abârpânarú from the clutches of Sauron the foul. On my family’s honor, I will swear to you that we will return bearing your husband alive.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

“I do not care you lout. I will not go another inch accompanying you on this folly mission to Armenelos. I value my life too greatly to throw it away on some crazy rescue mission. Come I am abandoning this quest and returning home. Let every man who wants to live follow me. There is too much danger in trying to continue and I do not wish to find my fate on the altar like our leader. We must leave immediately.”

Azarmanô spoke both loudly and with great conviction, and Kâthaanî was forced to smother a grin as he said it. Her cousin’s plan was sure to lead the King’s men astray. She hated to give the task of rescuing her father into another’s hands, but at least she could play her part well in this diversion.

“If life means abandoning my family, I choose it not, Captain Azarmanô.” She spat the words at him, not as loudly as he had spoken his challenge, but still clear enough to be heard. “I will stay with my cousin and we will not degrade our good names by desertion and betrayal.” Angrily she beckoned to Tiru and he followed her away from the small group of bickering men.

Once they were close together and far from the much more interesting gathering behind them, Kâthaanî leaned close and whispered to the stocky man. “Tiru, I almost believed the good captain was leaving us for safety and home.”

Tiru nodded, a solemn look on his dark face. “Yes, Mistress, we have staged this well. If the King’s Men” – he spat as he said it -- “If the King’s Men do not play our game then they are not the fools I believed them to be.”

“They are fools.” Kâthaanî thought of their blindness toward the true nature of their King’s so-called friend and advisor. “They have all put their trust in the treachery of Sauron. They are fools indeed.”

As the afternoon neared its peak the three members of the Karíbzîr household stood in a row on the ridgetop, their shadows barely beginning to stretch out in front of them, as they watched their three companions ride east in a cloud of dust. Marsillion’s face wore a look of mingled regret and determination, so perfectly feigned that again Kâthaanî fought the urge to laugh. He spun on his heel and walked to where the three horses they had left were tethered, packed with their belongings and ready to depart on their own separate course.

“Well, Cousin Kâthaanî,” Marsillion tossed her a smile at last, “There is day left and still miles for us to cover. Let us hope that we can do this thing.”

“Yes, Cousin.” She returned his smile, but spoke dryly. “Let us hope that we can do this, but not too well.” She drew the short worn blade of her knife from under her cloak. “I do not fancy becoming my father’s cellmate and I put little trust in this to save my skin, so let us be cautious and fleet of foot.” With that they mounted their horses, turning their heads toward the North and Noirinan.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As this information flooded her ears so honestly and concisely, Inzillomi showed a brief moment of weakness, wiping dampness from the corner of her eye. It was so good to be with Azarmanô, a man with whom she could share her thoughts and worries. Though she loved each of her travelling companions, they were innocents, the lot of them. Not a one had the gall or depth of spirit to become a guardian, or a leader. They believed, surely, but it would never do to involved them in rescues, or burden them with information they could not understand. With Azarmanô, Inzi could spill her thoughts, relieving herself of the burden of stoicism.

"Captain, I should have said this at first sight of you today, but you have little idea how much a relief it is to see you." Inzi sat silently for a while, sipping the hot tea that Azarmanô had deposited into her hands. "So my daughter...?"

"Flourishing. I sense that she feels uncertain of her place among these men, but I judge that, when she learns it, it will make her stronger in spirit than ever before."

"And Marsillion?"

"A brave leader. Everyone is doing quite well, Inzi. Outside Armenelos, your family and your faithful Tiru draw the guards' attention. We here leave in a short while. Still, one thought plagues me. However did you know to find us?"

Inzillomi grinned impishly, the picture of youthful mischief. "Cannot a lady have some secrets, old friend? But if you must know... I happened to glimpse Thoronmir and he thought it best that he should bring me to you to learn the truth."

"Ah... that old rascal. Deposting ladies on doorsteps, is he?" Inzillomi smiled again before her face took on a more serious quality.

"Azarmanô, you've told me that Thoronmir cannot continue with the mission. Will it be possible for only two to complete a rescue? I have the utmost faith in you, but I still feel uncertain of Abarzadan. Has he yet shared of himself? We have shown good faith in letting him know our troubles, though obviously not all of them... Should not good faith be returned in good faith?"

To this Azarmanô had little to say. Their mysterious companion remained as such, but he could be trusted nonetheless. With her friend's words, Inzillomi dropped the issue. She trusted his judgement.

"Now... there is the issue of Kali. Whereas my usual mount can be stabled at need for days at a time, this lass... gets bored. I will take her back for my own ride so that her talents will not be overlooked, even by accident or unknowing. That would never do." Inzi fell silent for another while. This silence, Azarmanô felt, was more pensive.

"Azarmanô..."

"Yes?"

"I would like to ride with you. Without Thoronmir, you are only two, though two with kariborim. I would be an asset, I believe, to the mission. I can do nothing here save wait. With you, I believe I could make a difference. What say you?"

He stood silent in consideration. This was no small favor that she asked. She saw in his eyes that he required time to think, and as the appointed leader in this situation, there was no point in pulling rank. If he declined her request, she would return to Elendil.

"Think, Azarmanô, and I shall return shortly. If you decide yes, I will be prepared to ride upon return. If the answer is no... I will drink to your health, wish you luck, and pray for your swift return with my family."

--------------------

A very short time later she returned to the Inn. She doubted very much that any of the men on this complicated mission could have packed less, or as swiftly as she. Her packing, really, was more unpacking than anything. She had not yet managed to empty her saddle-bags before she took a walk and ran, fortuitously as it was, into Thoronmir, and so she was able, simply, to toss several bags into an unused corner and half empty one before tucking a few small blades into a pocket.

She had changed into an outfit far more suitable for this kind of work, tightly packing a soft gown into an empty space. One can never be sure when a bit of indignant nobility and sophistication comes in handy. she thought, as she belted a pair of gray pants. The legs were loose, seeming as a skirt when she walked, but for riding offered much more comfort. Over, she wore a loose tunic-length white blouse, with side-slits for mobility. Belting the shirt was a wide black sash, knotted to the side, in which was tucked a pair of daggers, several lock picks, and a vial of liquid she hoped she would not need. Foxgloves... she thought with a sigh... What a fascinating effect they have on the heart. Her hair was tightly plaited by a maid as Inzi tucked non-perishables into each spare corner of the one bag she rode with. Less than an hour after she had left, Inzillomi returned to the Inn, lightly laden, and ready to ride.

