Chapter Forty-nine
Cirith Ungol
Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild
Beyond the convergence of the two
streams, the mountains grew closer together, constricting the valley into a
narrow trough. The land became harsher, the climate dryer and more arid.
Thorns, aloes, thistles, and spurges grew in abundance; the trees became
short and stunted, clamoring for footholds upon the rock-strewn hillsides.
Wiry grasses and silvery lavender swayed in the breeze, and the reddish pink
blossoms of sage brightened the rugged landscape. Hardy rose bushes trailed
down over large, lichen covered boulders, their thorny vines covered with
pale pink and white blooms.
Though the land was harsh and stern, it was not wholly without beauty. Or
perhaps it was. Each of the travelers beheld a different vision of the
valley, and while some saw fair roses and tenacious scrub land wildflowers,
others saw naught but vicious thorn trees burgeoning with stinking blooms.
Which vision was the truth? What mortal could judge in a place such as this?
Even one of the elder race, the wise and noble elves, would have trouble
sifting reality from fantasy. The valley was as fickle and capricious as the
shifting sands of the desert, constantly changing from one moment to the
next. Perhaps every traveler who ventured into the haunted vale saw what he
wanted to see. The twins, orphaned and alone, wished to see only beauty, and
so they did.
The Morgulduin had dwindled into a wide, rocky stream which cascaded from
its head high in the southern peaks. Making a broad arc to the north, the
river carved a crescent into the side of one of the northern ridges before
resuming its southwestward course towards the Anduin. Sheer cliffs jutted
out from the mountainside, frowning at the travelers from across the valley.
Gullies swollen with water from the recent rains spilled over the steep
bluffs and plunged into the river below. Above the cliffs, there was a
narrow shelf of ground where unruly thickets of hardy shrubs stubbornly
weathered the elements. They were just as worn and jagged as the stone, for
many had been struck by lightning, and others had been left sickened by the
suffocating ash of
Surrounded by the austere majesty of the Ephel Dúath, Elfhild felt very
small, a tiny insect in a land of giants. As the party crossed over a tall,
arched bridge, her attention was caught by the wisps of mist which curled
out from a narrow dell in the southeastern mountains. From this tiny hollow
flowed the Morgulduin, the mysterious waters ever shrouded by a fog of
enchantment. The pallid vapors rose up and ringed the jagged tops of the
surrounding ridges. "The source of the
As the riders traveled along the eastern cusp of the sickle ridge, the road
rose steadily beneath their horses' hooves, and the weary beasts strained to
carry their passengers up the steep grade. Elfhild cast a glance back at the
road behind them. Glistening in the afternoon sun, the river shone as a
ribbon shot with threads of silver and ivory as it curved towards the north.
Far away, she could see the Shrine of the Rose, a dim speck of dark green in
a hazy world of muted browns, grays, and greens. She felt a pang of
homesickness; somewhere far to the west lay the home she would never see
again. With tears prickling her eyes, she looked resolutely towards the
east, where she saw a horizon which was bleak and gray.
The late afternoon sun warmed the backs of the slavers and their two lovely
charges as they drew nigh unto the monstrous, sulking fortress of Cirith
Ungol sitting embittered high atop a brow of the northern mountains. Just
below the steep hill which led to the stronghold was a way-meeting where the
road branched off into two paths, one leading to Cirith Ungol, the other
climbing up the mountainside and disappearing around a bend.
As the riders neared the grim promontory of rock, Ganbar scowled at the
foreboding walls. "The citadel of Cirith Ungol," he remarked bleakly.
"Another one of their interminable checkpoints," Ubri complained, groaning
in frustration. When Esarhaddon motioned for him to ride beside him, Ubri
leaned towards Elffled and winked. "Think you can live without me for a few
minutes?" When she pretended not to hear him, he laughed and rode ahead.
Glad to be free of the hateful man for a while, Elffled turned her head and
smiled over her shoulder at her sister. "He is the most... detestable man,"
her mouth silently formed the words. "A pig, a veritable pig!"
A mischievous grin on her face, Elfhild mouthed back, "He might improve
considerably if he were roasting on a spit with an apple in his mouth! But I
would venture that the meat would be both tough and stringy."
"Not to mention the ripe odor," Elffled giggled.
"Do you think I am blind and deaf? I know what you two are doing," Ganbar
grated harshly as his hand moved menacingly towards the slave flail at his
belt. "You will cease that disrespectful behavior right now! You, Elffled!"
He gestured to her. "You will come back and ride on the other side of me
until the Shakh has concluded his discussion with Captain Ubri! I expect no
more of this childish nonsense from either of you!"
Effectively separated by the gruff Southron between them, both girls frowned
petulantly, refusing even to glance in his direction. He was treating them
as though they were children or feeble-witted!
Leading the vanguard, Esarhaddon and Ubri were far more interested in the
intimidating sight on the road before them than they were in the trifling
commotion behind them. "Strange that such a large party would come to
welcome us, my lord Esarhaddon." Ubri jerked his head in the direction of
the fierce black uruks who blocked the narrow road. How menacing they looked
with the afternoon sun glinting off their spears and turning the baleful red
eyes on their shields into reproachful flame!
