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Tales of a Dark Continent (Part 1) By Morthoron Published: October 2, 2005 Updated: October 2, 2005  Print PROLOGUE: An Eye to the East It seems the Men of the West have told our tale as if through a funnel or leaky sieve, clogged with the mire of ages. They do not behold the subtle shades and vibrant hues of an intricately woven tapestry of time. Wearing prideful blinders, the Loremasters of Gondor have seen no more than that which touches them directly; therefore, they have only recorded the barbarous names of those -- like the vile Balchoth or the Wainriders -- who dared assail the adamantine ramparts of the West. Thus, in Gondor the word 'Easterling' is a curse spat out like spoilt milk. The witless fools! Learning is lost on the educated! The history of the West is written with a dead hand, for those who conserve the lore have never gone out to actively seek it. Certainly the story of the East was ever tainted by the black stain of evil, but then cannot the same be said for the lands of the West? In every age one Dark Lord, then the next, has vied for utter domination. These Dark Lords -- wily and conspiratorial and utterly corrupt -- found easy marks in the many tribes of warlike nomads ekeing out a meager existence along the marches of greater eastern realms. The Lords of Deceit came among the ignorant folk in forms best suited to win the minds, then steal the souls of their adherents: wise counsellors and benevolent ring-givers they seemed; at other times they appeared as dark sorceror-priests or bloody gods of war; whichever guise fit the temperment of those to be subjugated, so did the Dark Lords appear. But corruption on such a vast scale was an insidious process, wrought with cunning patience by an immortal Evil. To meet their ambitious ends, the Dark Lords first relied more on whispers than war: better to serve up a great lie as something pleasing to the palate in candlelit ambience, rather than with a blade to the belly in the clear light of day. With the hidden hands of malign puppet-masters, the Dark Lords drove their minions to madness, and consigned peaceful kingdoms in the East to the flames; yet ever was their true purpose the utter domination of the West, an ancient desire and consuming passion that often blinded them to all else. And so, the Dark Lords instilled this great lust and hatred within deluded warrior-kings, leaving them with a hunger for power unsated in the East. With the dogs of war thus held in thrall, the Dark Lords sent wave upon wave of these rabid legions westward to an ignominious and bloody end. Yet for every kingdom that succumbed to corruption and chaos, and every avaricious king who followed his consuming lusts down dark paths to eventual wraithdom, there were those who strove mightily against Evil. It is a miconception in the West that only evil arises in the East. It can be said with justification that the East is the birthplace of all the races, whether good, ill or indifferent. But Good and Evil are subjective terms whose meanings change over time and are dependent on the attitudes of those who write the stories; therefore, freedom is a better gauge to measure the worth of a people. For it is in the seeking of freedom, the desire to live one's life without the willful domination of another, that has spurred every great enterprise ever conducted by Man or Elf (whether good or evil). It is an error in judgement to conclude then that goodness and freedom are much alike, for they are twin sons of different mothers: they may travel down the same road, but often in different directions. I say then, look to the East! To the great and small alike who sought such freedom against the corruption and domination of the one true Evil; whether in the incarnation of Morgoth, or of Sauron, or of his sorceress understudy, Urzahil, once called the Mouth of Sauron (who even now amasses an invasion force along the Straits of Enegaer). Although these voices of freedom have been silenced, buried beneath the few shovelfuls of dirt that cover their far-flung graves, I shall strive to give utterance to their words, and speak for those whose stories lie entombed beneath the strata of Time. I wish to amend and make straight the tales from their very source. I am Greagoir, court-scribe and envoy of Ship-lord Attar Kiryatin, Peer of the Syndic Council of Marannan-astair. It has been my life's work and my folly to join together all the great epics and histories of the East and the South into one vast compendium. It is a folly, I say, because I return home now blind and near-lame after three-score years and ten of slavish dedication to a ceaseless task. Like a shadow-hunter stalking an ephemeral prey, I have scaled the Great Red Range, staggered through the Desert of Roaring Waste, and wandered aimlessly across the trackless plains of Rhun and Hildorien. I have spent dull days prattling in palatial palaces with boorish bards, and wondrous weeks enchanted by tales told by hermits in hovels. Yet as I lay here exhausted now from my travels, I feel I am no nearer my objective than when I first started! For alas! my work is nowhere near complete! There are rambling narratives, half-finished chronicles, and ballads hastily scribbled on scraps of faded parchment (not to mention the unwritten tales rambling in the cob-webbed recesses of my mind!). And to make matters worse, I have no one but a simple slowcoach -- a witless boy -- to aid me in the completion of my work! Due to the exorbitant costs that qualified scribes charge these days, I have been forced to employ as an apprentice a scribeling barely weaned from his mother's teat! I am at the mercy of marketplace mediocrity, I tell you! Ah, but I digress! My apprentice is not the insufferable dolt I make him out to be; in fact, he has shown great patience with this blind and bitter old fool. I cannot see his expression now as I recite, but if he smirks impertinently at my long-winded tirades, it is but small reward for the endless hours of narration he must endure. My only wish is that we, together, might finish the journey I began some seventy-odd years ago; and if I fail, I only pray that I have instilled in him the will to finish that which I could not. But where there is life, there is hope, I suppose. For good or ill we are home at last! Now, where was I? Ah, yes! where is home you might ask? East of the dark Sea of Rhun there are the Orocarni Mountains, the greatest range in all Middle-earth. The megalithic spine of the Orocarnis begins far to the frozen north and stabs hundreds upon hundreds of leagues southward, till it finally ends, spiking the very heart of the great Plains of Hildorien. Off the southeastern shores of Hildorien there lies the Straits of Enegaer, where the restless waters of the Eastern Ocean flow into Enegaer proper, that is, the Inner Sea. South of the Strait is the vast land mass of Mu, called Southerland or The Dark Continent in common speech. Off the northwest tip of Mu lies an island called Marannan-astair, the Star of the Sea. I find it humorous that this great port-isle, with a forest of sea-spars bristling from a thousand ships, is where I call home; for, truth to tell, sea voyages make me wretch. But I shall not bore you further with geography, or with my tedious life-story for that matter; save for that small slice of personal history that proved to be the impetus of my life's work. CHAPTER I: In the Court of the Gondorion King In my youth I was sold as an indentured servant to a master-scribe named Gibiris (and it took me years to remove that yoke!). After learning the fundamentals of the scrivener's art and being formally guilded as an apprentice-scribe, I was obliged to follow Master Gibiris westward as part of the first trade mission from the Ship-lords of Marannan-astair to the fabled land of Gondor. Near a year's travel it took for us to reach Minas Tirith's legendary gates of mithril and steel, but in retrospect, it was worth every blister and callus on my aching feet! Of course, as part of trade negotiations I had to endure endless hours of diplomatic intricacies (which are naught but earnest lies told with a practiced smile), and I aided the master-scribe in preparing a great, meandering document of legal gibberish (which was his specialty) full of clauses, terms, adjoinders, rejoinders, wherefores, whereases, heretofores, and parties-of-the-first-and/or-second-parts, until my eyes swam with articles and addenda. At last a deal was struck to all and sundry's satisfaction, and we were allowed an audience with the king (As an aside, it is with glee I note that the glorious trade agreement proved unworkable, and nothing ever came of it. But what amounted to no more than an extended sight-seeing excursion of Minas Tirith proved far more valuable to me). The King, Eldarion Telcontar, was ancient beyond count of years the one and only time I saw him (the Gondorions