She knocked once more on the door, in perfect imitation of Thoronmir's earlier one. The door opened, and she entered.

[TomBrady12]

The sun sunk lazily behind the long southwestern spur of Meneltarma, sending shades of pink and orange shimmering across the western horizon. The small party moved slowly and solemnly east along the slightly rising turf. Cresting the slow rise, they stood upon the brink of a shallow valley. There, tucked between the roots of the mountain, lay Noirinan, the Valley of the Tombs. The silent vale shone eerily in the fading light, the last rays of sun glinting off the tall obelisks and wide arches of gold. “It is beautiful,” Marsillion whispered softly to himself. “Beautiful and terrifying.”

“How tragic it is,” Tiru said with tears welling in his dark eyes, “that these dead are treated with such reverence, while my people are butchered and robbed to provide this obscene overflow of wealth.” Kâthaanî took the swarthy man compassionately by the hand as they turned south and continued to ride slowly along the rim of the valley.

There had been no sight of the pursing soldiers since early morning, and secretly Marsillion wondered if he had taken the meandering to a bit of an excess. The group had planned earlier in the day to journey east to the brink of Noirinan before turning briefly south to bypass the sacred hollow. From there, they would pick up the main road leading east to Armenelos before making camp for the night. They had agreed that in order to be a believable decoy they should at last begin to progress toward their supposed objective. They had just reached the road connecting Noirinan and Armenelos and begun a few paces east when they heard a loud call ahead of them. Scanning the road, the three comrades saw to their dismay four of the King's Men, bows raised, deadly arrows fitted to the strings.

“This game has gone on quite long enough, indigent faithful,” the leader of the group bellowed. “You are under arrest by order of the King of Anadûnê.”

Marsillion glared at the soldier, the same officer he had encountered earlier. “How can this be,” Marsillion raged. “The King has sailed away from this land. He could not possibly have given such an order.”

“The High Priest has been granted the authority to carry out justice in the absence of the King,” the officer replied smugly. Turning toward his small contingent of soldiers he spoke with contempt, “Arrest them.” Dismounting their horses the three soldiers were momentarily forced to lower their bows. Not a word passed between any of the Faithful, the Kariborim were in control now. As soon as the bows were lowered Nitirú, Ruki and Mani spun on their heels and bolted west into the sacred vale of Noirinan. Marsillion heard the arrows, fervently singing, as they flew harmlessly by and clattered to the ground beneath the raging hooves. They had escaped, for the moment.

The three rescuers were carried at breakneck speed down the main street into the heart of Noirinan. Past elaborate memorials commemorating ancient victories, through the final halls of the mightiest politicians and generals the world had ever known. The Kariborim far outdistanced the horses of the King’s Men, but a greater problem was arising. The heavy pounding of the racing hooves throbbed throughout the valley, echoing off the great stone buildings, alerting all the King's Men ceremonially standing guard at the most sacred tombs and monuments. The three fugitives raced through the torch lit city, unaware of the gathering throng of curious guards in pursuit. The punishment for disturbing the peace in Noirinan was death, and Marsillion knew it all too well. They came flying at last to the very roots of Meneltarma, the holy precipice rose sharply before them. Ahead lay the tombs of the Kings, delved deeply into the silent depths of the mountain. Behind, a multitude of guards, their bright helms and intricate armor glowing red in the torchlight. Marsillion pulled Mani to a halt a few paces in front of the pillar of Eärendil, the great statue in the likeness of the heroic mariner. Marsillion dismounted, followed closely by Kâthaanî and Tiru, and walked slowly and reverently up the great granite steps to the very feet of Eärendil. He could feel the guards ebbing closer, yet kept his back to them, bowing briefly beneath the mighty statue.

“Who art thou who so arrogantly disturbs the slumber of the Kings?” one of the guards finally spoke. “Dost thou know thy punishment is death?” There was no response from the three still figures at the feet of the hero. “Declare yourselves, lest you feel the chill of our spears.”

Slowly Marsillion turned toward the guards, as did Kâthaanî and Tiru. They were greatly outnumbered, but it was with boldness and conviction that Marsillion spoke. “I am Marsillion of the house of Thoronfaer. These are my kinsmen, Cerveth and Arkrision of the house of Melethroch.”

The guards expression morphed quickly from curiosity to contempt. “Those names are not recognized here,” he spat viciously. “So you are members of that treasonous sect from Rómenna, aye? Elf-Friends you call yourselves? Fools! I tell you this as a last warning. The power has gone out from the Elves. The King of Anadûnê is the ultimate power now, and we are his right arm.” As he spoke this, the assembly of guards lowered their spears toward the Faithful. “Renounce your folly now and you will stand trial before the High Priest. Continue along your traitor's track and you shall die now.”

Marsillion was about to speak, but to his astonishment, Cerveth beat him to it. “We shall never turn from the path we have chosen,” she said with tears forming in her deep grey eyes. “Faithful we have been, and faithful we shall remain. Never shall we turn our backs upon the powers that brought us out from certain death in Beleriand so long ago. I know I speak for all of us,” she said as she knelt and kissed the stone foot of Eärendil, “when I say we would rather die here, knowing we serve the greater Lord, than die tomorrow at the abominable hands of Sauron the Manipulator.” She stood, reaching into the small sack that she kept on her back. Out from the sack she pulled a long bladed knife, the tarnished silver handle tight in her trembling hands. She held the rusted blade above her head and cried, “Now I give my own warning. Whether by my hand or another, none who would raise arms against the servants of the Valar, the true Lords of the Earth, shall survive to see Yestarë.” When she was finished she dropped her hands to her sides and waited for the reply.

“I see you have chosen death,” the leader of the guards said, with utter contempt. “Kill them.” With that the assembly of nearly twenty armed soldiers of Westernesse moved against the three silent patriots.

“Let us go from this world gloriously,” Marsillion said coolly as he withdrew his shining sword from its hiding place on Mani's broad back. Looking over his shoulder he saw Tiru, with almost a smile upon his time worn face, retrieve the long, elegant bow, borrowed from the family armament, and fit an arrow to the taut string.

