“Captain,” said Naraal, his eyes widening a little as he bowed low before the tall Númenórean. Azrazôr’s hair was almost completely shaved off except for two thick locks on the top of his head, braided with carved bone beads and curled back like the horns of a ram. Gone was the hated mismatched armour scavenged for him after his arrival at Bree; he now wore a panoply exquisitely forged from dark steel.
Naraal’s look, as swift as it was, did not pass unnoticed. “It is my aunt’s doing,” Azurazor explained, running a hand along his freshly shaved scalp.
“I see, sir,” said Naraal. “She is quite a forceful woman, it seems, but the style suits you.”
“My aunt has her ideas, and I have mine. She said that I looked like one of those uncouth long-haired northern barbarians, and wished that I had an Umbari hairstyle. I admit it is more practical underneath a helm.”
“I think this is far better, sir,” said Naraal. “She has a good eye for armour, too.”
“Forged by the black-dwarf Duzir it is.”
“Oh, so he is a smith?”
“Amongst other things.”
“He was just here.”
“Yes? He is a servant of my aunt’s. I would expect it.”
“He asked me if I wanted anything - but I did not…” Naraal’s voice trailed off.
“I did not ask you anything about that. You must have spoken of something that you wish for me to know about. Tell me, what did you discuss with that dwarf?” Azrazôr’s words were politely spoken, yet Naraal sensed the veiled threat couched underneath his courtesy.
“He told me that he is from a wandering group in exile; I told him that I had a sister whose death I regret, and that there are mysteries in this house; and he told me that he does not tell tales."
“Quite a broad-ranging conversation you had. Is that all?"
“He told me never to say your aunt looks twenty years old,” added Naraal, and seeking to change the subject, said, “As she must be older than you, being your aunt, I must say she does very well for herself. Her diet, perhaps?”
The man known as Captain Greenfield made a sardonic smile. “She always did take very good care of herself. Aunt Zairaphel knows many ways to sustain and preserve life - and other things, too.”
“Ah, a wise woman in many ways,” murmured Naraal.
“We have sought the secret of immortal life for thousands of years, and it is to this end that she devotes her studies. You can already see the results.” Azrazôr waved towards the front door. “What you saw out there were - opportunities for improvement.”
“It cannot be an easy achievement,” said Naraal, trying to suppress a shudder. The disembodied arm was probably still floundering around in the brackish water outside the house.
“It is not easy. It takes much sacrifice,” Azrazôr replied, and he laughed one of his rare laughs, long and slow, as if his mirth was buried so deep inside him that it was a long time coming, and it would make the most of the occasion.
“Immortality should be ours by right. Why was it given only to Elves? Lesser men, of course I understand that, but why not us Númenóreans?”
“It is because the Creator, in his obstinate stinginess, did not proportion his gifts out fairly. The Elves were his special creation, his favourites, and Men were an afterthought. The Firstborn were sought after by him and his ilk, but we were overlooked; they did not want us to live amongst them; many gifts were lavished upon the Elves, and they cozened themselves at his feet while we Men were shut out in the cold to fend for ourselves. Only after we had proven ourselves did the Disproportioner begrudgingly give us a land of our own to rule, and only for a little time at that."
“So the old tales say. I can only think that life was intended to be harder for us than the Elves, so that we would become the stronger?"
"And so we did. In many ways we are now superior to the Elves - but our lifespans remain inferior."
Bottles clinked overhead. Azrazôr sat down, flinging his fur cloak to one side, and noticing Naraal's attention drawn to the sound, said, "You wish to make yourself useful to my aunt."
"If it is your wish, and hers - I follow you, Lord," Naraal answered, unsure if it was a question or command.
"She may ask things of you, in time."
"If it does not go against your will, I shall oblige most readily! She is interesting, but also very powerful; I would not wish to disobey."
"If you do, you may end up fitting inside that box," and the Black Númenórean motioned towards a wooden curio box that was no bigger than the palm of his hand.
"I follow your orders, sir."
"And my aunt’s." Azrazôr sat back, a wry look on his face. "She can give you many things, Naraal. Remember that nothing is free in this world."