claimed his advanced age was supposedly due to his mother being Elvish!); yet he was still tall as a sea-king and wore his years with unbowed nobility. He had an aura of austere strength and spoke with wisdom and conviction, as befits a great lord who ruled such a vast realm of fiefs, princedoms, protectorates and dominions: from the bleak moors of Fornost in the north, to the scorching sands of Far-Harad in the south, and east to the very shores of the Sea of Rhun. This was a king one would gladly walk through fire for, and thank him afterwards for the scorching! King Eldarion was beneficent as well as gracious. In addition to signing the untenable treaty, he bestowed upon us gifts from the four corners of his kingdom: from Dol Amroth, huge pearls and conch shells; from Near Harad, silk damasque and kaffe beans (which when ground, then brewed, make a delightful beverage); from the Dwarves of Aglarond, beautifully designed knives of peerless steel with hafts of lebethron inlaid with gold and precious stones; from Rhovanion, bee-nectar of the Beornings; and from a place simply called the 'Shire', casks of an aromatic herb called 'Longbottom Leaf' (which one smokes from a pipe -- a nasty vice that still holds me in thrall, cursed weed!). And there below the royal throne I humbly stood, an addled apprentice at the heel of my dottardly master, who in turn followed the more important merchant-diplomats of our mission; but I swear that for an instant the king's bright eyes locked on mine and he smiled and nodded slightly. Never shall I forget that moment for as long as I live! Little did I know at the time, but in that same year Eldarion would surrender up his life spirit of his own free will, just as his father, Elessar the Great, had done before him. Like unto kings of ancient Numenor they were, choosing to leave this mortal plane with full faculty and grace when they felt the presage of death weigh upon them; rather than falling into mean dotage -- bereft of dignity and nobility -- desperately gasping a few, last rattling breaths. It is sad to hear so many years hence that Eldarion's son, King Elrondel, sits shakily upon a throne wracked with sorrow. News has reached the East that Elrondel's only son, a man who had reached his prime in stature, strength and maturity, and was full ready to to be crowned king, now lays entombed in Rath Dinen -- a victim of a hunting accident (or murder, one never knows with court intrigues). To add further poignancy to his loss, Elrondel was accounted old, even for one of Numenorean descent, when he at last ascended the throne of his long-lived father. With the untimely death of his adult son, Elrondel has been forced to outlive the natural span of years attributed to those of his race, and forego the singular grace bestowed upon the kings of his line. For Elrondel is left with only a granddaughter, Princess Silmarien, as a direct descendant of the House Telcontar, and therein lies a further tragedy: the long-held custom of Gondorion succession excludes women from inheriting the throne; therefore, Silmarien cannot rightfully be crowned Queen according to common law.. Thus, the King desperately clings to his throne, fretting away his waning years with the fervent wish that Silmarien should rule after him, in spite of a law to the contrary and fierce opposition in his court. But of all possible heirs to the throne -- the nephews and cousins within the royal House Telcontar -- Elrondel deems none higher than Silmarien, seeing in her the noble qualities of his father and grandfather before him, and the wisdom that he, as king, felt he lacked. With this in mind, Elrondel publicly announced that Silmarien would succeed him to the throne, citing as precedent ancient Numenorean law, which recognized the right of a woman of the royal line to be crowned queen. But the king's edict has thrown the courts of Gondor's many principalities into turmoil, splitting his vassals into two camps: those lords faithful to House Telcontar, who openly support the King and Princess Silmarien; and the opposing faction, consisting of reactionary lords who denounce the king's decision on the grounds that Gondorion law forbids women rulers, and those with more sinister motives, who see the schism as a means of furthering their own shadowy ambitions. Elsewhere, the ancient enemies of Gondor, long seeking such ruinous dissension, have taken full advantage of the divisive situation. Like wolvish predators with the scent of blood, they raven along the unprotected marches of Gondor. In conjunction with these attacks --and no mere coincidence, to be sure -- the worship of Morgoth has risen anew, drawing strength among the ignorant folk as well as the ambitious, just as that heinous cult has done here in the East. There are even reports of uprisings in Gondor's southern provinces, where the lords are said to be sympathetic with the rebels, and may well be funding the revolt themselves. But this is to be expected, I suppose. Great realms such as Gondor are political animals: a healthy body of state with loyal constituents can withstand almost any external siege; however, if a state is infected from within, then it becomes easy prey to attacks from without. In the end, all empires falter in like manner. But such is the current state of woe in Minas Tirith; that was not the case in the days of my youth, when Gondor was still a kingdom of magnificence unhindered with turmoil and sadness.Yet it is a sobering thought that in a mere three-hundred years since the defeat of Sauron and the return of the King, Gondor has fallen so quickly into shadow. I fear the days have come when Middle-earth shall no longer see the likes of such enduring realms as Gondor, whose rule is counted in ages rather than years. The pace of life has quickened in these Younger Days; time and events speed beyond Man's futile efforts to control them. The slow currents of History have become a raging torrent, and not even the Great and Wise can stem the tide. And as Time accelerates, wonder diminishes. There are no longer enough minutes in a day to stop and see the magic in the mundane, or the many splendors of a single sunset. But as I stated, that is the situation nowadays; seventy years ago Eldarion was the sage and mighty Lord in Minas Tirith, Gondor the Eternal had reached the zenith of its power, and I was a naive apprentice far from home. When our audience with Eldarion had concluded, the King graciously bade us stay awhile in the White City, 'ere we make our long trek home. As luck would have it, the Loremasters of the Great Archives of Minas Tirith invited my master to visit their renowned library and discuss the finer points of the scrivener's art (and as apprentice to the Master-scribe, I got to tag along as well!). No words can express the awe -- the simple-minded delight -- which filled me as I entered the Great Archives. It was a massive domed structure with vaulted windows cunningly placed so that natural light streamed in from the entire radius of the high cupola. In the streaming sunlight I beheld row upon row of shelves near twice my height, so that they seemed to be the endless corridors of a maze, and upon these shelves, scattered in bewildering profusion, were countless chronicles, manuscripts, scrolls and tomes: the collected history and literature of the Men of the West. If there is an after-life for virtuous scribes, pray then it should be like this. Leaving my master to prattle in high-minded vagaries with the keepers of this golden hoard, I wandered aimlessly through the archives for hours like a bee flitting through a field of clover, alighting here and there upon flowers of surpassing wonder and wisdom. Much of what I encountered was unreadable, written in the language of the Elves or other foreign speech, but I was entranced with the form of the words and how they rolled melodiously off my tongue, and the great antiquity and beauty of the manuscripts themselves, written by masters of the art of calligraphy. Yet nothing was to compare with my greatest find, the turning-point in my young life. In the center of the vault, set apart from all the other shelves of books and parchment, there was a short, round dais of red marble, and atop it stood a stout oaken lectern intricately carved to mimic the bole of a tree. Upon the lectern shone a single beam of sunlight, cast from some aperture high above in the dome. Drawn as if by fate to the stand, I saw illumined there a book with a red leather binding and gilt-edged pages. Entranced, I breathlessly opened the book, and was surprised and delighted to see that it was written in Westron, a common speech of trade and diplomacy known to the people of my island. I poured voraciously over each page of the book, titled aptly, The Redbook of Westmarch, and learned that it was written by Hobbits, or Halflings, a race unkown to the Eastern World, save for tales of the Pigmis, a fabled tribe said to