“What I do now,” the dark swarthy man said, drawing the string to his ear, “I do for my master.” The long black shaft slid through his stubby fingertips. The arrow stayed true to it‘s target, puncturing the polished breastplate, and embedding itself deep within the chest of the bold spoken leader. The tall Númenorean commander dropped immediately to the cobblestones, his ashen face staring blankly into the west. The fight was on.

Marsillion watched and waited as the guards rushed up the cold stone towards him, the bowstrings of Cerveth and Tiru singing in his ears. Many of the guards, who were armed only with spears, fell victim to the ferocious hail of arrows as they raced forward, intent on combat. Marsillion felt the blood run hot through his veins as the first guard to the top went straight for him, hurling his spear with frightening speed just over the younger man’s shoulder. The spear struck the knee of the great statue, but even the brutal strength of the heave could not harm it. The now unarmed man raced onward toward Marsillion, only to be cut down by the arching swing of his heavy sword. On rushed another, with a great thrust of his long weapon, which was easily sidestepped. Momentum carried the stately guard on past Marsillion, who, with a lightning flick of his strong wrists, carved a great wound across the back of the retreating guard’s thigh, sending him flailing helplessly to the street below. Just then, Marsillion heard a scream that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He turned and saw his cousin, unarmed, in the grasp of a familiar man, his long slender dagger pressed firmly to her delicate throat. There stood the leader of the King's Men who had been following them for days, and who they had eluded only minutes before. His company had come quietly from behind in the mayhem and struck unseen.

“That is enough,” the Captain roared to guards and Faithful alike. “These three are to be taken as prisoners to Arminalêth. They shall stand trial before the great Lord Sauron. Bind the slave and the girl,” he ordered his men as he turned on Marsillion. “As for you,” he sneered, “you who would seek to make a fool out of me. Arrogance, young one, your father should have warned you against it. You wonder how we knew of your mission I suppose, and I don't blame you. Every family has a weakness Nimilroth, even the proud house of Narâkmanô can be cracked. You relied heavily upon your half-wit cousin for information on our movements, did you not? Well, what if I were to tell you we relied heavily on him for information on yours?” He paused, seeming to let the revelation sink in.

“That can't be so,” Marsillion moaned, tears filling his blue eyes. He knew it must be true, for what other source could have told them, but he hated to believe it. “Not Nusaphad,” he almost whimpered.

“Oh yes,” laughed the guard. “If it makes you feel any better, young one, the asking price was very high; but in the end he was convinced to see our point of view. Everything can be bought you see, even life long friendship,” he paused, “when the price is right. Now, Nimilroth, tell me, who has been made the fool in the end?” As he said this he struck hard across the face of the slightly taller man, his iron plated gauntlets tearing brutally across his fair forehead. Marsillion droped to his knees in agony, the sting of blood stealing his vision. “Bind him,” the assailant said casually as he turned and mounted his horse.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô opened the door for a second time. Now, however, he expected to find Lady Inzillomi on the other side and flashed her a warm smile. Her request required a long time to consider, but under the circumstances two hours of contemplation was all he had. He hesitated allowing the Lady to join the party because of the grave danger they would certainly encounter on their expedition into the Temple at Armenelos, layer of Sauron himself. The group was shattered, a mere fragment of the expedition that had set out some weeks before. After Thoronmir’s sudden departure, the only men remaining to accompany the lady were Abarzadan, in whom Azarmanô did not invest complete confidence, and himself. She would be an easy target to single out if they were ever engaged in combat, which he feared would be likely. With her husband close to being sacrificed and her daughter hiding from the royal guards, Azarmanô felt guilty about launching Inzillomi into yet another perilous situation. He could not bear to envision her being arrested by the king’s men and brought to a cell next to the one she loved, awaiting her blood to be spilt on the altar. If a tragedy should befall both husband and daughter, someone must remain to carry on the family name.

He could not plan for the future with great conviction, however, for his concerns were focused on the immediate. It was certainly true that Thoronmir’s departure could not have come at a worse time, but he was certainly glad that he had decided to rejoin the party in Romenna. His departure, however, had given Azarmanô pause to tust him, perhaps even less so than Abarzadan. What kind of fickle companion leaves a group on a whim only to rejoin them later? He did not know Thoronmir's motivation behind his actions, but he was certainly suspicious of them.

Azarmanô had occasionally heard from Abârpânarú that his wife preformed missions for the Faithful when another man was unavailable or ill. In fact, he had employed her aid on his exploits several times and used her as a contact and benefactor. This experience as an operative, he felt sure, would be extremely useful in their journey. She knew both how to conduct herself in the critical missions that they would encounter so as not to attract attention and how to escape from dangerous situations. He had even heard tales that she had wielded a sword once in combat and killed a man, although he questioned their validity.

But the one factor that motivated him in making his decision more than any other was not experience in battle, but trust. The sense of confidence he shared with her grew from their extensive service for the Faithful. The pair had to share a strong bond of confidence to work together, for death lurked in the vacuous shadows waiting for them. The only thing that saved the members of the Faithful in such treacherous times was their ability to find strength in and depend on one another. If he brought her along, he could count on her as a fellow Faithful to be devoted to the task until the end, regardless of what dangers they encountered along the way.

Not only could he depend upon her loyalty, but he knew that she had a stronger impetus to rescue Abârpânarú than even he had. It was her husband who was locked in the dungeon, about to be sacrificed at any moment. The bond of love is a stronger one than any other in the world, and those who have it will never let go until their spirits have left them. Such is how Azarmanô felt about his own wife and son whom he still vowed to see no matter what he must endure to reach them. Inzillomi must feel the same towards her husband who sat enslaved in the dank dungeon and only daughter who remained with Marsillion and Tiru somewhere near Armenelos. Azarmanô only hoped that he could reach the two before something horrible happened to either of them.

