Having ridden with urgent speed from Celondim, the elf dismounted before his horse could even come to a halt.
Before him stood a stone wall, tall enough that he could not see over it. It was made of a smooth, gray stone completely devoid of carving or weathering, and its craftsmanship was so precise that he could not see any seams—typical solid Dwarven handiwork. In front of it a deep trench had been dug and hastily made wooden barricades erected, while beside the road, the construction of a half-sunken earthwork had begun. Culufinnel hoped this unfinished work would not be put off to a far-distant day. Once complete, the men could not venture to assault the bridge-head.
Eventually, when the Noldor had more ready gold, a more substantial fortification would be built; yet even now, if any attackers somehow managed to cross it and mount the sloping hill, they would find themselves trapped under the shadow of the bell-tower.
The tower stood alone, its thick stone walls immune to anything short of a battering ram. A retractable ladder was propped inside, ready to be pulled up at a moment's notice to strand attackers below. From the battlements of its second story, a constant hail of arrows could be rained down upon the slopes. If the elves were forced to retreat there, it would offer a safe shelter—though Culufinnel knew that if they were truly besieged, it might easily prove to be their tomb.
All was quiet, then Barahirn, the stablehand of Númenstáya, hurried up. He twined his fingers through the mane of Cloud-born, and spying Danel’s swift approach, led the lathered beast away toward the stable without saying more than a word of greeting.
“What an unexpected turn,” she murmured, masking her sudden surprise behind an unwavering calm.
Estarfin followed her from the main hall, his brow furrowed and his hand instinctively dropping toward the pommel of his blade. “News?”
Captain Culufinnel offered a sharp nod. “I rode here straightaway, after—where is my brother?”
“I have not seen Parnard all day,” Danel replied, scanning the nearby woods. “No doubt he is pursuing something strange.”
Estarfin glanced around. “Strange?”
“Angling by the reeds, sewing something from old cloth, or simply wandering along the river with his thoughts.”
“Do you find such pastimes strange?” asked Culufinnnel.
“It is his secrecy, not the act. He rarely accounts for his doings. Come, let us take this conversation indoors, away from the wind.”
The elves hastened into the shaded manor. Culufinnel leaned his sword, spear and heavy shield against the plaster wall, then pried off his helm, glad for the respite, savoring the cool air on his face.
“It is good to see you again, though we surmise you bring matters of concern,” Danel said as she poured wine from an ewer into crystal glasses. She studied his grim expression, noting the taut line of his jaw. Captain Culufinnel had no room in his thoughts for casual pleasantries.
“Tazakr has dared to set foot in Celondim itself. Can you believe the audacity of those black-hearted mongrels?”
Estarfin’s face darkened. “Who do you mean?”
“Corsairs,” Culufinnel said. He said the word as if he were speaking of the weather, but his eyes grew cold and hard. “Tazakr is one of the followers of the Heirs of Castamir.” He waited a moment to see the effect produced upon the Noldo. There was no change to his expression. Did he not know the history of those Men?
The Corsairs were descended from the rebel lords of Gondor who captured the stronghold of Umbar, blending with the native men and the remnants of the old Black Númenóreans to suit their profane purposes. Umbar was a fitting name for the port city. By pure coincidence it meant “Fate” or “Doom” in Quenya. The Elves had never renamed the mannish haven; some believed its ancient name perfectly suited its tragic history. Yet for the Men of Gondor, the association had become so thoroughly anathema that they had long since scrubbed the name from their Quenya alphabet, replacing the letter Umbar with Lambe to purge the evil name from the ancient high tongue.
“Men, we like not hearing of them, but I suppose it cannot be avoided,” Danel sighed.
Culufinnel leaned forward in his chair. “Of all the Men I have encountered, this sort is the most troublesome.”
“How so?” said Estarfin.
“They are well organized, unlike common brigands. Behind this band is something far more insidious, I deem—there are whispers of a cabal, a cult, hiding in the shadows of Umbar.”
“I know something about that,” Danel murmured, the firelight flickering across her features. “Once upon a time, the folk of Umbar worshiped the Crying Lady– Nienna, I believe. They worship the Dark Lord now.”
“‘Blood drinkers’, my brother calls them. He is full of fanciful turns of phrase.”
“But often he is correct.”
Culufinnel hesitated before speaking again. “The Corsair brought news of Parnard’s stolen armor.”
“It is clearly a trap,” Estarfin declared.