Naraal grew serious. "I have never thought so, Captain. All things come at a price."
Azrazôr studied the corsair with his penetrating blue gaze for some minutes before saying, "Over these past few months, I have found you to be a sober, level-headed companion. You have proved my trust in you was not unfounded."
Naraal bowed low. "I am honoured to serve one of the true blood."
"I believe your good judgment will keep you in noble standing with the House of Castamir."
Naraal lowered his head. "That is my hope, Lord."
"When the time comes we will reclaim our own. What is it you wish for, once l am crowned King?"
"There is little I want, Captain. A swift ship, and to bring honour to you and your heirs."
"Only one ship? I thought you would want a fleet. You could be Ship Master of Umbar. What do you say to that?"
"A fleet is better, of course, but one fast good ship is worth more than many slow ones. I like to be at sea, sir, not stationed in a harbour. But when the time comes, if you think I am worthy of the appointment, then I will do my liege's bidding."
"What do you wish to accomplish at sea?"
"Mastery of the great ocean, and with a swift ship I would make others fear us, to flee or hide when they sight us, so that you reign supreme over land and water."
"Your wish is to control the coasts. Then it shall be so. You shall head our fleet of Mariners and transport tribute and slaves to Umbar."
Naraal was now smiling with genuine pleasure, and bowed low again. "That is my dream, Captain! May the rightful Heir of Castamir be seated on the throne once more, and our opponents put to the sword."
"If you wish to see your dream bear fruit, Naraal, follow your orders to the letter, and never shirk from any command of ours. I know you will do this," and he fixed his keen blue eyes once again on Naraal.
"It is not my intent to shirk from anything you or your aunt command."
Azrazôr nodded, satisfied with his sincerity. "There are many who have said they are loyal to the true heir but their deeds belie their words. Some are dead. We will find the rest and kill them, too."
"You are the true heir, my King! Most are charlatans," said Naraal.
"Most?" Azrazôr gave Naraal a look of sharp rebuke. "They are all impostors and fakers! Every last one of them."
Naraal, realizing his error too late, said in hasty explanation, "The heir that Umbar looks towards is a would-be usurper from a lesser line, my liege."
"That is only because my family was forced to go into hiding after my mother lay dead, poisoned by an assassin's dart that was meant for me."
"'The enemy will always seek to strike at the true heirs."
"Far into Harad did we flee - deep into the desert. I grew up there, amongst the lions and jackals. There is not much difference between some Men and animals, Naraal. There are lions..." he said, indicating himself and Naraal, "...and there are jackals, men that are more like base creatures of instinct that are born to be dominated and destroyed. ‘Conqueror of Lions' is but one title of mine, and this is my device," and he gestured at his gleaming black breastplate, on which was emblazoned a gold lion rampant on a silver crescent moon.
"You were given far less than your due, my captain, but now you are stronger than them all!"
"My aunt has given me power beyond that of my bloodline, power that was given to our ancestors long ago, in the Land of Gift That Was Taken Away."
Naraal nodded in rapt attention. "Then you are surely invincible!" he exclaimed.
"Invincible? Not yet, Naraal. In time, all in good time: there is still much we must do."
"You are our true King, nurtured in the desert wilderness, supported by the All-seeing One through his devoted servants, and your aunt! The House of Castamir will endure until the end of time."
"Is that a prophecy?"
"No, no," Naraal said, and seeing his master frown in displeasure said, "Once re-established, I cannot see your House ever failing once your aunt finds the secret of immortality; then you will reign until the end of time."
"If she finds it. At present she is keeping a close eye on you."
The corsair made a faint sheepish grin and said nothing.
"Just do not let her have you crawling around on all fours, eh? You serve me. Do not forget that."
"I shall not, sir."
"Enjoy yourself for now; I must see to some arrangements for our journey to Nan Gurth. We leave at first light: do not keep me waiting!"
"I will be ready," Naraal said, and bowed. Then Azrazôr left, leaving him alone to wrestle with his thoughts.