He now addressed Lady Inzillomi confidently, “My Lady, we would be honored if you could join our group to rescue Abârpânarú from Armenelos. It is not an easy request you make of me, for there shall be more danger now than ever. The group is split and our number is not as large as it was when we departed from your house at the beginning of the journey. However, I feel compelled to agree to your request because I place a trust in you that I am sure is not misguided. I know that in your prior missions for the Faithful you have displayed your bravely in the face of evil, and you shall do so again in this one. Now that I have warned you, it is best for us to be off. We must make haste, for precious lives hang delicately in the balance. You and Abarzadan will ride together and I shall ride the other Karibor. I have told Thoronmir to rejoin us outside the gates of the city.” Without waiting for a response, if indeed one was forthcoming, Azarmanô mounted his horse and motioned for Abarzadan and Inzillomi to do likewise. “Away,” he shouted before galloping with speed out of Romenna and towards Armenelos and the temple of Sauron.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The skies had opened seemingly the second the group had left Rómenna. In what could only be described as a more and more predictable force of fury by nature, the rain drove into the riders and the ground, churning what seemed as much mud as the hooves of the kariborim. Inzi silently thanked the Valar for the good fortune. As uncomfortable and dirty as it was to ride in this weather (cleaning the mud from the tack would take hours), she knew that very few would set foot outdoors until the rain stopped. The fewer outside, the less likely the three were to be spotted. Ironically, it was just as she thought this, some two hours into the ride, that the rain suddenly stopped. She sighed, laughed at the fickleness of nature, and thanked the Valar for the bright sunlight that would have her dry in no time.

It was at this time that the three stopped to water their mounts and to set their plans in stone... or at least more in stone than they were now. After seeing to Kali, who she had retaken from Thoronmir after his disappearance, Inzi spoke to the two men.

"Brothers in this mission... thank you for allowing me to ride beside you. I'm afraid I must beg of you another favor... your ears, and your advice. It is somewhat um... less than prudent... for me to ride into Arminalêth such as I am. I would be recognized as a child of Elendil in a matter of moments, and as such, the wife of a political prisoner. Many know of me, and some actually know me as a person." She laughed hollowly, wondering why she had been so hasty in joining this expedition. She was a danger to them as she was... it must be remedied, and fast. "I propose a disguise, for myself at the least. I cannot ride to the city as Inzillomi, daughter of Elendil. I would have no reason to be there, and I would be too easily recognized, endangering the mission. What say you to me riding double with one of you... as a sister, or a wife? I can change the first impression of myself at need, but I am in need of a new identiy, it seems. What think you?"

[Himaran]

An instant after Lady Inzillomi finished her request, Abârzadan knew what was going to happen. The scheme forming in his mind was an uncomfortable one, to say the least, but appeared inevitable by all standards. The "sister" scenario would not work because Inzi did not even closely resemble either of the men. Furthermore, Azarmanô had a wife of his own. If he were recognized with his "new" partner, everyone's cover would be blown. This left only one option - Inzillomi would have to play Abârzadan's wife. As the other two waited in silence, the man let out a heavy sigh. He could already imagine the feat of explaining to Abârpânarú - a man he had never actually met before - that he was unofficially married to Inzi until the mission was completed. Still, they had no other options.

Clearing his throat, Abârzadan began speaking. He presented all three possibilities, and then cited enough evidence against the first two to thoroughly discredit them. "And so," he finished, "we are left with only one choice: Lady Inzillomi, you will have to pretend to be my wife for the remainder of our journey. No one there knows or remembers me, so the disguise will be quite effective." After a long pause, both Inzi and Azarmanô agreed. The man helped Inzi up onto their mount, and climbed up behind her. The trio was off at last.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The group had covered the many miles in a few short hours, riding into sight of the city at last. Inzillomi rode in what was far from normal to her, cradled in the arms of the stranger that was to be her husband. She had forced herself to relax; to act as though this were an every day occurence. She fell deep inside her own thoughts, listening to the sound of her breathing; counting the beats of her heart. To a stranger, she looked as though she'd been born to ride double with Abârzadan. Their ride had been mostly silent, with a few quiet comments about where to stop.

Now, outside Arminalêth, and just out of sight of the city walls, they studied their options. Every entrance was heavily guarded. The King's Men swarmed disturbingly in much the same way that good guys don't.

They dismounted, stretching their legs, and spoke quietly in the shadows.

"Now my doves," Inzillomi drawled drily. "we've arrived. How do you plan on getting into the city? Thoronmir, though he has not been seen in this area in quite some time, is a public face that many will know. I am the wife of Abârpânarú, and well known in my own right. Abârzadan, I know you little, so I could not tell how recognizable you are, but Azarmanô, it seems that you are the only of us that could enter unnoticed. I would recommend the sewers, gentlemen, but I have no doubt that they are watched as well. Are there, perhaps, servants' entrances that we could use with care?"

[Regin Hardhammer]

Lady Inzillomì ’s question of how the four of them would enter the city unnoticed was one that Azarmanô had given thought to numerous times before in the course of the mission. He had come to the realization quite some time ago that disguises would be necessary before the group could enter the city. They had experienced several hostile meetings with the guards before, and they were sure to be recognized if they were seen.

The temple at Armenelos would be swarming with soldiers transporting prisoners and keeping watch over the cells. He did not wish to have another unfortunate encounter in close quarters with the royal guards. This time their actions must be covert. They would be the ones doing the surprising and not the other way around. Azarmanô found that he felt much more secure on missions when he was in control of the situation and the element of surprise was in his favor. Yes, they would need to acquire disguises before they penetrated deep into the city. Certainly the Faithful could not traverse the ground so close to Sauron himself and hope to escape recognition.

There was also the question of which path they would take to enter the city with the least amount of visibility. Even with disguises, an enemy still might still be able to recognize some of their number. As a former adviser to the king, Thoronmir had spent much time in Armenelos and was bound to be remembered by some there and probably not fondly either since his flight. If the party entered through the main gate, the soldiers would certainly see their faces, no matter how they were dressed, and seize them. They must find a way into the city that was seldom used by any man. Even if the alternate path took longer and was more rugged it would be worth the trouble if they were able to reach the dungeon of Sauron without being spied on by unfriendly eyes.

But where would they find such a route and where could they acquire such disguises in their present, isolated situation? Ordinarily, when Azarmanô needed a disguise on one of his missions, he was able to acquire one from the house of another Faithful nearby. But here he did not know any safe havens where such an operation would be possible. He regretted to admit to himself that they were quite on their own, separated from any form of benevolent assistance. Neither did Azarmanô know of any alternate route to the city. The only entrance or exit, it seemed from his vantage point, was the main gate where carts drawn by horses and mules traveled in both directions while being monitored by a contingent of several guards. They would have to employ another way of passage if they did not want to be greeted once again by the king’s men, with whom Azarmanô felt already too well acquainted.

The easiest way, it seemed to him, to slip past the guards undetected would be to dress as guards themselves. These disguises would grant the rescuers access to the dungeon, even to the cell of Abârpânarú. They would be able to enter into the very center of Sauron’s layer without arousing suspicion so long as their facade held. The only question was where they could obtain such garb. Suddenly, Azarmanô was struck with an idea.