Danel pushed a heavy silver platter piled high with boiled eggs and roasted lamb chops towards her husband. “Captain Naraal said he was willing to help us, and to expect a message. You say it is a trap, meldanya, but that makes no sense.”
He picked at his food, then taking up a bread roll said, “Parnard took the loss of his armor hard. I would not put it past him to do something foolish to retrieve it.”
Culufinnel sighed. “I must speak to him, discourage him from doing anything rash.”
“Will he listen to you?”
His jaw tightened. “No,” he admitted with a frown. “He is hard-headed and thinks he knows better. Yet he may hearken to my counsel.”
“In truth, I think he is more likely to listen to you,” Danel said to Estarfin. “Parnard has always respected you.”
Culufinnel saw his opening and struck. “Tell him it is folly to go to Gondor. That is where the armor was taken, if we can trust the words of a Corsair.”
Estarfin swallowed a mouthful of the rich wine. “I have never sought to give counsel to others,” he replied, his voice flat and unyielding as he met Culufinnel’s eager gaze.
Danel smiled. “I know, meldanya, but this is not counsel as such. More of a word of—warning?”
“More of a reminder of common sense,” grumbled Culufinnel. “It seems to have disappeared, along with his armor, if he desires to travel to Gondor to find it.”
“It was not his fault it was stolen. As Estarfin said, he has taken the loss hard.”
“Most unfortunate. He must bear it as best he can, and not play this dangerous game.”
“We understand him, Captain. Parnard wants his armor back, and may well risk his life over it.”
“Then the armor will remain here, on these shores, probably forever. He will never lay hands on it again—what good would it do?”
“We would gladly travel with him to any of the elvish lands,” Danel said softly. She looked to Estarfin for confirmation. The warrior finished eating his bread roll and eggs. He pushed the platter of lamb chops away, picked up the decanter, and refilled his wine glass to the brim. “But we would not travel over the sea to Umbar,” she continued, her voice dropping. “We will not go to the land of the ‘All-Seeing One’. And as for Gondor–I journeyed to Minas Tirith twice, earlier in this Age. It is not a…nice place. Too many Men. Too many high walls, and not enough greenery. Their most learned dwell there, it is said.”
“I hear it is also in the shadow of the Ephel Dúath,” Estarfin volunteered. Lately, he had been looking at several maps, trying to appear less ignorant of the world.
“We would rather Parnard not go there.”
“Yet will he let the matter rest?”
“He oft acts the fool.” Danel spoke with a fond but entirely clear-eyed affection; though she loved Parnard deeply, she was under no illusions regarding his mercurial behavior.
There was no use denying the truth in her words. “Once my brother gets an idea stuck in his head, it is hard to shake out,” Culufinnel admitted. He stared at the floor in moody silence. Gondor, it seemed to him, was a land of degenerates.
The Corsair told him that he made a few “arrangements” to retrieve some of the armor. What that entailed he did not want to know. It was of no real consequence, he tried to tell himself; the man’s words were likely bravado. The chestplate was sold to a wealthy Lord in Dol Amroth as a present for his son, while the gauntlets and boots were purchased by a rich merchant, a dandy, who wished to strut around the streets in good style. The greaves’ exact whereabouts in Pelargir were still unknown, although he assured Culufinnel that he was on the trail, and would locate them soon. He did not mention the whereabouts of the tall, white plumed helm that Parnard was so proud of.
At that moment the article quietly gleamed on an alcove shelf—a trophy of the vanquished High Lord, too small for Master Swordsman Pharazagar to ever wear. Stealing from a blademaster of his stature was a suicidal gamble. It amused Tazakr to think of trading his own head for an elf trinket.
“Why do Corsairs profess to help us?” Culufinnel demanded.
Lowering his hood, the man exposed his face to the light, revealing a complexion of olive-gold framed by dark hair. The shadow did not lift from his eyes. “I follow my Captain’s orders,” he answered coolly.
“Dromonds speed up the coastline and do mischief to the merchant vessels hailing from our ports: dromonds like the Shakilgimil.”
“Ah, yes, we were just passing through the area, and the Uinenlindë gave chase. We had not attacked any place, any village. They drove us onto the rocks. It took us six weeks to repair the hull.” Tazakr seemed eager to change the subject, and with a toothy grin said, “There are many in Gondor unhappy with the Steward, you know.”
“No doubt your Captain’s master is working to foment rebellion in Gondor, and so conquer it from within.”
“No, you have it all wrong, Elf! He is more concerned with the well-being of Umbar.”
