When Esarhaddon finally reined Ka'dara to a halt, the mare was hot and winded, her body oozing sweaty lather. Her nostrils flaring, her sides heaving in and out, she sucked in air to fill her starved, aching lungs. The Shakh had ridden the mare hard, for he had wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the dark rider. Esarhaddon looked up and scanned the monotonous sky overhead, but saw nothing. Obviously, the wraith had decided not to follow.

Why had the wraith detained him in the first place? Had he been sent by the Seneschal to threaten him... or perhaps slay him? If the motive had been murder, why, then, had the fellow not acted upon it? Esarhaddon would have been an easy target for a well-aimed dart from the air. "Damned tricksters!" He cursed loudly, and the mare turned her head to look curiously back at him. If this was another one of Lord Kalus' bizarre attempts at jest, the slaver was not amused. "Both of them are mad," he concluded, "their brains deranged by debauchery and too much wine. Probably the one on the flying creature is even more insane than the Seneschal."

He had the urge to grasp the strange, macabre man about the neck and throttle him until his tongue hung out of his mouth. Of course, he would never have that opportunity. These pompous valley lords seldom came out of their great fortress unless they were mounted on their flying beasts or guarded by armed escorts whose ranks bristled with spears and swords. "Craven cowards, every last one of them! They should be driven from the valley, and their filthy rat's nest put to the torch!"

Rage boiled up in Esarhaddon as he thought of the insults he had suffered at the hands of these arrogant lords. The despicable scoundrel who had impeded his course earlier had not even bothered to state his own name. Had Esarhaddon ever met him before? He was not certain. How could one recognize a man who stayed in perpetual disguise? The faces of the dark ones were usually hidden behind masks or in the cowls of their robes, and except for a few minor differences of height and build, all of them were almost identical.

Esarhaddon gazed into the sky again, but when no rider or fell beast materialized, he smiled a cold smile of satisfaction. "Perhaps he decided to journey to Mandos alone on his lizard-brute. Let him go and be damned!" He would not waste any more time thinking about that ghoulish jester. There were far more compelling matters on Esarhaddon's mind. He was worried about the rest of his party, who had not yet caught up with him. There had been plenty of time for them to cover those few miles that separated them.

He surveyed the road to the west, his eyes narrowing as he searched for any movement on the lonely landscape. Catching no sign of his entourage, Esarhaddon cupped his hands to his mouth and called their names over and over until his throat felt dry and parched. Silence was his only reply. "Since the encounter at the bridge, the men seem to have lost their wits! Now they have so little sense that they could not even find their way into a whorehouse unless someone led them by the hand!" Displeased at the delay, he frowned in consternation. "The dolts are out there wandering somewhere, and it appears that I will have to go back and find them," he grumbled as he turned the mare back towards the west.

But that would mean traveling over the stretch of road where he had last seen that idiot on the great flying beast. The vain popinjay might actually be considered as pathetically humorous if it were not for the seriousness of his implied threats. Still he had done Esarhaddon no harm. Probably the rider was only a bored sentry who passed the monotonous hours of his duty by playing pranks on unwary travelers. Whatever the case, in order to search for his companions, Esarhaddon would have to risk another meeting with him. He studied the sky again. Seeing nothing, he shrugged and kneed the mare into a fast clip.

The trail hugged the mountainside, making the path narrow treacherously. The valley itself grew smaller here, for the chill Morgulduin had gnawed its way into the stony foundations of the mountain. As Esarhaddon gazed upward, he saw a rocky escarpment so sheer that not even the most nimble of goats could find footing. Rounding a scaly projection that jutted out from the stony base, he saw that the meandering river had swung like a serpent to cling to the northern side of the valley. The river had left in its wake broad bottoms which were covered with dense thickets of scraggly evergreens mixed with thorns.

As the mare carried him down a short incline, another disturbing thought came to Esarhaddon's mind. He would have to ride through the malodorous flowers again. The thought made a shudder of dread go down his spine, and he chastised himself for his silly worries. There was nothing to fear from flowers, no matter how foul they smelled. Blossoms were delicate things, their petals easily crushed and torn. The charnel flowers did not even have thorns! Of course, they were probably poisonous, but one stomp from his boot could grind one of the accursed plants into the ground.

