"Stupid girl!" Esarhaddon muttered to himself as he slid from his saddle and walked briskly over to the fallen Elfhild. "Ganbar!" He glanced over at the other Southron, who had just dismounted. "Throw a pail of water in the little troublemaker's face! That ought to wake her up!" The Shakh was enraged. He had planned everything so well. All the required papers had been correctly filled out, and after they had been inspected and approved, he and his men could quickly be on their way. But no! The miserable wench's faint would detain them! "She has caused trouble from the moment that Awidan bought her from the army!" he railed to himself. He nudged Elfhild's hip with the toe of his boot, but she did not move.

"My lord," Ganbar spoke up hesitantly, his homely face filled with concern, "the water is more of a punishment than a way of waking someone, and I do not think she deserves such treatment... Mint leaves under her nose will wake her up more gently. At least they will not harm her." The Shakh was often cruel, Ganbar acknowledged, but what he wanted to do now was foolish and might even hurt the girl. There were times when a man had to speak up to his employer and tell him when he was wrong, no matter the consequences. "This is one of those times," he sighed and pulled on his earlobe as he waited for Esarhaddon's rebuke.

"A little water will not harm her! Her clothes are soaked as it is!" the slaver snapped as his dark eyes flared dangerously at Ganbar. "You heard what I said--"

"No!" Elffled screamed as she clambered off her mount. Dodging around the milling horses, she avoided Ganbar's surly mount which had laid back its ears and bared its teeth at her. She jumped away from the ill-tempered beast, and, paying more attention to the horse than her feet, she landed in a pile of warm horse droppings. Her feet slid and she almost fell to the ground but righted herself just in time. Ignoring the jeering taunts of Ubri, she knelt beside Elfhild and clutched her protectively. "Please, Masters, no! Can you not see that she is still weak from the sun sickness!" She looked up at Esarhaddon, her eyes pleading.

"Silence, woman!" Esarhaddon thundered. "There will be no more histrionics today!" He signed to Inbir, who quickly dismounted from his horse. Inbir tied his own mount and the pack horses to some spindly shrubs at the side of the road and then sprinted towards the two girls. "Inbir, get her sister out of the way!" the slaver growled, his voice cold and angry. "This one will be taught never to meddle in what I do! If the girl tries to return to her sister, tie her!"

"Aye, Shakh," Inbir acknowledged as he bent and grabbed Elffled's wrist. He looked into the cringing girl's terrified eyes. "You heard what he said! Get up!"

"Y-y-yes, Master," Elffled stammered as she stumbled to her feet. Standing there with her head bowed, she closed her eyes, bracing herself for a blow. Not speaking, Inbir tugged her stumbling along behind him to the edge of the road.

"Kneel!" his voice grated out. "Do not move, do not talk, do not look up, or I will bind your hands and feet and tie you to the back of your horse! Just be an obedient slave and everything will go well!"

Elffled knelt at his feet, the unhappy portrait of resignation. The slavers would do whatever they wanted with Elfhild and her, but what could she expect? They were women of a conquered country, prizes of war. Though they might hate it, this was to be their lot in life. Elffled waited to hear the splash of the water which she knew was sure to come.

The tepid water hit Elfhild full in the face, but she did not awaken. "Give her another dose!" Esarhaddon ordered, but still the girl slept among the flowers. He cursed his luck, the whole recapture venture, his men, the women, the bridge, the valley, and the whole world as he watched the procession halt ten yards ahead of them. "I suspect that the rebel schemed with her sister to cause a commotion that would embarrass me before the Seneschal and his men! Both of them have succeeded at that all too well! The Seneschal will think me an incompetent fool who cannot even control his own slaves!"

He gripped the hilt of his riding crop so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Simple though they were, women's minds were wickedly cunning, and, like children, they would turn to mischief if they were not perpetually restrained. Once they were out of the sight of the city, he would whip these two troublemakers until their backs and buttocks bled! With a quick motion of his fingers, he signed to Ganbar and Inbir, telling them to drag Elfhild over to her sister's side and lay her face down upon the ground. Perhaps the Seneschal would think that the girl was prostrating herself before him, or had fainted dead away in fear.

Her heart pounding, Elffled knelt in homage to the Morgul lords, her forehead pressing against the damp earth. From out of the corner of her eye, she cast a worried glance towards her sister, who still had not recovered. Oh, they were in a terrible predicament now! The slavers were exceedingly wroth at them, and powerful men of Mordor who terrified even the Southrons were steadily approaching. Oh, they were doomed!

