“Treachery?” asked Erfâzh with an askance glance. “Frôzhal wouldn’t commit treachery.”
Jinan waived the objection away with his hand and then said, “Naturally not. He has a backbone of pudding.” He rubbed his jaw and smiled a toothless grin at Erfâzh. “Besides,” he murmured, “Frôzhal is not worthy of his position in the Haradrim army. He skulked from the sword’s blade and the arrow’s steel. However --” he grimaced here -- “he has already groveled his way towards the top in the army already, and is not likely to be arrested on your charge of treachery, since it’s only your word against his, and to whose word do you think the Lieutenant will listen?” Jinan shook his head. “No…the desert sands of Harad dirty more than the skin of men’s hands, Erfâzh.”
Erfâzh nodded, and rummaged in the pockets of a Gondorian corpse. “I suppose you’re right. I also suppose that if Frôzhal is proven guilty by some improbably means, his position will be open to a more deserving man.” He grinned at Jinan.
“Well naturally,” Jinan replied with a smile that showed his teeth. He twirled his dagger in his hand, the wind whistling upon the blade like a lad playing a tune upon a blade of grass.
“You do realize, that you haven’t gotten to where you are by military merit, but by whispered bribes of gold?”
“Mere rumour, Erfâzh,” Jinan said. “And if it were true, at least I didn’t crawl upon my belly.”
“My point was that you might become involved in more ways than one, you might be accused.”
Jinan shrugged. “What is that to me? Two out of three officers in the Haradrim army get to where they are by ignoble means. But what does that matter if you act according to your station on the field.”
Erfâzh snapped to attention and jammed his elbow into Jinan’s ribs, hence drawing his attention to Frôzhal’s approach. Frôzhal, besmeared with blood, a gash or two on his cheeks, and his sword stained with blood, did not look as if he had been merely scratched by bramble bushes. Jinan cocked an eyebrow at Erfâzh, who shook his head and replied with a imperceptible shrug of his shoulders.
Frôzhal stopped, his brown skin turning to ash. His fingers fidgeted, and his eyes darted away from his face. Jinan smiled toothlessly. “Hello, Frôzhal.”
The clash of swords drowned Frôzhal’s reply (if he had even made one), and Jinan and Erfâzh sprinted towards the melee. Two Gondorians, dressed Haradrim garb, were being borne to the ground. Dressed in Haradrim garb… Jinan grabbed Erfâzh and whispered in his ear…
|