inhabit the southernmost depths of the forests of Mu. The Redbook gives the Hobbits' account of the great and terrible Third Age of the West, an era that culminated in the destruction of the One Ring and the Fall of Sauron. As I sat enthralled reading of the great panoply and epic nature of history in the West, it came to my mind that such volumes regarding the East were scant, if they existed at all. I gazed around at the Great Archives and realized that there was no such repository for the accumulated knowledge of the East. It was then and there I realized I had the makings of a quest: to gather the scattered histories of the East and South into one great encyclopaedia! This avocation or calling would need neither intense soul-searching, nor would it require great valor -- perhaps in the grand scheme of things it mattered not at all -- but it was to be my mission, and I accepted the challenge. I ran excitedly to find my master, and with him the Loresmasters of the Archives. When I spoke to them of my new-found mission, I knew what little to expect from my master, Gibiris, a man of limited vision, who used words in the same manner that one would count copper pennies; but I expected much more from the Grandmasters of Minas Tirith, who lived and breathed legends and lore. Unfortunately, I was sadly mistaken. I soon discovered these 'scholars' were no more than bureaucrats -- conservators and not interpreters -- who maintained the library, but did nothing to enhance it. An illiterate servant with a broom and feather-duster could accomplish as much. Whereas I, a mere scribeling, would seek to explore every leather-bound volume or scroll of vellum as if I were diving for pearls of wisdom, these petty bookkeepers cared more for the bindings than the written masterpieces housed inside. These were not jewels laying before them, they were merely so many pebbles strewn across a dried-up riverbed. They were simply objects that were nice to use as borderly hedges for their literary gardens -- ready to trot out in their nice, neat rows when visitors came to tea -- but as useful as doorstops for the rest of the week. These Loremasters were in truth Wordwraiths, caged parrots consigned to the hell of rote memorization, regurgitating their lofty bits of drivel on state occassions for the amusement of their Lords. From thenceforward I equated the term 'loremaster' with 'dolt'. And there you have it: there are those who seek the lore, and there are those who sit on it. I consider myself a seeker. CHAPTER II: The Lore-monger, the Scribeling and the Corsair And then came the snoring. It punctuated the end of each chapter with a blunt finality. Greagoir was a master at keeping just enough wind in his bellows to complete a point, before suddenly dozing off. His mind might run far afield at times as well, but even his digressions were relevant to his overall narration, and he remained remarkably lucid and lively for his advanced age. He had much to say, but he felt there was too little time left to say it in; hence, his tendency to ramble. But he always returned to the crux of his tale, no matter how circuitous the route to arrival. Greagoir's apprentice carefully spread some drying-sand on the wet ink of his parchment, then briskly waved the cramp from his writing hand. Splaying, then clenching, his fingers until the circulation returned to his fingertips, the apprentice leaned back in his chair and prepared for some well-earned rest himself. The master would remain asleep for perhaps an hour, depending upon his exertion. Rarely did he sleep for any lengthier period of time, choosing to regiment his days and nights with these 'catnaps', and he expected his apprentice to do the same ("Sleep is the refuge of the indolent," Greagoir would say; "no ballads were sung or great battles won while snoring."). Needless to say, the apprentice, named Tatya Reecho, was a rather pallid youth of seventeen years with great circles under his eyes; but after nearly five years of apprenticeship, he had become accustomed to catching a few winks while his master slumbered. Before Tatya fell asleep, he watched his master for a moment as the old man grumbled and snorted in his fitful rest. The other apprentices of the Scrivener's Guild often referred to the Master-scribe as a 'pompous old windbag', and many a hapless scribeling had been frightened off by him over the years; yet to Tatya, Greagoir was a marvel, and the greatest Lorist of his day (Tatya was given a tongue-lashing of immense proportions the one and only time he mistakenly referred to Greagoir as a 'Loremaster'). And while Greagoir insisted that Tatya copy verbatim the master's recitations on long-dead heroes and ancient chronicles, the apprentice considered Greagoir's reminiscences as interesting, if not moreso, than the lore. So the apprentice kept a secret diary of his master's memoirs, deeming that both story and story-teller were equally important; thus, the two themes became inextricably woven into the fabric of an even greater tale. Invariably, Greagoir awoke to the sound of his own snoring. "Tatya, you lazy lay-about!" the master boomed irritably, "you have fallen asleep again in the middle of recitations! Curse these useless eyes! I cannot see when you've nodded off!" "Forgive me, master," was Tatya's well-rehearsed reply, "shall we continue where you left off then?" "No, slothful scribeling!" Greagoir replied in vexation, "read for me what you've managed to commit to paper. I only pray you haven't lost the entire narrative, damnable loiterer!" Tatya smiled and reiterated the entire prologue and first chapter word-for-word (interrupted now and again with timely emendations from the master). Satisfied that his apprentice had faithfully copied the entire piece (and had not fallen into what the master would term as 'pernicious laxity'), Greagoir mumbled some quiet words of praise for Tatya, and continued on as if the confrontation had never occurred. Shifting himself into a more comfortable sitting position on his bed, the blind bard began, "We shall commence with the retelling of the Tale of the Dark Elves. As history is a living thing, then it is only right we should begin with the birth of the Elder Race, the earliest recorded chronicle in the East. Tatya, fetch me the Book of the Unseelie Sidhe from the library." Tatya chuckled to himself. The 'library' the master referred to was merely the largest of the three rooms that made up Greagoir's home, a ramshackle structure built of a mish-mash of stone, lath, daub and wattle, that was formerly a cotter's cottage. The house sat just below the central highlands of Marannan-astair (and luckily for the master, as far from the sea as one could get on the island), nestled along a great swath of pasture that was part of an estate owned by Attar Kiryatin, a Ship-lord and Greagoir's wealthy patron. That Lord Kiryatin was once a ruthless corsair who had amassed his immense fortune through brigandage and wanton murder, mattered little to Greagoir. For the master, the end justified the means, a part of his contradictory nature that had always baffled Tatya. Gregoir was a very moral man for the most part, but in some things he utterly lacked scruples. In fact, Tatya was certain that his master would have joined Kiryatin in a life of piracy, if it weren't for Greagoir's wretched bouts of sea-sickness. As it was, Greagoir had been responsible for his disreputable benefactor attaining the noble status and position he held on the island. For Attar Kiryatin was once feared in many harbors along the eastern shores of the world, and his piratical legacy precluded him from mingling in civilized society. Born of dubious parentage, and now with a price on his head, Kiryatin yearned to retire with his ill-gotten gains and become respectable (or at least not stalked by bounty-hunters and assassins). And so the corsair enlisted the services of a cunning young scribe renowned for a glib tongue and rather shady diplomacy: one Greagoir of Caladh. Using his subtle talents to conjure credible history from dread legend, Greagoir styled Kiryatin as the bastard son of a wealthy prince, born in one of the Khanates that lay along the Gold Coast of the Eastern Ocean. To achieve this fabrication, Greagoir himself traveled to the Khanate, and with exorbitant bribes lavished upon greedy court-bureaucrats, he purchased Kiryatin's birthright -- complete with letters of introduction, and an authentic-looking court decree officially embossed with the Khan's own royal seal. Having in hand these flawless forgeries for his pirate princeling, Greagoir returned to Marannan-astair, but not until after he tarried a bit in the Khanate, gathering some bits of lore from the palace (much to Kiryatin's growing consternation). With the further use of bribes spread judiciously across the island ("Graft is a tune and every court hums it," the master had told Tatya), Greagoir slyly insinuated