Passing over the next stretch of the forlorn road, Esarhaddon found the air heavy with the fragrance of the deadly poppies. He halted briefly to unwind part of his turban and wrap it about his face. When the Southern storms lashed across the desert, the nomadic peoples of Harad drew a length of the cloth over their faces to protect themselves from the swirling sand. Yet the material did nothing to protect him from the evil fumes. Perhaps his body and clothing had absorbed the scent of the charnel flowers, and now he reeked as strongly as they. When he reached the spring, he would wash away the horrid stench and ritualistically cleanse himself of the unholy taint.

The road dropped rapidly away as the mare carried Esarhaddon down a steep slope. Nothing about this part of the valley seemed familiar. Nothing, not the sharp, angular outcroppings which rose from the sides of the mountains, nor the chaparral of juniper and myrtle which ran in a dark green line atop the razorback ridges. Along the luminous road grew groves of thorn trees bristling with long black spikes which were tipped with dull maroon, as though stained by blood. As he passed by a deep ravine which had been hewn into a scaly, shrub-strewn slope, he saw rising from the far end of the fan of rocky debris which littered its mouth the ancient ruins of a once fine structure. Over the centuries, though, the finely carved marble had been reduced to naught but a few broken-off columns and large chunks of stone which lay buried in the wiry grasses and low-lying brambles. A shiver slithered down Esarhaddon's spine. Never in all his life had he seen this place before!

As the trail wound down and down, the fog began to roll in from the river in long-stretching misty sheets like the ethereal forms of ghosts clad in pallid burial shrouds. Dank and chill, the air was heavily laden with miasma as toxic as the fumes from a witch's cauldron. The stench of the charnel flowers grew even more oppressive, and Esarhaddon had to cough repeatedly to clear his throat. The steady thudding of the mare's hooves mingled with the peaceful rushing and splashing of the stream below, creating a soporific cadence in the Shakh's head. Lulled by the tranquil monotony, he began to feel drowsy, his mind slipping into the strange plane between consciousness and dream.

"Esarhaddon... Esarhaddon uHuzziya..." It seemed that he heard his name being called by hundreds of voices which whispered upon the wind...

He jerked awake with a start, sending the strange half-dream skittering into oblivion. "Damn it, I almost fell asleep! What is wrong with me?" he asked himself, giving his head a brisk shake. Though he swore that he had closed his eyes for only a few seconds, in that time the fog had become much thicker, and he could no longer see his surroundings. He peered over the mare's head, squinting as he tried to see through the mists which swirled around him like an undulating dancer clad in a gossamer skirt.

The oppressive weight of the heavy, sullen air pushed down upon him, squeezing him with a terrible pressure. Esarhaddon labored to breathe, but the air was so thick that it seemed to coat his lungs like honey. Thick mucus ran from his swollen, inflamed nostrils, and his head felt as though it were wrapped in steaming towels from the boiling recesses of the hammam. Moaning, he gasped for air, the cloth about his mouth soaked with fetid dew and his own saliva and mucus. The damned plants were poisoning him! He clawed at the neck of his tunic, which had grown tight and strangled him like the assassin's bowstring.

He could not remain in this accursed place any longer, for it meant certain death! Though it was impossible to see the road, he kicked his mare into a gallop, trusting that her keener senses might take them to safer ground. Her powerful legs gathered and bunched under her, pushing her forward in ground-consuming strides. But yet Esarhaddon had no sense of motion, and it was as though the mare were running in place. The Southern slaver was not a man who capitulated easily to panic, but the chill clutch of death had seized him, undermining his confidence, shattering it like the broken fragments of a wine jar. He mumbled the name of every god whose name he knew, and then in the same breath cursed them all for their blind indifference and their refusal to deliver him.

All sense of time and place were no more. In the nightmare which had become his mind, he felt reality twisting in convulsive paroxysms, its convoluted meaning diminished until nothing was left but colors, shapes, abstract ideas, and snatches from a song he once heard a slave girl sing in his father's harem when he was a boy. Existence shrank in size until it became smaller than a dust mote, and then suddenly expanded until it filled up the very universe. He saw his brain stretch out before him; his skull was the dome of the heavens. He wandered through meandering valleys, drank from pulsing rivers of blood, climbed convolutions which rose to gently rounded peaks. He could see his heart pounding in his chest, the blood surging through all the vessels in his body, the color red in a myriad of hues: scarlet, crimson, garnet, rose, cerise, vermilion.