“Yes lady Inzillomì , we must wear disguises if we are to enter the city. How could we approach the dungeon dressed as we are? It simply would not do. It would be best for us to obtain disguises that can aid our cause. What better way have we to enter the dungeon than to wear the raiment of the king’s men? We must ambush a group of them, not a large one of course, and take their garments. A grey tunic, a shirt of plate mail, and a metal helmet are the three main components of their clothing which we must acquire. As for how we are to get in, we surely can not use the main gate. There are men guarding it and our faces must not be seen by them, for they have spied on us and might recall our identity still. We must use a different path, a more secret one that has not been used in some time. I suggest that we approach the city from Noirian, the Valley of Tombs, final resting place of Numenorian royalty. Many a noble king lies resting in those hallowed halls, perhaps they shall bless us with their merit. The tombs are dank and cavernous, but they provide us with a way into the city that has not been used in many years. I know that this may sound precarious to you, and I do not deny the danger involved. But we must take on this peril with brave hearts and wills of stone, for the path we must take to rescue our leader is mired in fear and darkness. For those who wish to follow, it may be the only feasible way of completing our rescue.”

He spoke with an air of defiance against the evils that stood before them. He had a feeling that he would need his acting skills now more than ever. He gazed ambitiously at the ancient valley as the sun sank into the horizon bathing the sky above in deep purple and bright magenta. It was quite a journey from where they were know, but Azarmanô could see the vague outline of the cave’s mouth and the boulders surrounding the entrance. “Well,” he finally said after scanning the Noirian with intent for several minutes, “We certainly can’t execute the plan without the consent of everyone in the group. Please, tell me, does this propose ring dulcet in your ears?

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi considered his plan for a few moments before responding.

"Azarmanô, your plan has merit. I am rather fond of it, but for one small problem. The King's Men, no matter what fools they may be, would be certain to recognize a woman within their ranks. I could not continue with you, once disguised, unless you took me as a captive to be sacrificed beside my husband. It would be a risk... the audacity is breath taking... but it has been my experience that the best lie is one that contains several grains of truth, and is left to dance naked before the eyes of the ones in question. Audacity is nearly always underestimated. And you must admit... the lot of us being sacrificed by that Dark fiend is not so far from the truth..."

She took a deep breath and left the suggestion to hang in the air.

[Himaran]

Meneltarmacil's post

As much as Thoronmir wanted to find another way of doing things, he had to concede that Inzillomi's plan was probably the best one to work with. He spoke up.

"I do not really like to admit this, but Inzillomi's way is really the only feasable way of getting inside the city. The way through the tombs may work, though I think you will probably find the exit to be guarded. As for acquiring the uniforms, I already have some of their major components and had them brought here a while ago so they'd be ready when I'd have to leave. If Azarmanô could wear it, he may be able to enter a nearby camp and find two other uniforms without attracting a lot of attention. Afterward, we could bring Inzillomi through the gates without a whole lot of trouble, though Azarmanô would probably need to do most of the talking to avoid too much recognition."

~*~

Himaran's post

The group sat in silence, pondering the Lady's proposition. Risky indeed! How could they be sure that the true King's men would not take her from her "guards" and escort Inzillomi to a prison themselves? Furthermore, when news of her arrival spread, the Dark Priest himself would doubtlessly catch word of it, and the entire plan would unravel before their eyes. "My Lady," said Abarzadan, "I strongly disagree. It is too dangerous, for all of us. How do we know that you will not be removed from our custody and dumped in cell which we can never find? Then there will be two prisoners for our already weakened band to rescue." With that, he hunched down in the saddle, as if wearied by his short, passionate speech."

Azarmano exchanged glances with Inzi, and they nodded. The captain spoke softly to Abarzadan: "It is the only sure way to get us past the gate and into the city, and that is our first priority. Besides, Thoronmir here and I are well known, and guard outfits would be a convincing disguise." The former politician, who had just recently rejoined the group, nodded in approval. Abarzadan did not reply, but merely urged his horse forward, and the others followed his example. The four mounted travelers rode in complete silence, and soon arrived at the tombs. Here, their resolve would be tested yet again.

[littlemanpoet]

The cell was cold and dark. Mabalar sat on the floor, his back against the rough stone wall. He could not get the stink of burning flesh out of his nostrils, nor the sight of the dying man's agony from his mind. Yet again he shut his eyes tight against the images racing through his mind's eye; yet again it mattered not. The young man's face, writhing in agony and melting in the heat, burned in his mind.

"Curse you, Sauron," he mumbled with a dry tongue.

It seemed that he had one more day to live. He did not want to die, did not want to feel the seering flames eating his flesh. But that was as naught compared to his heart's will not to lie upon the altar beneath the gloating gaze of Sauron. It must not be! He realized that he was breathing hard with the strength of his desire. He calmed himself, slowly.

What were the chances of his being rescued? He was sure that his beloved daughter Kâthaanî would do all in her power to resuce him, whether he wished her to or not. He did wish it, especially if he could foil at least this small part of Sauron's plan, which had all the look of succeeding in every way imaginable. He saw little hope, and his throat clotted with it. The darkness of his cell and the red fire of the altar seemed to conspire to turn his heart to ashes.

Ah Elbereth! Gilthoniel! Hear me I beg you!
Let not the evil one win in all ways in these troubled days!
May there be found for me a secret path through the night
to a safe haven and into day's new light!

Even as he whispered his prayer, a dim light came into view far down the hall. It was Târik, bringing food and drink.

After he had come in and given Mabalar to eat and drink, and received his thanks for it, Târik asked, "How do you fare, lord?"

"I am alive, though my mind burns with the terrible things I have seen this night."

Târik nodded sorrowfully. "Aye. Tar Míriel sent me to you for the sake of your need. 'Tell him for me, "You are remembered from the uttermost West, and your task must be fulfilled. Do not lose hope."' And she bade me remind you that she has a small treasure that she would save from the doom of Númenor."

"Thank you, Târik. None have reached me here in the deeps of these dungeons with any word of aid. I can only hope."