Kiryatin into the lofty circle of magnates, guild-masters, navy admirals and ship-lords who controlled the sea-trade and commerce of Marannan-astair, and thus, the island-nation itself. In short order, Kiryatin married a well-endowed and influential widow and gained a Peerage on the Council of Syndics, the ruling body of Ship-lords of the island. Thus enobled, Lord Kiryatin settled grandly into the respected role of Syndic Peer. Not forgetting his faithful (if somewhat conspiratorial) servant, Lord Kiryatin made Greagoir his court-scribe and envoy-at-large, allowing Greagoir to travel far and wide across the East, ostensibly on trade missions (or 'legitimized plunder' as the master put it). But the Ship-lord knew full well that his wayward scribe was really seeking additions to his beloved books of lore, and did not begrudge Greagoir for his lore-mongering; on the contrary, Greagoir vastly increased the Ship-lord's holdings through his shrewd negotiations with various trading partners as he traveled all over the Eastern World. After many decades of this mutually-agreeable arrangement, Greagoir's sight began to fail and he grew lame. No longer able to maintain his role as court functionary and diplomat, Greagoir's positions were given over to younger men. Lord Kiryatin, now a sullen and scarred old man, became tight-fisted with his patronage. The Ship-lord might still be thankful for all Greagoir had done for him, but the demands on his depleted purse were far more tangible than any sentiment; therefore, he kept the scribe in a constant state of penury. Sparks would fly when the curmudgeonly bard and the cantankerous corsair discussed money, and Tatya had learned every curse word 'from Mu to the Mountains' during these altercations. Beneath the thin veneer of respectability, however, Attar Kiryatin was still a corsair at heart; and if it's one thing a salty dog craves from his sailing days (aside from rape and pillage, of course), it is a well-told tale, and there was none better than Greagoir at the telling. So Kiryatin kept Greagoir on in his retirement, secluding him in the rundown cotter's cottage far from court, and endowing him with a paltry sum for a pension. Tatya wondered if Kiryatin had done this merely to infuriate Greagoir, so that their high-spirited exchanges could continue. To Tatya, they seemed like an old married couple, staying together -- bitter and brawling, year after year -- simply because no one else could stand them. "Blast it, Tatya, quit your daydreaming and return here at once!" came the familiar bellow from the master's bedroom. This was followed by a string of curses in at least three different languages. Startled, Tatya shook himself from his reverie, quickly grabbed the thin black volume from its place on a shelf, and then grumbled all the way back to Greagoir's room. The master would expect him to recite tonight, a duty the apprentice despised, even if the story of the Dark Elves intrigued him. He much preferred Gregoir's lively interpretations of the passages, but reading aloud was a necessity, as cataracts had totally robbed the master of his sight. There was no other way for Greagoir.to decide which sections of notes would be used for inclusion in the main books of the compendium, or for the inevitable series of edits, rephrasings, notations and changes of tense the master would require before Tatya could at last commit pen to paper, and write the finished piece. Tatya shrugged and rolled his eyes as he placed the volume of notes into the blind scribe's hands. "Ah, the Dark Elves!" Greagoir beamed as he clutched the black leather book to his chest. "Know you, Tatya, that I consider my journey in search of the Dark Elves as the bravest adventure I have ever undertaken?" Greagoir considered his choice of words for a moment, then added, "Brave...or foolhardy, more likely. I was young and stupid, I suppose. I can't recall whether I considered myself indestructible, or if I thrived on near-death experiences; in either case, young and stupid still holds true! Tatya, sensing a reprieve from doing his recitations, grinned and quickly grabbed quill and parchment. CHAPTER III: Prelude to a Journey "I had heard tales of the Dark Elves ever since I was a young boy," the master began. "In some legends they were described as a fey and sinister race, while in others they were heroic and courteous; but whether one considered them malicious or noble, it was always best to avoid the 'Good Folk' if at all possible. Their ancient lands are far to the north, in hidden vales and primeval forests along the eastern slopes of the Orocarni Mountains, where they have lived beyond the count of years, 'ere even the sun and moon first graced the skies. "Ever secretive, these Elves wove webs of enchantment and dark deceit about the borders of their realm; bewildering spells of dread that caused confusion and madness to anyone who dared enter their forests. For the Dark Elves brooked no trespassers on their lands, and it is said none who entered their haunted woods were ever seen again; or if they did return, the unfortunate survivors emerged many years later, old and wizened and unrecognizable to their kin -- wasted shadows of their former selves. But such is the legend; one must separate the truth from the fiction. "What is the truth then? The Dark Elves are, of course, immortal, and have been called capricious, vengeful and bloodthirsty. In addition, all sorts of vile or sorcerous acts have been attributed to them: the evil eye, blood sacrifice, spells of glamor, poisoning of wells, hexes and curses, slavery, scalping fallen foes, and the kidnapping of mortal infants; however, most of these acts are fabrications whispered by their enemies, or bogie stories told by frantic mothers in an effort to frighten their spoiled brats into good behavior. I say most of these accusations are untrue, but not all, for the Dark Elves, or Sidhe, as they call themselves, are a fierce and warlike race, with the arcane and innate abilities of the Firstborn. In war they conduct themselves with such savage abandon that not even the barbarous armies of Khamul, the Butcher of Balchoth, could defeat them. "Many of the legends surrounding the Dark Elves have arisen out of fear, and their enemies do fear them. Fear is a potent weapon, and the Sidhe wield it masterfully. Over the centuries the Dark Elves have warred incessantly with their neighbors: the Rus, a nomadic tribe of herdsmen living on the wide steppes south of the Sidhe, and the Dwarves, whose mansions are delved deep beneath the central regions of the Orocarnis. The Rus are superb horsemen, but they cannot match the skills of the fearless Sidhe, who ride as if born on horseback; yet their antagonism has little to do with skill on horseback, it is born out of competition for the great herds of wild stallions that roam the southern plains. No mere steeds are these, for they are descendants of the fathers of all horses, and none can match them save perhaps for their distant cousins, the Mear-an, who live in the far western realm of Rochand. Thus, much animosity has grown from their rivalry, with claims and counterclaims of horse-thievery and rustling herds of cattle, for the northern steppes are also noted for the Kine of Araugh, great, shaggy beasts that supply meat, fur and milk in profusion. "The Dwarves of the Blacklock tribe, easternmost of the Seven Houses of the Dwarrowfolk, were once allies of the Dark Elves. Much trade was there in ages past between these two races, but never great love. Still, the Dwarves were beholden to the Dark Elves, for in the earliest days the Elves had aided the Dwarves in ridding their mountain halls of the dragons, the worms and the winged drakes which still plague parts of the Orocarnis to this very day. Yet there came a time when relations between the Elves and Dwarves cooled dramatically. A Blacklock King named Ban (who some say gained the throne by assassination) was far less courteous to the Dark Elves who visited his halls than his forebears. Ban treated the Sidhe with contempt in matters of trade, becoming more interested in haggling for profit than maintaining good relations with his neighbors. Eventually the pettiness of the haughty Dwarven King turned to scornful suspicion, and he called the Dark Elves spies and drove them forth from his halls with insults and warlike words. "And the doors of the Blacklock mansions were shut against the Sidhe, who went away with heavy hearts, for they held no ill-will against the Dwarves. Little did the Elves understand the fierce lust that was awakened amongst the Dwarves, an all-consuming greed for gold and the amassing of great fortunes. Such earthly desires were foreign to the Dark Elves, who cared little for the trappings of wealth; yet if the Sidhe had learned then what drove the Dwarves to abandon reason for insatiable madness, they would not have been so unprepared when the bitter stroke fell and