Three of the riders separated from the group and trotted their ebony steeds forward. The beasts were immense, fearsome-looking chargers which snorted threateningly as they kept their eyes on the party of Southerners. Massive warhorses, they tossed their heads proudly, sending streams of froth flying. They bore the regalia of their city - silver ribbons woven into their manes and tails; black saddles, headstalls and breast pieces of the finest leather and workmanship; and black caparisons adorning their flanks. Their tack was inscribed with silver runes and sickle moons and embellished with bouncing silver tassels.

Their riders were turned out magnificently in the same black and silver livery as their steeds. All three wore hooded cloaks dark as the veil of night, the silver crescent-shaped brooches at their shoulders gleaming in sharp contrast. The elbow-length sleeves of their mail shirts peeked out from beneath their sleeveless black surcoats and glistened like ice in the sun. Beneath their mail, they wore black tunics, the sleeves and hems edged with argent embroidery. Their hands were covered with black leather gloves, while their feet were shod with tall black riding boots that had been polished to a dull sheen. Ornate scabbards concealed deadly swords and hung from belts which were embossed with intricate silver designs.

Two of the horsemen had pulled their hoods down so low that their faces were completely obscured by the shadowy folds. Little imagination was needed to see them as faceless spectres of death, come to take the doomed by violent means. The center horseman, however, wore a silver mask which had been cunningly crafted to depict the clean-shaven face of a young man. The features, finely chiseled and angular, were of a nobleman who surveyed the world with the cynical ennui of the cosmopolitan. His eyes were lost in the shadowy gloom of the mask, and only appeared as black slits. The most richly dressed of the three, he boasted fine leather gauntlets, the tops of which were stitched with rings of steel. Chains of regal medallions cascaded down his broad chest, proclaiming his royal powers.

The three horsemen brought their horses to a halt about ten feet in front of the Southerners. The air seemed to grow colder as the center rider urged his horse forward. The Southrons sank to their knees and bowed their heads. Still mounted, Ubri inclined his head and kept it down. The orc shook from head to toe and began to wail, but the gag muffled the sound.

Mounted on their great steeds, the three black riders surveyed the small party. "Hail Esarhaddon uHuzziya," the middle rider solemnly intoned in a voice as chill as the breath of death.

Beneath his masked helm, the Seneschal arched an aristocratic eyebrow, his arrogant lips slowly curling up into an apathetic smile. He inhaled deeply, the nostrils of his high, aquiline nose dilating as he sniffed the air. The noonday sun was bright overhead, and with his dimmed vision, he could barely make out the Southrons' shadowy forms. Relying on his horse's sight and senses, he surveyed the scene before him and laughed humorlessly. But there, what was that? That delicious smell he detected among the foul odors of living men? He tested the currents again, breathing deeply and letting the air slide slowly through his nostrils. Then his eyes glinted a faint crimson as he identified that very intriguing odor almost submerged beneath the reeking stench of fear, sweat, spices and horseflesh. Ahhh, he delighted in the scent of living women!

"You may rise," he commanded coldly, dismissing the pathetic wretches' show of respect with an indifferent wave of his hand. His cold eyes glittering, he watched as the three men rose to their feet. They stank of fear, their bodies oozing the stench from every pore. Always the odor both offended and excited him. Through his horse's eyes, he visualized the one who feared him most. Such information could be of use someday, for he would always remember the individual scent of each one at the bridge. "The orc," he thought, "and then the man who guards him." He smiled smugly with the knowledge.

"Hail, Lord Kalus, most esteemed and honorable Seneschal in the service of the illustrious Lord of the Moonlit City which is like none other upon the face of the earth! May both you and your glorious King live forever and a day! May good fortune attend your path and abundant blessings be upon you, your city, and your house! Greetings and felicitations!" Bowing from the waist, Esarhaddon touched his hand to his heart, his lips and finally his forehead as he straightened up. His men repeated the gesture, but they did not look up as they rose to their feet.

Phrasing an appropriate greeting for such a fearsome lord had always been a problem for Esarhaddon, and once again he was certain that his speech was woefully lacking. A salutation suitable for a nomadic shakh or a powerful sultan of the South seemed entirely out of place when dealing with this man. The slave trader had been rehearsing his greeting ever since his party had left the Anduin, and though he had memorized the words perfectly, still he was not satisfied with the greeting. But how did one greet a personage who caused his men and him to feel lowly, inferior, and very much intimidated? "Well," he decided, "if he does not like it, so be it. I will remind him that I have paid an extravagant amount for the right to buy slaves from the army, and then perhaps he and the rest of them will remember that they are more in my debt than I am in theirs."

"Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya," the Seneschal touched his fingers to his lips as though suppressing a yawn, "if you think to impress me by your tedious grandiloquence, do not flatter yourself. Your pretentious salutations do nothing but weary me greatly. I already know why you are here. You have come to ask for my blessing as you pass through the valley."

"My Lord Kalus--" Esarhaddon began, but was quickly interrupted by the Seneschal's cold voice.

"Esarhaddon uHuzziya, we have been expecting you," the Seneschal briskly told him as he slowly stroked his horse's ebony neck. "The rest of your caravan passed through here three days ago. Your servant, Tushratta, informed me that you and your men would be delayed while you rode off in search of runaway slaves." He paused, enjoying the effect which he and his men had upon the Southrons. When he spoke again, his voice dripped with sarcasm. "What a pity that you have returned with only two out of the seven who were missing. You must be quite disappointed at such meager results." The Seneschal chuckled to himself. These insignificant fools had been outwitted by women and children. "How droll," he mused to himself. Seldom did he find anything of humor while attending to his grim duties, but this was so entertaining that he had to suppress the urge to laugh out loud.

"My lord, the three boys and the two women were not worth the effort it would cost to look for them," Esarhaddon stated defensively. "We gave up the hunt in Anórien. Possibly one of the patrols might yet find the runaways and return them."

Esarhaddon had dealt with the Seneschal before and knew him to be an arrogant devil who enjoyed belittling other men and making them feel low. He sensed that the Seneschal was laughing at him behind that mask. Angry, he refused to be mocked by this haughty puppet of the Lord of Minas Morgul, and so he determined to keep his eyes fixed upon the slits of the terrible silver mask and stare him down.

After a long moment, he was sure that he had caught a flutter of movement at the eye holes, as though the Seneschal had averted his gaze briefly. The slaver stared at the mask for a long moment. "He cannot seem to look me in the eye," he thought triumphantly. "Like a dog that barks and then runs away," he gloated to himself, keeping his eyes riveted on the Seneschal. Esarhaddon began to laugh, but when he opened his mouth, a brilliant white light flashed before his eyes and his lids clamped shut. The agony racked his skull and he felt as though his eyeballs might burst. No longer able to think, he forced himself to endure the pain. When the brilliance faded, he discovered that his vision was blurry and his eyes burnt and stung as tears began to gather.

"Damn," he thought as he was forced to look down, "this sun is a great burning blaze in the sky and the reflection from the mask is blinding me!" He would not give into the pain and rub his eyes. He would not let this insolent steward see his distress! The burning sensation increased until it seemed that his eyes were filled with acid. The proud slaver was compelled to rub his eyes to relieve the agony.

"Is something in your eyes?" the Seneschal inquired patronizingly, a mockery of pitying concern in his voice. Such attention was far more threatening than comforting, and made one wish that he had never attracted the notice of the black rider.

"My lord," Esarhaddon gritted his teeth, "I have nothing in my eyes. I am merely being blinded by the sun!"

"Aye, the day is... bright." The Seneschal nodded, somewhat reflectively, as though enjoying a jest which no one else understood. "Perhaps there is some ointment in my saddlebags which might assuage your affliction." Reaching back to one of his saddlebags, he began to open the flap.

"No, my lord," Esarhaddon answered quickly, "my eyes feel much better now." He did not wish to be in debt in any way to one of these petty magicians! The only thing he wanted from them was gold! You could never tell when one of them might give you a malicious potion which would cause some disastrous malady or even death!

"As you will, Shakh," the Seneschal nodded. "I will now claim the prisoner that you hold in your keeping."

"Gladly, my lord," Esarhaddon replied, staring fixedly off in the distance to the city. He was determined not to look into those dread eye holes again. "We found this rogue spying upon my women when they were bathing in the stream up the way. We did not slay him, for we thought it more appropriate that he face the City's justice." The slaver turned to Ubri. "Captain, deliver the prisoner to his masters." He stepped out of the way to allow Ubri to ride up with the orc.

Beneath his mask, the Seneschal smiled cruelly as he glanced over his shoulder at the two dark riders behind him. A bit of work in the dungeons that afternoon might prove an interesting diversion from the eternal boredom to which he had been condemned. "Take the felon inside the walls! Restrain him there until my return." Wordlessly, the two riders behind him bowed their heads in silent affirmation and then looked back up in perfect unison.