Bright, scintillating colors stabbed at his skull, and he felt as though a dozen ifrits had seized his brain in their mighty hands and were kneading it like dough. As he felt the swollen mass of his brain nearing the verge of exploding, he could hear someone screaming like a madman. When the cold realization that he was hearing his own voice struck him, he howled out in rage and frustration. Then, violently, his sense of being and self contracted, shrinking again, until it finally imploded upon itself, and left him adrift in oblivion.

There was no longer any up, down, forward or backward, right or left. There was nothing left but the putrefying stench of the charnel flowers. Though he could no longer feel his hands, he knew they were locked in a death grip around the reins. Bested, beaten by forces which he could not fathom or understand, Esarhaddon sobbed, the tears running down his face in hot streams. He was trapped in a meaningless, shapeless world, and there was no way out!

With a growing sense of horror, he felt the ground giving away beneath the mare's hooves. His mind screaming out at this new calumny, he threw his weight against the back of the saddle to brace himself. The mare struggled to regain her footing, snorting in fear as her hooves slipped faster on the pebbly scree. She screamed out her terror as she lost her balance and plummeted to her knees. Esarhaddon plunged over her head to land with a sickening splash in the accursed Morgulduin.

Agonizing pain shot through his body the moment he hit the chill, deadly water, and his breath was driven from his lungs in a mighty rush of bubbles. Great, convulsive shudders racked his body, and he shook uncontrollably as paroxysm after paroxysm of anguish seized him. He gasped for air and recoiled in terror as he felt water flooding his mouth. His throat spasming, he reflexively swallowed the ensorcelled liquid, and felt as though his esophagus had crystallized and turned into ice. Eerily the water did not taste of decaying vegetation and fish excrement as natural rivers do. Instead, its flavor was somewhat reminiscent of rosewater sherbet, and he had the impulse to keep drinking until he became foundered.

His terror grew in desperate proportions as he began to sink towards the bottom of the evil river. He kicked and clawed at the water, but his sodden burnoose and long tunic clung to his body and wrapped around his limbs as he fought the water's grasp. His heavy arms and legs seemed as useless as leaden weights and as frigid as columns of ice. He tried to hold his breath, but the searing torment in his lungs forced him to suck in more of the poisonous water. Sheer terror gripped him, and he gagged, bubbles spewing from his mouth. Black and red spots danced before his eyes like sparkling gems of onyx and ruby. His heart hammered from the exertion; surely he must be dying. His strength rapidly fading, Esarhaddon did not know how long it would be before this murky nightmare claimed his life. Far above him was the glimmering, undulating surface of the river; the pale light of the overcast sun; and the air which his starved lungs desperately craved.

Something tangled about his legs - vines or serpents or the tentacles of some water monster - and he was held fast! He kicked against his unknown fetters, but to no avail. His nearly frozen legs were sluggish in obeying him, and his bonds were too strong. Remembering the knife hidden in his boot, he pulled it out and slashed at the tough fiber, which was as unyielding as leather-wrapped chains. Yet his numb fingers could not keep their hold upon the hilt, and the blade slid from his hand to plunge towards the dismal bottom. Pain exploded in his head, and his befuddled mind could barely function. His vision was now almost fully obscured by black clouds which seemed to be carried on the currents.

Freezing and at the point of death, Esarhaddon felt his body going numb with the torpor of endless sleep. Scenes of his life passed by him, and the most vivid were those of his aroused passion when he had gripped virgins in the fiery embrace of love. How he remembered their yielding bodies writhing beneath him, moaning out their love for him as they convulsed in ecstasy! Many were almost as pleasing as he envisioned the nymphs of paradise... but not quite. Now that he was dying, he would have limitless opportunities to explore the treasures between the legs of those heavenly virgins. A dreamy smile slowly spread across his blue lips.

Unable to hold his breath any longer, Esarhaddon gushed out the last remaining air from his tortured lungs, and the sweet-flavored water rushed to fill the void. His struggles at last ceased and he floated under the water, his body gently rocked by the currents. A final trail of bubbles rushed up towards the surface, and he marveled at their glimmering, crystalline beauty. How perfectly round they were, like little glass beads, like children's marbles. Then to his amazement, the bubbles transformed into delicate white blossoms. The water was filled with the pallid blooms, their petals caressing his face and hands as they brushed up against him.