Târik pursed his lips and nodded. "I will see what I can do on the outside come dawn." With that, Târik left him. And he found that the words of Míriel, and his own prayer, stayed in his memory, and assuaged the terrors. He slept.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Thoronmir’s revelation had both surprised and excited Azarmanô. He was so elated they already had a guard uniform that a large, amiable grin spread across his face. Now there would be no need to hide in the bushes and hope that they would not be seen. He formulated a plan exactly how he would steal the necessary clothing. Once he had finished planning, he approached Thoronmir, Inzillomi, and Abarzadan.

First, Azarmanô addressed Thoronmir, “I wish to borrow your guard uniform. I thank you for your generosity. The disguise will be indispensable to our mission.”

Turning to the rest of the group, he continued, “Tonight I will don the uniform and ride my Karibor away from our camp. I will find a group of soldiers, take their uniforms, and return by morning. Fear not for my safety: I am completely confident my tactics will succeed. This mission must be completed by one man only, but I swear that you shall see my face once more before the sun rises. Goodbye for now then.”

After putting on his grey tunic and sliding a shirt of light weight plate mail over his head, he lowered the metal helm onto his head with its fair yellow hair. He mounted his horse and rode with some regret away from the group. Azarmanô did not enjoy separating himself from the others to accomplish his task, but could envision no other way of doing what he must. He intended to fulfill his promise of returning before the morning just as he felt determined to observe the vow he had made to his wife before she left that they would meet again on the boats in Romenna.

It was not hard to find a contingent of the king’s men close by. The sky was now dark and a glowing light diffused from a large campfire that had been made a distance away. Quickly, Azarmanô began to ride towards the blaze, suspecting that it was the camp of soldiers. After traveling a short distance, he could see the outline of three guards who appeared to be eating dinner. Azarmanô could smell the savory smell of hot beef stew, which appealed to him greatly because he was voracious from skipping dinner.

He stopped in front of what appeared to be the leader judging from the prominent golden insignia that he displayed on his helmet. As an extra precaution Azarmanô attempted to disguise his voice, using a gruff, coarse tone.

“Where have you been? My captain sent me to your squadron because we had too many men and not enough supplies for all of them. I am to join your unit now.”

“Yes,” said the captain casually, “Well it looks as though we have no choice. In any case, we have room for one more man in our camp. We will be gathering more suspicious villagers for a mass sacrifice at the temple tomorrow morning. Sit now and eat.”

Azarmanô grimaced at the thought of such an atrocity and the horrible carnage that the dawn would bring. He would ensure that such carnage would never occur under any circumstances.The beef stew tasted as good as it smelled, filling and satisfying his ravenous hunger that had afflicted him since morning. After dinner, the men told stories of the encounters that they had experienced earlier that day. Several times they referred to the “mongrel faithful” and all of their “criminal behavior” and Azarmanô was forced to suppress the wellspring of anger that rose slowly within him, albeit with difficulty. The soldiers grew more weary as the night wore on and until the men retired, yawning profusely, to their sleeping sacs beneath the star speckled night sky. Azarmanô followed suit with the other soldiers and slipped into the sac that was provided for him. The evening was cool and somewhat windy, but not uncomfortably chilly from within a warm sleeping sac, which more than made up from the stench of sweat.

He waited for what seemed to be two hours in his sac until he was certain that all of the men were asleep. He rose from his bed knowing what he must do now, despite his serious misgivings. The soldiers must be eliminated, for if he let them live then they would take their revenge against the nearby village. Moreover, having seen his face, every soldier within an enormous radius around the city would be hunting for him, rendering the rescue mission impossible. Not only would this endanger his life, but the lives of his entire group. No place would be safe for them to stay for long with the king’s men chasing close behind. It was the only way to get the uniforms without alerting the entire force of guards to their presence.

Drawing his long, black oak bow he silently shot an arrow into the face of each of the gaurds so as not to damage the uniform. The process was quick, each arrow he fired in quick succession at the soldiers that lay engrossed in slumber. His skill and precision with the bow ensured that the process did not create much noise. He tried not to think of the families that these men belonged to or the wives that they left behind, like his own, but the thoughts seeped into his mind nonetheless, and heightened his ambivalence. He cleared these thoughts from his head by reassuring himself that it was simply a mission to steal uniforms and protect many villagers from certain death, but the doubts still plagued him.

Azarmanô stripped the corpses of their raiment, including the metal helmets that the soldiers had taken off before heading to sleep. After the process was complete, Azarmanô had pilfered three of the four guard uniforms, including the captains, which he planned to wear himself. He dragged their bodies one by one to the edge of a steep cliff and threw them into a covered wooded ravine with thick, tall grass. From the top of the precipice, Azarmanô could see no signs of their bodies. Somberly, he extinguished the fires by pouring large fistfuls of sand into the dying blaze, leaving a large pile of ash in its wake. As promised, he traveled back in the camp just as the sun rose above the horizon, the harbinger of a new day.

[Himaran]

Abarzadan, Inzillmi, and Thoronmir crouched among the tombs, waiting for Azarmanô return. All were worried; how could one man, even a great warrior, sneak in and out of a guard camp unscathed, all the while purloining four uniforms and remaining unseen. Given the group's previous experiences with the King's men, the whole plan definitely leaned toward the side of foolishness, if not pure madness. Yet go Azarmanô did, for good or for ill, and the others could only wait for one of two things: his appearance, or the passage of enough time to rule out the possibility of him succeeding (and surviving).

It was early morning at the small campsite, and all three were hungry. They ate a quick cold breakfast; no fires could be lit this close to the city, especially when the members of the company had yet to disguise themselves. Afterwards they repacked the food, and tried to find something productive to do. In reality all they did was toy with various objects and worry about Azarmanô and his mission, but each managed to put on a good show of being busy.

Abarzadan's heart leapt when he heard branches snapping in the distance. Motioning to the others, he readied his now very over-polished axe and crept forward to see who the intruder might be. He then relaxed and lowered his weapon as the familiar face of the captain became visible over the rise. "Over here!" he yelled, and all three hurried to meet their friend, very much the hero returning with the sun.

[littlemanpoet]

Târik had brought food for Mabalar. The cell was dimly lit by his torch, and the young guard was cleaning his cell in such a way that it was no threat to Mabalar's health while it was made to appear filthy to other guards.

Mabalar swallowed and said, "I am hoping that I can trust you, Târik." He turned and faced Mabalar, waiting for him to speak.

"There is a friend who lives here. I want you to contact him."

"Lord," said Târik fervently, "do not trust me unless you are convinced of my faithfulness."