the Blacklocks at last betrayed their former allies. "In the time of Hodur, the seventh Blacklock King in line of succession since the days of Ban, there came to fruition a grand and evil scheme whose foundations were laid many generations earlier. For it was the Dark Lord Sauron who exerted his will cunningly on the King of the Blacklocks, and incited war in the Mountains of the East. Knowing that he could not dominate the Dwarves in the manner of mortal Men, Sauron instead used his wiles to play upon the inherent greed of the Dwarves. It was learned that Sauron had given Rings of Power to the Seven Houses of Dwarves many centuries earlier, and one of these had been greedily accepted by King Ban of the Blacklocks. But it was King Hodur now who held the Ring, and he accounted this corrupted gift as the cornerstone of the Blacklock's overflowing treasury. "For the Blacklocks, alone of the seven Dwarvish Houses, did great traffic with the foul Orc-folk, furnishing the arsenals of Mordor with a continuous supply of arms and weaponry. For this treacherous act, the Blacklocks were accursed and outcast by the other tribes of Dwarves, save perhaps for the Ironfist clan, who were their closest kin and allies. But in the reign of King Skald, Hodur's great-grandfather, the High King, Borin II of the House of Longbeards, banned the Blacklocks from the Dwarvish Council of Seven, and forbade any further interaction with them. If the Blacklock Kings were embittered by their banishment, they did not show it; great wealth had they amassed through their commerce with Mordor, and they had no wish to see it end. Thus it was that Sauron placed a heavy yoke of fealty upon the necks of the Blacklock Kings, and on King Hodur it fell the heaviest, as the Dark Lord ordered the Blacklocks forth to invade the lands of the Sidhe. "To assure the annihilation of the Dark Elves, Sauron dispatched the Ringwraith Khamul with an army of Orc and Easterling tribesmen to aid the Blacklocks, for Khamul held a particular hatred for the Dark Elves. Khamul was once a great Warlord of a fearsome confederacy of tribes collectively called the Balchoth, who terrorized the plains of Hildorien from the Eastern Ocean to the Orocarni Mountains for centuries. Khamul had aspirations for building an Eastern Empire, and set about consolidating the Balchoth's gains with unrelenting cruelty (once encircling a besieged city with the heads of 10,000 prisoners spitted atop poles). But an alliance of Dark Elves, Dwarves (the very same Blacklocks who were now Khamul's allies), desert tribes of the Roaring Waste, and the Khanate of the Five Kingdoms, joined forces and crushed the Balchoth in the Battle of Bajazet. So decisive was the rout that the Balchoth were driven utterly from the East, and were forced to settle in the lands of Rhun and Khand, where they would not rise again to trouble Middle-earth for an age or more. "Of Khamul's fate nothing is certain, save that he escaped the decimation of his vast horde alone and in despair. Khamul had for many years worn one of the nine Rings given to mortal Men as tokens of favor by the Sauron, but the Warlord of the Balcoth was prideful and strong of will. With his fiery belligerence and native strength, Khamul had long managed to override the hideous effects the Rings were said to exert. But now, riding blindly onward, his mind strangled with the thoughts of lost empire, it is believed that in the impotent desperation of the vanquished he at last succumbed wholly to the will of Sauron. Thus Khamul gladly shed the constraints of flesh and sinew, and of humanity itself, trading his lustful soul for the terrifying powers of Undeath. And thus, he became a Nascgaol, a Ringwraith of Sauron, ever bound to Dark Lord's malignant whims. "The onset of the invasion by Khamul and the Blacklocks was swift and catastrophic. Many of the hidden vales of the Sidhe were mercilessly put to the sword before they could mount a proper defense. If it were not for the prodigious efforts of the Sidhe Lord named Mor Thoir Iolar, or MorThoriol, the Great Eagle of the East in the tongue of the Dark Elves, or Black Eagle in the speech of the West, the Dark Elves would have been swept from the mountains. Under their valorous Prince, the Sidhe regrouped and drove their enemies back with great slaughter. Khamul's hope for a quick victory were dashed, and the grand invasion quickly became mired into a ruinous siege. "The Dark Elves' defense of their homeland was so ferocious that it became difficult to tell who were the invaders and who were those besieged: Easterling chieftains were found garroted in their tents; water and food supplies were poisoned; companies of Orc were buried beneath avalanches; and on many a morning the Blacklocks would awake to find the heads of their Dwarvish sentries lanced atop bloody pikes in the middle of camp. It soon proved harder and harder for Khamul and King Hodur to order their forces up the mountain. So great was the fear instilled by the sorcerous Sidhe that the superstitious Easterlings under the Ringwraith's command began to call themselves The Sciamachy: those who fight against shadows. "In the end, it was neither MorThoiriol's brilliant tactics, nor the Dark Elves' prowess in battle that saved them. In joy and shocked disbelief the Elves gazed down from the fastness of their mountain bastions one morning to find that the armies of Khamul and King Hodur had broken camp and were even now marching off in long lines to the south. What then had caused this hasty retreat? It was not learned till many years later that Sauron himself had issued an urgent summons to all his minions scattered across Middle-earth; for war was brewing on the marches of Mordor, and the Dark Lord was calling his forces unto him. The Blacklock Dwarves, too, would answer his call, and march off to war in the West; but they did not go unwillingly. Sauron again used the Dwarves' own native wrath and lust for gold against them, intensified now to monstrous proportions by the Ring of Power. Sauron kindled in King Hodur's willful mind the longstanding animosity the Blacklocks held for the House of the Longbeards, and further stoked the flames of King Hodur's greed by offering the very halls of Khazad-dum itself as the price for Hodur's betrayal. Thus deluded, the Blacklocks and their kin, the Ironfists, were the only Dwarvish Houses to ever join their banners with Sauron's in battle. "Arrayed against the vast legions of Sauron were a powerful alliance of High Elves, Men of Numenor and Dwarves of the Folk of Durin, and a terrible battle -- the greatest of the Age -- was fought on the plains of Dagorlad. It is said that in the thickest of the fray the High-king of the Dwarves, Durin IV, met Hodur in single combat and slew him, thus repaying the Blacklock King for his base treachery. King Hodur's Ring was lost on the field of battle, and leaderless and scattered, the Blacklocks fell under the bright blades of their enemies. The wrathful hosts of Elves and Men and Dwarves claimed an overwhelming victory on that day, and chased the fleeing and broken armies of Sauron back into Mordor. Few, if any, of the Blacklocks ever returned to their gloomy mansions in the East, bearing the bitter news of the humiliating defeat and the loss of their King." Greagoir sighed and stroked his beard, looking rather befuddled. "But I am getting ahead of myself, or behind myself, as it were," the master ruminated. "Needless to say, the Blacklocks and the Dark Elves were greatly diminished by these tragic wars, and neither race went forth in open battle ever again; but an undying hatred for the Blacklocks remained with the Dark Elves. A sleepless watch was placed on the Dwarves' eastern gates, and the vengeful Sidhe would waylay and mercilessly slay the Blacklocks whenever the chance arose." "But why should Sauron see fit to annihilate the Dark Elves?" Tatya asked innocently. Inwardly, the apprentice gloated. It was the type of question requiring at least an hour's worth of explanation. "Why? Greagoir answered irritably, "one might as well ask why Dark Lords ever seek world domination in the first place! I've always considered the whole idea of Dark Powers and their rather overwrought need to destroy all life in Middle-earth to be damn silly, truthfully. So you conquer the world and burn it to a charred husk, then what have you got? Nothing but ashes and dust! Who wants to be the Lord of the Husk?" "Yet Morgoth, Sauron and now the Mouth of Sauron all seem to seek the same ends using the same methods," Tatya continued, trying to sound as logical as possible. "That's not necessarily true, Tatya," Greagoir replied; "each have a slightly different method to their madness; for it is madness, or lust perhaps, that overtook each. Morgoth, the first Dark Lord, sought conquest and destruction purely to spite the Valar, his former kindred. Their warring began long before there were Elves, Dwarves