Reaching out, he took a blossom and brought it to his lips. This simple act seemed to unleash a motion in the water, a subtle ripple as though something were approaching. Before he could ascertain the cause of this phenomenon, he felt the grip of gentle fingers on his legs as they tugged off his fine leather boots. Other hands, equally clever and nimble, unfastened his sash and sword belt and drew his pantaloons and sirwal down, letting them float away. Behind him he heard feminine giggles as his burnoose, tunic and undertunic were tugged off. Phantom fingers eagerly caressed every inch of his now nude body, arousing his slumbering organ into wakefulness. Long, graceful fingers locked themselves in his thick, curly black hair, pulling his face towards unseen lips. Esarhaddon opened his eyes and met the passion-clouded gaze of the most beautiful maiden whom he had ever seen.

Crowned with a circlet of pallid waterlilies, her raven hair was an inky splash against the dismal greenish gray of the deep. Woven with twisted strands of eelgrass, it swirled about her head like water serpents. Around her ivory neck were wrapped chains of mother-of-pearl; fine medallions of iridescent mussel shells hung between her breasts. Her gown was of ivory silk, pearlescent and shimmering, softly glowing with a pale, ethereal light.

He must possess her, for she kindled a flame within his loins that ached and burned with searing passion, gnawing at his vitals like the sting of nettles! No aphrodisiac that he had ever consumed could grip him in such a frenzy of lust as the sight of this beauty! He grabbed for her, and with a sweet smile of gently curving lips, she swam just out of his reach. Her place was quickly taken by a red-haired, green-eyed vixen who smiled seductively at him as she pulled down the bodice of her gossamer gown, revealing jutting nipples circled with the amber stain of henna. He smelled the sweet scent of incense about her, the heavy cloying aroma which wafted through the chambers of the harem on sultry desert nights made for love. He moaned as she clasped one of her full breasts and brought the nipple up to her coral lips. Slowly suckling the little bud, she stared boldly into his eyes and then held her breasts out to him. He lunged for the lovely sprite, but she darted away with a melodious laugh, swimming behind a clump of aquatic plants. Her eyes peeked coquettishly over the underwater grasses, flirting with him, challenging him to pursue her.

Consumed with salacious urges that demanded to be satisfied, Esarhaddon gazed all around him, his eyes gleaming like those of the village's holy madman when he spoke to the gods. He was surrounded by nymphs, glorious creatures whose marvelous bodies were only barely concealed beneath their diaphanous gowns. The filmy cloth clung to them, molding to their sensuous bodies and outlining every curve, every nipple, every nuance of breast and firm bottom. He groaned, and though he was certain he had died, he felt his organ on fire with potency and vigor. It was as though he were still alive... No! He was more than alive, his loins charged with a powerful virility which made the blood race hot in his frozen veins and his member throb with agonizing want.

Swimming languidly towards him, her icy blue eyes meeting his, the raven-haired seductress wrapped her hands around his neck. With a sigh, she pressed her body close to his, crushing her voluptuous breasts against his hairy chest. All around them, other nymphs were engaged in their own pursuits. Murmuring softly, mouths locked in passionate kisses, the sisters of the dead waters took their pleasure with each other, their hands roaming over each other's bodies with wild abandon. Their long hair streamed about them, the strands mingling in a writhing mass like the wispy fronds of underwater plants.

""Follow me, my lord," the raven-haired water sprite murmured, her silvery voice as bewitching and enchanting as the strains of the santur. Smiling seductively, she held out her hand and he clasped it firmly. Tolling him along like an eager puppy on a leash, she swam away with the other beauteous sirens following in their wake. She guided him through the columns of some long ruined edifice and into a bower of river grass soft as down.

"Lie with us, lord," she whispered in his ear, her teeth tugging his earlobe. She lay back in the grasses, inviting him with outstretched arms to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. His rigid manhood jutting like a battering ram before him, he drove deeply into her, the cool silkiness of her sheath surrounding his throbbing shaft. As his hips pounded in the steady rhythm of passion, the other nymphs swarmed about him like wolves attacking an exhausted and wounded prey. Their maddening fingers ran through his hair, massaged his shoulders, clawed over his back, and squeezed his muscular backside. His body convulsed in pleasure as spurt after spurt of hot seed shot out of his fiery knob. Keeping his dagger buried deeply inside her, he lay atop the lovely sprite's musk-scented body, breathing heavily.