Mabalar nodded and smiled grimly. "Well said. Go to the market square and go to its center. There is a shop keeper. His name is Monôizindu Igmizadan. He is of average Numenorean height, wears a reddish beard, though that may not be the case any longer. He is past his prime but not old yet. A small scar can be seen across the bridge of his nose. He is a trustworthy man, and he knows people. Tell him that I sent you. Tell him that it is time to pay the weregild I have never held him to but he has held himself to, for I saved him from drowning when we were young. No other guards would know that. Go to him and ask him to learn what he can, and to see what he can do to aid my escape."

The young guard nodded. "I will do as you say."

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir, Azarmanô, Inzillomi, and Abarzadan approached the entrance to the city. They were soon met by four armed guards.

"Permission to escort this one to the temple?" asked Azarmanô, who was wearing the uniform of an officer.

Thoronmir and Abarzadan came forward holding Inzillomi.

"As the wife of Abârpânarú, she must be wanted for tonight's sacrifice," Azarmanô continued.

The guards talked among themselves for a few minutes, and it seemed like the plan was going to fail when one of the guards said, "Permission granted. Lord Sauron will be pleased."

They proceeded toward the temple. Their bluff had worked, for now at least. Thoronmir, though, could not help but feel that it had been too easy for them to get in.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô rode his Karibor solemnly down the edge of market square, inching closer towards the temple that loomed ominously before them. He tried not to look, or even think, about that foul place, for it sent shivers of fear down his spine. The sacrifices of Sauron’s enemies that occurred there daily were notorious for their bloodshed and cruelty. Despite his courage, he felt horrified by the gruesome events on the altar. He vowed that the party would not allow such horrors to happen to Abârpânarú.

Slowly the group moved along the edge square, silent and plagued by anxiety. They were approaching the bowels of evil, the temple of the destroyer, home of Sauron himself. Try as he might to move through the city with stealth, Azarmanô noticed that an increasing number of people appeared to be staring at them. This is not good, he thought. The last thing the group needed was more attention. But the more he wished that people would simply forget he was there, the more people seemed to crowd the party, partially choking off their path forward.

“Out of the way,” he shouted in his best gruff soldier voice. “We must take this prisoner to the temple.”

The people, however, moved only slightly out of the way, leaving a narrow passage for the group to pass through. The party moved forward carefully on their horses, trying not to trample any of the people that obstructed the way. Most of the people stared menacingly at the female “prisoner” that the “soldiers” were leading forward in chains. The process of navigating through the throng of transfixed onlookers was painstakingly slow, much to the chagrin of Azarmanô, who longed for it to be over soon.

To make matters worse, many of the people who gathered did not feel content merely to gawk at the prisoner, but expressed their sentiments out loud as well. A chorus of raucous boos descended from the crowd directed at the prisoner. Exclamations of hatred vibrated through the air; two of the most prominent were “Death to the Faithful,” and “Kill the traitor.” One old woman with white hair and a brown dress that was dirty and tattered from wear threw a handful of mud at Inzillomí, soiling her blouse and shouting profanities. So much hatred, thought Azarmanô. Where does it come from?

To her credit, Inzillomí took the torrent of scorn with a remarkable degree of restraint. Not once during the downpour did she respond to the mob with the anger that had been showered upon her. She did not even flinch, always affixing her eyes firmly upon the ground, an expression of stoicism spread across her face. Azarmanô felt enormous pride in Inzillomí. He could imagine what inner strength she must have to endure such insults, but he did not expect any different from a person of such character as she.

One man, however, seemed to catch Azarmanô’s eye. He stood at the entrance of a pottery and hermetics store and wore a white apron across the font of his shirt, indicating he was the owner. The man had bright red hair and a full beard, each marked with several streaks of white that betrayed the fact his youth had passed. He did not join the crowd in their taunting, but preferred to remain apart, watching the events unfold from his doorway. When he saw the Lady being escorted to the castle in chains, his aloof demeanor changed to that of alarm and his eyes widened in surprise. For a moment, Azarmanô wondered what caused this reaction, but he turned his attention back to getting into the dungeon safely. Finally, after a prolonged struggle against the tide of the crowd, the group reached the entrance to the temple itself. They were going into the dungeon, and they would not be coming out again until they had rescued Abârpânarú, leader of the Faithful and, more importantly, a true friend.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The ground shook faintly with the steps of the proud kariborim. It shook less faintly with the anger of the land itself. Inzillomi stumbled once, catching herself before she fell. She strode proudly on barely encumbered by the shackles, flanked by her companions. Curses met her ears and she steeled herself. She had known this would come, but it is one thing to know of this hatred and yet another to experience it. This was what she had devoted so much of her life to prevent from happeneing to others, and yet here she was, the object of curiosity... the focus of so much anger.

She refused to do the townsfolk the courtesy of meeting their eyes. She focused her glance instead on the empty ground beneath her feet. Each insult felt like a stab wound from which she would never recover. She prayed silently for the divine forgiveness of all present. She fought with her own humanity not to hate those who would see her die with pleasure. She prayed that her beloved husband had been treated with more respect, though she would not fool herself into believing it was true. Her face showed no signs of emotion. She walked on.

A shower of street filth hit Inzillomí, startling her from her near trance. She brought her hand up to the spot and examined the mud on her fingers. She sighed and glanced about only to see an old woman gesture rudely. She smiled kindly and nodded her greetings, her mood improving very slightly at the old woman's double take. She molded her proud face back into an expression of uncaring stoicism.

Azarmanô rode beside her, guarding her and blocking her escape, but likewise protecting her from the violent nature of the crowd. An angry arm reached from the throng to strike Inzillomi, but he ruthlessly kicked it aside.

"His prisoners are not to be harmed by the likes of you." Azarmanô growled viciously to a man nursing a spreading bruise. The doors of the temple appeared and Inzillomi instinctively shuddered. The taunts of the crowd grew as she hid her fear and straightened her back, squaring her shoulders. The smell of old blood faintly lingered. The kariborim went onward, but with a barely perceptible trace of nervousness. Inzillomi doubted even their riders would notice it. She remained as silent as ever, leaving the situation in the hands of Azarmanô. They had reached the temple and now only time would tell if their ruse would suffice.