or Men in Middle-earth; it was a feud that stretched back to before the world was made. In his defiance and rebellion, Morgoth became consumed in envy for the creations of the Valar, and he held a hatred for all life. You see, he lacked the means for creation, as it was stripped from him after his Fall. This impotent jealously eventually devoured him, and all the evil fruits of his labors came to naught. "Sauron was far more clever than Morgoth, whose single-mindedness cost him his freedom more than once. Sauron escaped Morgoth's fate by knowing when to bend and when to hide. His shrewdness in deceiving the Elves into making Rings of Power, and his corruption of the King of Numenor, which led to that great empire's utter destruction, were insidiously evil and criminal, but deserve admiration strictly for audacity and deviousness. Yet Sauron, too, had faults: he relied too heavily on Orcs, he was a poor battle strategist, and in the making of the One Ring, he became just as much a puppet to its power as anyone else who happened upon it. Thus, by the strangest of chances, his own creation caused his demise. One could say that the Great Eye was rather shortsighted. "The Mouth of Sauron, this Urzahil who now seeks for utter domination, seems to have learned from the mistakes of his predecessors; but there are too many unanswered questions regarding this lieutenant of Sauron, leaving us little to speak of, save for generalizations and vagueries. He does not seem to wield the power of an immortal, and it is said that he is indeed a man of the extinct line of the Black Numenorean race; but his strength is in organization and the evils of bureaucracy, rather than supernatural ability. He still may use Orcs, but he relies on Men as the fulcrum of his forces. So too, he corrupts through faith, and has built the Cult of Morgoth with the blood and bones of zealots. The corrupt legions of the Sidhe Dragun die so readily in battle not through domination and fear, but in the belief that they shall be rewarded in the afterlife for their sacrifice. They are ignorant and deluded, without a doubt, but therein lies their great danger. There is no greater fool than one blinded by faith; for he who is capable of seeing only one thing, is incapable of seeing anything else." Greagoir frowned and shook his head in disgust. "But your original question regarded Sauron," he grumbled in aggravation, obviously too irked by the current political situation to continue discussing it. "I should think that someone with the subtlety of Sauron preferred the corruptive aspects of power, rather than merely 'winning'. "In the end, it all comes down to playing the game, and not whether one wins or loses; but I am not speaking nobly in the 'playing-fair-and-square' sense, I am referring to the excitement of the chase, the thrill of battle, or the sweaty palms on a gambler's hands. But once something has been achieved, it becomes rather boring after a bit, doesn't it? There has got to be a next level, or the game isn't worth a damn, even for immortals." The master reflected a bit, then added, "In the case of Sauron and the Dark Elves, I should think it was along the lines of relieving an itch one can't scratch." Greagoir tapped the black book on his lap and said, "The 'itch' is located in these pages of notes, my dear apprentice. It is our mission to 'scratch' it." Tatya was crestfallen. He thought he had cleverly sidestepped the arduous process of reading, editing, then rereading, but the master had turned the tables on him. Greagoir smiled wryly as he handed the book to the sullen apprentice, then said: "But before you start your recitation, Tatya, let me expand on Sidhe civilization for a moment or two. I don't believe I've ever told you about the time I actually rode north in search of the Dark Elves." Tatya smiled with satisfaction. An unearned victory was a victory just the same. CHAPTER IV: The Caravan of Mifhortun Dur My first master, Gibiris, had expiditiously chosen to die the winter previous. As Gibiris was a man of limited means in both mind and money, there was little worth in his meager estate, and obviously nothing for a bonded apprentice. But as I was part of his personal effects, much like a pair of boots or a table, I was written into his last testament. Fortunately, my departed master had made provisions for my release from servitude, bless his bones, forgiving my debt in lieu of long years of service rendered. Thus, I was a free man at last. And there I was, a journeyman apprentice, unattached and with no prospects (or food, for that matter); so I packed up what scant belongings I had, and headed for the bustling city of Caladh, the sprawling commercial center of Marannan-astair, and the greatest sea-port in all the East. Due to its position in the Straits of Enegaer, Marranan-astair and its capitol, Caladh, controlled trade heading back and forth from the Gold Coast of the Eastern Ocean to the settlements along the Inner Sea, as well as exporting raw materials from the vast continent of Mu. If ever there was a place for an ambitious young man to seek his fortune, it was in Caladh. It was evening when I arrived in the city, and as I made my way through the crowded bazaars that lined the lamplit quays, I came upon a rather round and jovial merchant who was recruiting for a caravan scheduled to set forth that spring. I struck up a lively conversation with the rotund pitch-man, named Mifhortun Dur, and discovered that, among other open positions, the merchant was in need of an interpreter fluent in the speech of the Rus. It seems Mifhortun Dur's caravan was to make the long trek up the Northern Trade Route, and seek for the Rus tribesmen along the high plains of Hildorien. An interpreter was needed to barter with the Rus, and aid in striking a deal for a herd of the famed horses that ranged across the steppes. These fabulous steeds were worth their weight in gold, and fetched tremendous sums at auction in Marannan-astair. That I spoke only a few phrases of Rus mattered little, for Mifhortun Dur struck me as being rather naive for a businessman. By the time our interview had finished, I had convinced Mifhortun that I spoke the language as if born to it, and he hired me on the spot. So delighted was the merchant that he even agreed to pay part of my wages in advance; which was well, as I had no intention of returning south with the caravan once negotiations had been completed. I already had it in my mind to strike north of Hildorien in an attempt to find the hidden realm of the Dark Elves, the first leg of the quest I had set for myself so many years earlier in Minas Tirith. Within a month, initial preparations were completed in Caladh. I joined Mifhortun Dur and the various other merchants, wranglers, farriers, wainwrights, drovers, teamsters, cooks, servants and slaves who would comprise the caravan, and we took ship, making a nor'westerly crossing of the Straits of Enegaer (and as little is said about that voyage, the better). We made port in the harbor of Merrow, a fortified town on the shores of Hildorien long held by the Ship-lords of my island. It was in Merrow that we were to meet our caravan-master and the guards hired to protect us along the great march up the Northern Trade Route. The caravan-master was a sullen and disagreeable-looking sort named Marfach-Suil. I remember the man had yellow eyes, fetid teeth and smelled of rotten peas. I hated him immediately. Seldom do I misjudge men (and when I do, I learn from my error), but it was certain to me that Marfach-Suil was a man who could kill without remorse, and steal the pennies from his dead mother's eyes. That Mifhortun Dur, the simple merchant who had hired me so easily, would trust this surly caravan-master as well, filled me with further apprehension. As I stated, Mifhortun Dur was not the brightest star in the heavens. Accompanying the repugnant caravan-master were a dubious assortment of mercenaries so much like Marfach-Suil, that I wondered if perhaps they were not all of the same race (if ugliness can be considered a racial trait). Desert tribesmen of the Roaring Waste they seemed to be, swathed from head to foot in dark linen, save for their sun-darkened, leathery faces (and I would have considered it a blessing if they had kept those covered as well); but aside from their unsavory appearance, these mercenary-guards were absolutely necessary for our dangerous journey. The trade routes, even in that time of relative peace, were infested with fierce bands of highwaymen and nomad slave-traders who preyed upon the rich offerings of the caravan-trade; yet such was the enormous potential of caravanning that merchants would gladly take the risks. Those lucky enough to survive robbery, slavery or murder became fabulously wealthy. Having drank to excess the night before our departure, I of course stumbled out of bed in the morning looking and feeling my best. Dazed and still