With an enigmatic little twitch to her lips, the dark-haired beauty smiled at the other water maidens, and they began circling the two lovers, their ethereal voices singing a song of dark enchantment. With surprising strength, she threw the slaver's body off hers and tossed him down on the bed of river grass. Mounting the lust-maddened Southron, the lascivious sprite grasped his stout spear, impaling herself with a wild shriek. Some suppressed sense warned Esarhaddon of danger, but the rampant orgy of the previous hour had rendered him incapable of clear thinking. As he writhed beneath her, she covered his mouth with her voluptuous red lips, her tongue pressing between his teeth and plunging beyond. Her eyes flashed with dark desire as she rode him furiously. He heard her silken voice as musical as the wind sighing through trees.

"You will stay with us, my lord Esarhaddon, scion of the House of Huzziya," she proclaimed darkly as her lips met his again, biting him savagely. "You will stay with us forever, for you are fated to be our love slave!"

"Forever! Forever! Forever!" the other nymphs echoed wickedly. Esarhaddon watched in horror as the river grasses grew, lengthening, extending, until they had encircled his wrists and ankles, spreading them far apart.

"No!" he cried, struggling furiously to free himself, but the siren only bucked harder and faster upon his rigid pole, her breasts bouncing wantonly. He was powerless to escape the impassioned demoness, for the grasses held him firmly to the ground. Her hair flying wildly about her head, she rode him with a savage fury. Much to his great dismay and resentment, he felt himself being stroked closer and closer to an earth-shattering release.

Suddenly the water churned as a great black shadow passed over the surface of the river. "Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya, my foolish friend!" a familiar voice laughed gregariously inside his mind. "I see your perverted lusts have made you a thrall of these water nymphs. All this could have been avoided if you had only taken the time to share a goblet of wine with me!" The wraith sighed heavily. "Shakh, must I rescue you?"

"Go to hell, you accursed djinn!" Esarhaddon bellowed, panting. "I want no help from you or your kind!"

Far above him, the Nazgûl laughed, wild, insane peals of laughter which reverberated inside Esarhaddon's brain. As all went black, he heard the wraith's hissing voice tell him, "Remember this boon that Skri the Eighth grants unto you, and remember it well! Next time I might not be so generous to one who refuses both my company and my wine!"

"Shakh! Shakh! Are you all right?"

"Yes, damn it!" Esarhaddon snapped as he looked up into the faces of his men, who had clustered about him. "Is there some reason why would I not be?" He tried to sit up, but the exertion taxed him too much, and he fell back onto the ground. When his vision had cleared, he looked at his surroundings and saw that he was on the bank of the river.

"My lord," Inbir answered, his voice solicitous with concern as he knelt on the ground beside him, "you galloped far in advance, your speedy mount outdistancing the rest of us! When we finally caught up, we saw that your mare had fallen, almost throwing you into the river!" He dabbed a wet cloth on Esarhaddon's forehead, and the slaver winced. "You must have hit your head upon a rock, for there is a nasty lump upon your brow!"

"Aye, my lord," Ganbar interjected, making the sign against evil. "For a while there, we thought you had been killed!"

"No, I am not dead! Far from it!" Esarhaddon growled as he pushed Inbir's offered waterskin away. He looked over the younger man's head and saw the two Rohirric girls, their faces tense and drawn with worry. He let a little smile play over his lips and was pleased when he saw the fear on their faces lessen. His hard brown eyes glinted with satisfaction as he rose to his feet. "Now fetch my horse!" he commanded gruffly. "We must make speed and put this wretched place behind us!"

As Ka'adara and the other horses clamored up the steep bank, Esarhaddon's eye was drawn to the sky, where far above him he saw an eagle gliding on the air currents. Or was it an eagle? Esarhaddon squinted to see better, and the image immediately vanished.

Skri the Eighth. He mulled the name over in his head. So the insane rider was not a lowly scout after all, but one of the Nine Lords. A chill went down Esarhaddon's spine. He had met a High Nazgûl and survived. But why?

That question would haunt him in the days to come.