"Aye, my lord," one of the horsemen replied, his words sounding lifeless and distant, as though they were coming from a pit beneath the earth. Silently taking the orc's rope from Ubri's hand, he turned his horse around and dragged the shrieking orc back to the column.

"Now I must see your papers, a mere formality which you must complete before I can allow you to pass beyond this point. You will now present them to me." The Seneschal's restless horse pawed one great hoof upon the ground. Patting the animal's shoulder, he intoned a few soft phrases in High Black Speech. The fidgety animal soon quieted.

"My lord, it will take only a moment to retrieve them." Esarhaddon would be glad when this business was over, and they could leave this dreadful city. After walking over to his horse and retrieving the required papers, he presented the documents to the Seneschal. "Here, I think you will find that everything is in order," he told him, trying to keep the irritation and tension from his voice.

Bending over the documents, the Seneschal perused each page, taking advantage of the shade created by his hood. It seemed to the Southrons that the steward was taking an inordinately long time to study the papers, and a cold sweat broke out over their foreheads. Finally the lord lifted his hooded head and stared directly at the slaver. Esarhaddon felt uncomfortable as the Seneschal's eyes bored into him. His men, all tense and edgy, stared past this formidable personage and looked up the road at the body of ten horsemen waiting behind him. Their path was blocked, both in front and behind them, and if any trouble happened, there was no way they could escape. No matter how hard they fought, they were outnumbered, and a fight with the grim horsemen would end in death. Nervously, they shifted their feet. Behind his back, Ganbar frantically made the sign against evil. All of the Southrons were sweating heavily now, a chill sweat which beaded up on their foreheads and oozed from their pores. Their minds filled with apprehension, they waited and hoped that this situation would not end with a clash of arms.

"Shakh Esarhaddon, since you passed through the valley earlier this month, the toll has increased by ten percent. As you know, there is a war going on, and the passage of troops and heavy wagons causes damage to the road, resulting in broken and cracked pavement, loose cobblestones, and the formation of treacherous ruts. I informed your servant Tushratta of the new toll, and he paid the difference from the caravan's coffers. However, it seems that he neglected to pay the fees required for the passage of you and your men, and the two slaves in your company. Perhaps he did not know how many escaped slaves, if any, you would recover, and so decided it was best for his employer to pay the toll himself. If you are to continue your journey into Mordor, you and your men must each pay ten coppers, plus an additional five coppers each for the slave women."

"What?!" Esarhaddon bellowed. "I have already paid all the required tolls, taxes, fees, and tariffs! This is highway robbery!" It was not that the tolls were too high, for it was nothing to a wealthy man such as he to part with fifty copper coins. It was just the principle of it all that gnawed at him! The Lords of Morgul always asked too much, and if they could, they would wring the coins from his purse like water from a rag!

"You insult me, Esarhaddon uHuzziya!" Anger flared in the Seneschal's voice, and Esarhaddon thought he caught a flash of crimson from the eye holes in the man's mask. "One does not simply walk into Mordor without paying all the required tolls! This valley belongs to the Lords of Minas Morgul, and once you are here, you will obey me!"

"This is preposterous, and I will file a complaint when we near the Dark Tower!" Esarhaddon choked out in rage, so infuriated that he could barely speak. Reaching for the pouch at his belt, he counted out fifty copper coins and flung them angrily at the Seneschal. "Here is the rest of your accursed toll! Take it and let us pass!"

"I shall take the toll, Esarhaddon uHuzziya, and more besides! Thou shalt pay for thy impertinence, but not with coin!" The Seneschal threw his head back, his scathing laughter seeming to echo off the walls of the valley. A faint crimson gleam emanating from deep within the dark interiors of his eyes, the black stallion took a threatening step forward. The horse shook his great head back and forth, his flaring nostrils sucking in large breaths of air as one of his enormous hooves struck sparks on the pavement.

Above the slaver's party, the sky darkened, the Sun's light disappearing behind heavy gray clouds. As the men looked up at the brooding heavens, an oppressive, chilly mist rose from the ground and penetrated into their bones. The poppies began to sway back and forth, as though they were being stirred by a breeze, but the air was still and oppressive. The darkness thickened around the bridge and road. The men watched in terror as the Seneschal held up his right hand and intoned a chant in High Black Speech. Their faces twisting in agony, the three dismounted Southrons groaned and pitched forward, slumping unconscious to the ground. Moaning, Ubri slid from his horse and landed in a heap by the side of the road. The horses stamped nervously and shied away from the fallen men. Gasping in horror, Elffled stared transfixed at the Southrons, who lay pale and motionless as though they had been embraced by death.