half-drunk, I found a covered wain filled with soft, pliable barleycorn and plopped myself inside for the first part of the journey. Awaking again for a second time late that afternoon, I found that the caravan had passed out of sight of the town, and beyond all other civilized habitation, for that matter. The great Plains of Hildorien, an endless range of steppe-land that stretches for hundreds of leagues to the north, east and west, was to be my home for the next several months. To relieve the boredom, I pulled out my notes on the Rus language and began to study them earnestly. You see, I had had the great fortune of making the acquaintance of a Rus stable-hand just prior to leaving Caladh, and he gladly shared the knowledge of his mother-tongue with me (after several pints of ale, of course). Traveling by caravan is neither romantic, nor exciting: the animals stink, the food stinks, the guards stink, and every monotonous moment drags drowsily into dreary days, ticking to the tedious cadence of oxen sadly lowing, slowly plodding mile after mile after countless mile down a flat expanse of utter nothingness. True insanity is measured by the amount of giddy elation one feels at seeing a lone tree on the barren plain. I was miserable; moreso when I dicovered that the speech of the Rus was merely a series of grunts, slurs, clicks and attempts to clear phlegm from the back of one's throat. The caravan didn't need an interpreter, a drunk with a bad cold would have sufficed. The tedium was only relieved a bit when we set up camp every evening. After eating what can only be described as swill the pack-animals couldn't stomach, we told tales and sang around the campfires until blessed sleep at last overtook us. Perhaps my mind had finally snapped from motion sickness and sheer boredom, but I began to take an interest in the strange and somewhat sinister habits of the guards. Never did they mingle with the other folk of the caravan during the day's march, and at night they did not join us around the campfires, preferring to segregate themselves into separate enclaves far from the main camp. There they sat, huddled around their own fires, whispering conspiratorially in the guttural tongue of their tribe. Having nothing but time on my hands, I would often sneak in the darkness to the edge of their camp and eavesdrop on their near-unintelligible conversations. But this odd mania of mine eventually bore bitter fruit, for I quickly learned that the mercenaries' gruff language was akin to the speech of the Rus, and I began to understand their harsh dialect. I was shocked (but hardly surprised) at what I managed to translate: the mercenaries, with Marfach-Suil as their leader, were plotting to plunder the caravan once the merchants had purchased horses from the Rus! They intended to murder or enslave us all, and then sell the horses themselves! I brought these dread tidings of treachery to Mifhortun Dur, but, to my endless amazement, the fat merchant met my dire warnings with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. He replied that I must certainly be mistaken, because Marfach-Suil had led quite a few of his caravans in the past. Yet Mifhortun promised he would discuss the matter with the caravan-master, and abruptly ushered me out of his tent, all the while having me promise that I would keep my silence, for he wanted no dissension within his caravan. I left in disgust, certain now that the merchant was an idiot. I decided that I must watch and ware for my own safety's sake, and I slept with one eye open. Finally, after nearly three months of torturous travel, the caravan reached the high-plains of Hildorien, the homeland of the Rus. The Rus were nomadic tribesmen who followed the seasonal migrations of the wild herds of horse and kine that ranged across the arid steppe. They had no permanent settlements, save perhaps hidden refuges used in times of war, concealed among the shoulders of the Orocarni Mountains, which loomed above us now to the west. So, rather than wander aimlessly about the steppe in search of the elusive Rus, the caravan-master ordered the long train of wains to be unhitched, and we set up a semi-permanent trading post along a stream, and there we waited. After a few days, a group of tribal elders approached the camp and hailed us. It was now time for me to perform the duties for which I had been hired. Fortunately for me, the Rus language proved fairly simple to muddle through (although I am sure my accent was dreadful). Negotiations were at first tense, because the Rus were very wary of strangers (as they should be), but as trade talks continued I found these rough nomads to be quite shrewd, unwilling to trade their beloved horses for a few cheap trinkets, grain and some iron utensils. The Rus were much like their northern neighbors, the Dark Elves, in that regard: they had deep bonds of respect and affection for their steeds, and a cult of the horse had grown over centuries of close association with the beasts. But Mifhortun Dur proved to be a soft touch in trade talks, giving away far more than I ever would, had I been conducting negotiations and not just interpreting. The merchants of our party grumbled anxiously as well regarding Mifhortun's apparent lack of business sense, particularly since it was their merchandise he was giving away. But in the end, the parties came to a mutually satisfactory purchase price, and the Rus tribesmen rode off to round up the number of horses specified in the agreemement. It was quite spectacular to see the skillful Rus drovers guiding a herd of some three hundred horses towards our camp. No words can describe the heart-pounding feeling -- for it was a feeling -- transcending both sight and sound, as these magnificent beasts thundered and wheeled across the steppes towards me. Filled with exhiliration, I fully understood then why the Rus so loved these proud steeds. Once the herd had been handed over to our drovers, it was then the job of the caravan's wranglers to separate the stallions from the mares for easier transport. Makeshift corrals had been constructed for this reason, as well as for the protection of the herd against thieves while the caravan sat on the open plain. It would take another few weeks of preparation before the caravan, and the horses, would be ready to journey back south down the Trade Route and homeward. With my part in the negotiations completed, I no longer felt it necessary to stay with the caravan. It seemed particularly wise that I should keep to my original plan and head north, and quickly, as I feared that Marfach-Suil and his fine band of cutthroats could take the camp at any moment. But before I abandoned the caravan to its doom, I felt honor-bound to warn Mifhortun Dur one last time regarding the impending plot. The plump merchant was, as always, in a pleasant mood as I tried to impress upon him the terrible predicament the caravan was in, and once again he ignored me as if I were a child having a bad dream. Left with no alternative, I angrily told Mifhortun that if he would do nothing, then I must at least warn the others in the caravan of their peril. I then left the fat fool sitting in his tent. But there are 'fools', and then there are 'Fools'; and I proved to be the biggest 'Fool' of them all. As I emerged from the tent, there stood Marfach-Suil, smiling (or scowling, they were one in the same with him). He nodded at me as if in aknowledgement, but suddenly, rough hands were laid on me from either side, and I was held fast. The caravan-master's snearing grin became more malicious, and he raised a cudgel above his head. I stood there stupidly, not even attempting to cry out as the club came crashing down, and I was struck with a vicious blow to the temple. My head howled as the sky spun drunkenly, and I fell into blackness. CHAPTER V: An Intrigue Unveiled I don't know how long I laid there, chased by shadows in dark dreams to the discordant rhythm of hammers slamming against anvils, but little by little I became dimly aware of my surroundings. I was in one of the mercenary's tents, and by the light streaming in from the tent-flap and by the stifling heat, I could tell it was late afternoon. As I struggled to full wakefulness, the direness of my situation became more apparent: I was cruelly bound both hands and feet, and gagged as well. For several more hours I lay, alone and betrayed, as darkness gathered inside and outside the tent. That I was not killed outright offered little consolation, for certainly further torment awaited me; still, I pondered this cruel twist of fate while my forehead pounded. It was obvious now that Mifhortun Dur had been in league with Marfach-Suil all along, and I cursed myself for being a witless fool; but I still could not fathom the depths of their odd alliance. What purpose was served for Mifhortun Dur plotting to have his own caravan hijacked? As I tried to make sense of it all in my muddled