[littlemanpoet]

Târik made his way through the market square, looking for the center, where lord Mabalar's friend was shopkeeper. It did not take long to find it, and whatsisyap jingled his coin pouch in his hand to give the impression of a ready buyer, dressed though he was in Temple Guard regalia.

He was not long in finding the place. "Monôizindu's Pottery and Hermetics" read the sign. Târik went inside. Pots of all shapes and sizes lay stacked and scattered here and there. Hermetic scrawlings lined just about all of them, as well as scrolls and scraps of parchment hanging from hooks on the walls. The owner stood behind the counter, an implaccable smile on his face.

"May I help you?"

"Yes," said Târik. "Are you Monôizindu?"

"I am. I see you've heard of me."

"Your reputation is known far and wide."

Monôizindu smiled again. "What may I do for a respected member of the Temple Guard?"

Târik looked around him before he spoke. "I have an urgent message for you from an old friend."

Monôizindu frowned briefly at the secretiveness of Târik before saying, "What old friend might this be?"

"I was told to say this: Mabalar Melethroch has sent me to say that it is time to pay the weregild he has never held you to but to which you have held yourself."

Monôizindu's eyes narrowed. "Go on."

"Learn what you can and see what you can do to aid Mabalar's escape from the dungeons and doom of Sauron."

Monôizindu Igmizadan's eyes widened in horror, but he quickly hid his emotion and eyed Târik suspiciously. "How do I know whom you serve?"

Târik produced a piece of jewelry from a pocket. "You know this, I believe."

Monôizindu's eyes widened again. "That is an hierloom of Tar Míriel! I have seen her with it!"

"It is she whom I serve and am loyal to."

Monôizindu nodded. "Mabalar Melethroch is to be sacrificed?"

Târik nodded. "But not if I can help it."

"When?"

"Possibly this midnight."

"Then our task is more difficult and desperate than you may yet know."

"How is that?" Târik asked.

"Just moments ago, I saw Inzillomí, the wife of Mabalar, taken prisoner into the Temple."

Târik's eyes lit with alarm. "I must go tell Mabalar!"

"Meanwhile," said the shopkeeper, "I will spread word and bring what aid I may to the house of Melethroch. Namarië! And may the light of Elebereth go before you!"

"So may it be with you as well!" Târik left, rather amazed that the entire time he had been in Monôizindu's shop, not a soul had entered. Except that he was wrong. Someone had been hidden in the shadows, unbeknownst to either Temple Guard or Shopkeeper; this someone snuck out of the shop and became lost in the crowd.

[littlemanpoet]

Târik stood just outside the cell. Mabalar was awake and looked up, his eyes lit with intensity.

"I greet you, lord. I must be quick, for the news I have to tell cannot wait but 'tis not my time to be in the dungeons. I have passed your message to Monôizindu, and he accepts me as your spokesman. He will spread word and bring what aid he can. But he had news."

Târik paused and listened. Satisfied after a while that no one was skulking in the shadows, he continued.

"He told me that he saw Inzillomí being taken to the Temple of Sauron, a prisoner for sacrifice. I am sorry."

Mabalar's eyes widened and his jaw worked. "Are you certain?"

"Aye. The shopkeeper gave no sign that he doubted who it was."

The light in Mabalar's eyes died and his shoulders slumped. It seemed that the man shrunk a little where he sat chained to the wall.

"I must go now, lord."

"One more thing. Did he give word of my daughter?"

"Nay, lord. He said nothing about her. Fare well and do not give up hope."

With that Târik left him.

Mabalar's Thoughts

It could not be! She was supposed to be safe in Rómenna! How could she be a prisoner of the fiend, here, now? But Monôizindu had been sure. Mabalar ground his teeth and closed his fists, hard, wishing that Sauron's neck was caught by them. All hope for the house of Mellethroch then rested on Kâthaanî. Eru guide you, my gem of fire. If Inzillomí were to die, then what? Would there be any use in escaping himself? No! He must not let Sauron have her! But what could he do? If Sauron ever found out who Inzillomí was, he would be sure to use her as bait or a bargaining chip for him! Please, Inzi, please do not let them know who you are!

What if Inzi died and he did escape? He and Kâthaanî would have to make a life for themselves without her. Cerveth did not need a mother anymore; but it was wrong for her mother to be taken from her. Maybe there would have to be another to take Inzi's place. His thought slipped to Míriel. His heart skipped a beat. He imagined Míriel aboard ship with him, and found it a wonder. Then he thought of Cerveth standing next to the former queen of Númenor at a new homestead on the shores of Middle Earth. Mabalar gave a start. No. The two did not go together well. Not at all. Míriel was fragile stemware; Cerveth was living fire. No, Míriel had chosen her fate already. Had Inzi? He hoped not.

But if Monôizindu knew that Inzillomí was a prisoner of Sauron, he would be working just as hard to achieve her freedom as his own. And Târik could help too. Maybe there was hope. Waiting was difficult.

In the Chamber of Sauron

A lean, dark figure came before the presence of Sauron the Great, bowing deeply.

"My lord, my liege, I have delectable news!" The dark figure bowed over and over again, waiting for his lord's acknowledgment.

"Speak it, Herugor."

"I was in the market square, observing the wares of various shopkeepers, and just happened to have overheard a Temple Guard speaking in privy tones to one particular shopkeeper who seems to have far too much time on his hands for traitorious activities unbecoming of a shopkeeper who bows before the king."

"Waste not my time."

"Aye, lord," Herugor nodded, bowing at the waist with each nod. "The Temple Guard, Târik, is aiding Mabalar Mellethroch at the beck of Míriel, and the shopkeeper, one Monôizindu who deals in pottery and hermetics, has promised this Târik to mobilize his network of the faithful who yet remain in this fair city for the sake of Mabalar's escape."

"We shall have to see that this shopkeeper and guard are arrested and made examples of."

"But there is more, my liege!"

"Go on."

"Monôizindu informed the traitorous guard that the one Inzillomí, the wife of Mabalar, has been arrested this day and brought to the Temple dungeons."

"I see," Sauron said slowly. "Keep watch, Herugor, and allow the insects to draw each other into the web. When all have drawn close together, then snag them all. Then we shall have a sacrificial rite unmatched yet! See to it!"

"Yes, my liege," Herugor bowed, and backed out of the chambers of Sauron the Great and hurried about his new task. Sauron sat in his great chair and gave thought to what he had just heard and decided. The smiles that grew on both faces were not a delight to the eye.