"They do not look too sociable, do they, Captain Ubri?" Esarhaddon asked as
he looked over the fearsome warriors. "A whole troop of incorrigible idiots,
not a bright mind in the bunch, but all quite cunning with the slyness of
their kind. Their officer, though, is not orcish, but one of those Black
Númenórean bastards who makes his bed with them!"
"But, Shakh," Ubri dropped his voice, speaking in a tribal dialect known
only to a few outside the South, "there have never been more than two or
three guards at these checkpoints. Something must be afoot, and I do not
like the looks of it."
"Neither do I, Captain, but I guarantee that we will learn soon enough what
this is all about." Esarhaddon pressed his knees against his horse's sides,
and the fine mare moved forward, snorting and prancing, loathing the smell
of the detestable orcs.
Elfhild turned to Ganbar, her face tense with fear. "Master, what is
happening up ahead?" she asked timidly. "Those uruks do not look as though
they are there just for show - they look like they mean business!"
"I am frightened, Master," Elffled whimpered, terrified of the orcs.
"Slave wenches, set your minds at ease. The Shakh has never had trouble at
Cirith Ungol. The House of Huzziya is respected in these parts. Whatever it
is all about, Lord uHuzziya will set it straight," Ganbar replied
confidentially, hiding his own uncertainties. He looked towards the line of
enemies. "But... should trouble come, remember Inbir and I are close by, and
we will do everything in our power to protect you." He swallowed with some
difficulty. "...And if we cannot, you are to ride back to Moskala for all
you are worth."
Biting back her fear, Elfhild glanced over her shoulder to Inbir. The young
Southron, who had been trying to soothe the restless packhorses with calming
words, fell silent and regarded her gravely. She gave him a feeble smile,
which he acknowledged with a nod. Only the hint of a smile flickered in his
solemn brown eyes, but the girl drew reassurance from it.
As the party of Southrons and their captives waited apprehensively, the
officer moved to the front of the line of uruks and held up his hand in
greeting. "Hail, Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya! Welcome to Cirith Ungol!"
"Silim, Corporal!" Esarhaddon touched his fingers to his brow, inclining his
head slightly. "May peace be upon you this day." Beneath heavy lids, his
eyes warily surveyed the Corporal. "Unfortunately, I have not made your
acquaintance, but apparently you know me." He turned to Ubri. "This is
Captain Ubri uMandum of Harad."
"Silim," Ubri bowed his head respectfully, wondering what kind of torment
that Mordor had devised for them now. Nervously, he cleared his throat, his
hand on the reins trembling slightly. He hoped fervently that these brutes
would not sense his crumbling inner resolve. How much more of this place and
these conditions could he endure without losing his mind!
"I am Corporal Bekir, lately of the Army of Khand, but now as fate would
have it, a wound has made me unfit for active duty." Regret traced over the
angular planes and hollows of the Corporal's face. "It is a great pleasure
to meet you both, and I am sure I will be equally pleased to make the
acquaintance of the rest of your party." An orcish foot soldier behind him
laughed grimly and tightened his grip around the haft of his spear, an
action which caused the other uruks to chortle in menacing voices. A faint
smile curled over the Corporal's lips. "Now after I have examined your
credentials, you will be free to resume your journey. Papers, please!" he
barked out crisply, suddenly very brusque and businesslike.
Nudging his horse forward, a stone-faced Ubri extended the packet of
documents to the Khandian. While the Corporal perused the papers, Esarhaddon
took the opportunity to study the man. Occasionally the Khandian glanced up,
his contemptuous brown eyes shadowy beneath bushy brows which met in the
middle above a hawk-like nose. His lips, which were almost too full and
sensual to be masculine, were embedded between a dark mustache and a
well-trimmed, pointed beard. Splendidly attired in the black and crimson
livery of Mordor, the heraldry of the Eye emblazoned upon his ebony surcoat,
Corporal Bekir cut a dashing, though menacing, figure.
As the Corporal continued to leaf through the documents, his eyes narrowed
suspiciously. When he came to a certain page, Bekir looked up, his face
unsmiling, his mouth tightening in a harsh, thin line. "Shakh, there are
some discrepancies in your papers. I am afraid that we will have to detain
you for a while until you can answer some questions."
Stunned for a moment at this ridiculous charge, Esarhaddon was silent, and
then, his face reddening in sudden rage, he bellowed, "What?! Such a charge
is pure rubbish! We have passed all the checkpoints between here and Minas
Tirith, and every officer has found the papers complete and without error!
Now suddenly you tell me there are inconsistencies!" The hot-tempered
slaver's hand grasped the hilt of his scimitar, his fingers touching
lovingly over the metal. The uruks began to mutter sullenly among
themselves, and one shook his spear threateningly.
"Now cool your temper, Shakh! If you give us your full cooperation, I am
certain that everything can be speedily resolved," Corporal Bekir replied in
a soothing, placating tone. "Probably nothing more than a few accounting
errors."