head, the tent flap stirred and in stepped Mifhortun Dur, humming jovially and sweating profusely like a great robed pig. Lighting a lantern and hanging it on the ridge pole of the tent, the plump merchant noticed that I was conscious and ceased his merry little tune. "Ah, so our stubborn scribe has returned to the land of the living!" Mifhortun said with a broad smile. "And lucky you are to be alive, my young friend! Marfach-Suil -- whom I'm sure you'll agree is a most unpleasant sort -- wished to kill you last night. Fortunate it was for you I convinced the caravan-master that it would be a waste of money to leave your carcass as a feast for the carrion-crows. Your true value lies in the slave markets of the Far East, where a learned scribe and interpreter of your talents will bring a tidy sum in Bajazet or on the Gold Coast!" Mifhortun Dur plopped himself down with great difficulty on a pillow, all the while watching for my reaction. Obviously pleased by my puzzled and angry expression, he continued, "Oh-ho! So you do not yet fully grasp the little game I play, eh? Well, let's just say that I stand to make a far greater profit by using Marfach-Suil and his men to rid me of my business partners than keeping to my orginal agreements. These desert tribesmen will require far less in compensation than my fellow merchants, who would rightly demand a far more equitable share in the proceeds, seeing as they are the ones who put up the immense sums of gold necessary to fund this caravan. With them out of the way, I shall sell the horses and slaves, such as yourself, in the Far East, there to live out a splendidly wealthy life in a sunny, seaside villa; while back home in Marannan-astair folks shall mourn the heart-rending loss of Mifhortun Dur and his caravan, beset by murderous horse-thieves or evil slavers on the high-plains, and -- ever so tragically -- never to return!" Mifhortun Dur's sordid soliloquoy was interrupted by a great tumult outside the tent: angry shouts of guards, the clash of weapons, men crying out in surprise and pain, and horses whinnying fearfully. "Ah, so it has begun!" Mifhortun grunted triumphantly as he managed to lug his immense weight off the ground. Peeling back the tent-flap to watch the melee from a safe distance, he turned back to me for a moment and winked. "Some say this is a cut-throat business we are in, Greagoir," he chuckled with glee, "I merely take them at their word!" In a manner of minutes, it was over. The dead calm that descended outside the tent was interspersed occassionally with the sound of the lash and the anguished sobs of the newly-enslaved as they were herded off into the distance. Mifhortun Dur stepped back from the doorway of the tent, and in strode Marfach-Suil, grimly clutching a bloody sword. "It is done," the caravan-master growled with finality in his gruff accent. "All merchants are dead, the others we keep for slaves." "Excellent, excellent!" Mifhortun Dur replied, patting the murderer on the back. "With only a few more days preparation here, we shall be ready to head east as planned. But we must be careful and skirt below the oases along the Eastern Trade Route; we want none of the other traders asking uncomfortable questions. Even so, with luck we can reach Bajazet in less than a month!" Marfach-Suil looked down at me and scowled. "We have change of plans," Marfach grumbled with his back turned to Mifhortun. "We go to desert first. My tribe has no horses. They need horses." "Nonsense! Mifhortun replied in irritation. "You may have some horses as part of your share, if you wish, but we shall go to Bajazet to sell the herd as agreed. Take it or leave it!" Still glaring at me, Marfach smiled cruelly. "I think I take it!" he growled, and turned suddenly on Mifhortun Dur, jabbing his sword deep into the merchant's distended belly. Mifhortun sputtered in shock and fell to his knees. Marfach-Suil sneared and put his boot to Mifhortun's chest and forcefully removed his blade, sending the merchant sprawling. "You think you smart man, eh, Mifhortun Dur?" the caravan-master hissed angrily as he spat upon the wounded man. "You have Marfach-Suil and his men do your dirty work, then you take all the gold and leave us scraps like we are dogs, eh? No, fat man, I think we need new deal!" Mifhortun Dur began to desperately plead for his life, under the mistaken notion that offering Marfach-Suil ever larger shares of the profits would somehow change the sad outcome of these negotiations. But Marfach-Suil bent down and savagely slit Mifhortun Dur's throat. "This is final offer!" Marfach laughed over Mifhortun as he gurgled his last breath "Now you take it or leave it!" The caravan-master casually wiped the blood off his blade on the dead man's robes, then, as if suddenly remembering me, he stood and walked menacingly towards where I lay, helplessly bound as I was at the back of the tent. After thinking for a moment with his sword hovering dangerously close to my face, Marfach-Suil finally said, "I think we let you live for now, even if you are spy. The fat one said you would fetch good price in slave-bazaar." The treacherous caravan-master turned to leave but stopped short in the doorway of the tent. "You just better pray the fat one was right, or you join him!" he growled, then left me there with the body of his former co-conspirator, Mifhortun Dur. Usually, one doesn't draw a great sense of relief from being condemned to a life of slavery, unless, of course, one is first threatened with an imminent and utterly nasty death. This was just such an instance, however, and I felt some comfort in the fact that I was allowed to live yet another day. Some time before midnight, a few of Marfach's mercenary guards came and dragged me out of the tent. They removed my gag and forced some water down my parched throat, then threw me, still bound, into one of the corrals originally meant for the horses, but which now served as a temporary holding pen for myself and the other enslaved survivors of the ill-fated caravan of Mifhortun Dur. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could see that Marfach-Suil had chosen his prisoners purposefully, for only the men who worked directly with the horses, or those tradesmen in the caravan with other specific skills (and therefore more valuable in the slave-trade), were allowed to live. Obviously Marfach was not a man of patience, and did not care to wait and attempt to ransom off any of the wealthier merchants, for none of those were left among we slaves. It is with grim satisfaction I also note that the cooks had met an untimely end as well, most likely suffocated in their own pots of gruel by the vengeful guards. And so I passed the first day of captivity with my fellow slaves, bound cruelly in a makeshift corral under the blistering summer sun on the high-plains of Hildorien. If the caravan ride up the Northern Trade Route had been tedious, this was far worse. There is a continuous state of anxiety one falls prey to while being held captive, an extended feeling of unease and restlessness that eats away at your hopes, leaving the numb realization that you might never return home again. To further heighten this emptiness, the guards, would not let us talk to one another for fear of our attempted escape, and this they emphasized heavily with the whip. The forced silence was more cruel to me than the lash itself, for it was a constant reminder of my plight. The oppressive hours dragged from bleak morning, to the the hazy doldrums of afternoon, to wretched evening without solace or shelter from the sweltering sun. The night finally brought some blessed relief from the scorching heat, and a cool breeze drifted down from the mountains, but it did not bring rest. Even in my younger days I could not sleep for any great length of time; but enslaved as I was, with both hands and feet tied, I was unable to channel my nervous energy. Laying motionless and unspeaking, I was certain to go mad long before we ever reached the slave-markets. In an attempt to quiet my fears, I began to pay closer attention to the night noises, the susurration of the wind and the far-off scurrying of plains animals. Suddenly, I became aware of a peculiar nightbird's call echoing softly in the distance. Perhaps it was because I had never noticed this particular sound on previous nights, as I was usually awake at this late hour, yet I think it was more the steady pattern of the whistling cry that drew my interest. As I listened intently I found the call repeated around the perimeter of the camp, first north, then south, then east and west, and so on, at such regular intervals that it seemed as if it were some kind of signal or code. Intrigued with the thought, I drew myself up and crawled as quietly as I could towards the corral fence, hoping to get a better vantage point in the darkness. Discuss this article in the Forum! |
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