“Is he, now?”
“I understand your lack of trust, but in this matter, know that my Captain is genuine. He promised to help, and so he will.” Culufinnel’s eyes flashed dangerously, so he quickly said, “If you will have it all, then know he is smitten with a lady, and will deny her nothing. And now I have told you more than I should.”
“We are well aware of your Captain’s folly.”
Tazakr grinned. “Ah, it is an ill-kept secret, then. He isn’t usually this careless. But–” he shrugged, “everyone has a weakness.”
Danel and Estarfin exchanged a knowing look as Culufinnel finished recounting the exchange. “I sent one of our fastest scouts down the road after him,” he told them.
“And?”
“He took the road east at the crossroads, and continued down the Old East Road, until he reached the outskirts of a Halfling village–”
“Oh!” Danel cried out. “I hope he did not harm any of them?”
“My scout lingered around the place listening for any trouble. Nothing more of the man was seen nor heard. She thought he may have doubled back, knowing he was followed—but he did not: ever since that trouble at Kheldûl, we have watched the river’s edge.”
“Have any Dourhands returned?”
“A few.” His fingers tightened around the stem of his forgotten wineglass. “They are bold to think they can sail up and down the River Lhûn smuggling goods and spreading rumours without repercussions. Too few are our blades to watch the borders.”
“We must warn the villagers. We could speak with one of their chieftains.”
“I have a stock of reasonably good quality steel, good enough for Halfling blades, at least,” Estarfin volunteered.
Culufinnel shook his head. “It will not suffice. This matter exceeds the capacity of the Shire-folk. They are brave, but courage alone cannot repel the Corsairs. The men have established themselves somewhere along the Baranduin, that much is clear.”
“Naraal’s ship was moored nigh Forlond, on the other side of the gulf,” Danel offered, drawing upon the Corsair plans she had overheard during her captivity.
“Forlond is well-guarded, as is the River Lhûn’s estuary—and we have received no word of Corsair sightings there. I wonder if they are landing at Eryn Vorn, the cape of pines at the mouth of the Baranduin.” A hard edge crept into his voice. “They say those lands are uninhabited.” He scoffed openly at the notion.
“So let me understand,” Danel cut in. “Captain, we are to find a way of dissuading your brother from heading to Umbar or Gondor.”
“Yes.”
“And you seem to be hinting that more elves are needed, to try and track Corsair ships traveling up the Baranduin.”
“Yrill seems most capable.”
“Yrill has departed on a journey east. I could ask Ceuro to look, but there is merit to the notion of sending your brother to scout.”
He weighed the folly of the idea against its undeniable practicality. A cautious and deliberate strategist, he hated relying on such an unpredictable plan. “If Parnard must go somewhere to soothe his grief over a missing suit of armor,” he mused, “I suppose that is the least likely disastrous outcome. But—” he paused, leveling a stern gaze, “—he must not get into any trouble.”
“Trouble? With us?” Danel smiled sweetly, brushing the concern aside with an elegant tilt of her hand. “That is impossible. We only wish for him to be happy. Safe and happy,” she added. “He would not go alone, of course.”
“Good. It is my hope that he will forget about that armor. At least he still has his sword.”
“He will not forget swiftly,” Estarfin cautioned. He spoke with his usual laconic gravity, rarely wasting breath on idle chatter, and fixed Culufinnel with a grey-eyed piercing stare. “The armor was fit for a prince of the Noldor.”
His eyebrows shot up. He knew the gear was well-crafted, but that magnificent? “Perhaps he will never forget,” he muttered, realizing that he would be forced to endure Parnard’s woeful complaints for a very long time.
“We have much to do here, Captain, to turn Númenstáya into a fortress. But our 'family' always comes first. That includes Parnard,” Danel said.
“Then talk to him. I must return to Celondim. There is much to do there, as well.”
Danel turned to Estarfin, trying to gauge his thoughts. “Meldanya, perhaps we shall speak with Parnard? He is not totally without sense.”
“I will give him my opinion. His choice, as always, will be his own.”
“As is proper. Thank you, Culufinnel, for your news and words of wisdom. We shall let you know of any plans we form, or not.”
“Do not thank me, Lady. I fear I have brought more trouble to this peaceful place.” He pulled on his gauntlets and helm, then took up his weapons and bright shield.
“Ai, where there are Men, there is trouble,” Danel sighed, her voice heavy with the weariness of long ages.
His head bent in somber agreement. “Alas, it is ever so.”