"I wonder how big a bribe he wants to 'resolve' this matter," Esarhaddon
mused, smiling wryly to himself. He knew well the venality of petty officers
such as the Corporal. They would make up any charge, no matter how
preposterous, just so long as they could fleece honest merchants of their
hard-earned coin. All he had to do was find out the nature of the alleged
"crime" and what was the lowest price the Corporal would take to ensure his
silence. "How very simple," the slaver thought ruefully, already calculating
his monetary loses.
"Corporal Bekir, I am as eager as you are to settle this matter. However,
the middle of the road is not the most propitious place to talk. Perhaps you
and I can discuss this situation in your chambers? The rest of my entourage
need not be involved." His heavy-lidded eyes drooping even lower, the slaver
smiled wearily, seeming almost on the verge of exhaustion. How many other
officials had he bribed over the long years since he had joined his brother
as a dealer in human flesh? The Corporal would be like all the others... a
hint, a suggestion, perhaps a veiled threat, then an agreement and an
exchange of money. Seldom did he find officers and officials of
irreproachable ethics, and almost all of them could be bought. All one had
to know was the price.
"My lord Esarhaddon, I am afraid what you suggest is not possible," Corporal
Bekir replied stiffly. "Not just you, but all the members of your party must
be questioned, for they might be able to contribute to the investigation."
Filled with bureaucratic zeal and puffed up with his own importance, the
Corporal gazed at the slaver sternly, not willing to compromise. "Now if you
and your men will come along, you will be our guests in the tower."
"Corporal, does this mean we are under arrest?" Esarhaddon asked, feeling
more and more uncomfortable. Had the fool not understood that he was willing
to negotiate, but not in the middle of a public road with the men and the
orcs hearing every word? This could only mean that Bekir planned to ask for
an enormous bribe. The slaver's heart felt as though it were being wrenched
out of his chest. Then another disturbing thought struck his mind: "Perhaps
the bastard plans to hold us all for ransom!"
"Please, Shakh," the Corporal replied in a conciliatory tone, an apologetic
smile on his face, "no one is being arrested. However, while we are settling
this unfortunate matter, your companions will be placed under protective
custody... for their own good, you must understand."
"Protection from what?" Esarhaddon snarled. "From you?" By the Gods, they
really were under arrest! He gripped the hilt of his scimitar harder. The
matter could only be settled by an outrageous bribe, or even worse, they
would held until ransom could be raised to free them! He wondered how much
this would this cost the House of Huzziya, and if his brother could raise
the required sum before the Corporal decided to demand even more. He felt a
twinge of pain in the pit of his stomach, and wondered, as he often did,
whether he might be developing an ulcer. Esarhaddon sized up the orcs again;
they were a big, rough, ugly looking bunch, their reeking bodies adorned
with charms and ornaments crafted from human bone. "All right, Bekir, I will
go with you, but there is no need to detain the rest of my party."
The Corporal laughed disparagingly. "No, no, Shakh, you do not understand.
Some of them might be able to shed some light on the difficulties with your
papers. Let me assure you that your companions and your women will be
perfectly safe in the tower - I swear it on my honor! Now if you will just
lay down your arms and come along quietly with us, we can get this all
settled quickly."
The two men eyed each other, their gazes locked in unspoken combat.
Esarhaddon weighed the possibility of escaping. Considering that he and his
men were outnumbered almost three to one - and with the women worthless
hindrances, only getting in the way - the chances of escape seemed bleak.
The Gods only knew how many other soldiers were quartered in the fortress
above, waiting only for a signal before pouring out of the citadel and
charging down the road. Quietly submitting to the inevitability of fate,
Esarhaddon sighed, calmly acquiescing, "My weapon, Corporal." Unsheathing
his scimitar, he flipped the blade around to present the hilt to Bekir.
"Lord uHuzziya, I felt sure that you were a sensible man and would give into
reason." Corporal Bekir smiled smugly, extending a slender hand to take the
sword.
While this exchange was taking place, Ubri's sanity, already stretched to
the limit from days of embarrassment and fear, began to unravel strand by
strand like a rope overburdened and pulled too tight. "No! Never!" he
sputtered. "We will not submit so easily!" With foolhardy aplomb, he drew
his sword and waved it wildly at the Corporal. Tension crackled in the air
as the uruks braced themselves for battle. The twins gasped in alarm as they
beheld the frightening scene unfold.
"Captain!" the Shakh shouted over the din of snarling orcs and screaming
girls. "There is a time to fight, and this is not it! Listen to the voice of
reason and put away your sword!" Not heeding the Shakh's words, Ubri glanced
wildly about, his bloodshot eyes bulging. "Damn," Esarhaddon cursed to
himself. "The Captain has finally slipped over the precipice of madness and
plunged to its depths! If we live to get out of here, the gibbering ape will
probably start penning worthless drivel about unrequited love!"
His mind reeling at the rapidly spiraling descent into violence, Corporal
Bekir reached for his sword. "Seize them!" he shouted, backing to safety
behind the orcs as they surged forward like a black tide.
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