[littlemanpoet]

littlemanpoet's post

Mabalar thanked Moizandú with a brief silent glance of deepest respect as his friend dismounted from Izri, putting himself in great danger, and sent the mearas seeking out her mistress, Kâthaanî.

It was fortunate that the street was full of shop wares and their poles, tents, tables and benches, which had made it hard for more than a small number of Herugor's guards to attack them at one time, and also made bowshots difficult to aim with much accuracy.

A quake shook the earth. Mabalar remained on surefooted Lômi. He took stock. A foot wide gap had opened between them and the bulk of Herugor's guards. There were only fifteen guards on foot on their side of the gap. Mabalar looked over them and made a quick head count: Tirú was on Mani, Marsillion rode Rûki, Thoronmir sat astride Nitirú, Azarmanô held the reins of Khibil, and Inzillomí wielded her knife while on the back of Kali. Where was Kâthaanî? He could not see her.

Izri, find your mistress, he whispered. "Retreat!" he yelled and swung his chains at the nearest guard before the young soldier regained his wits. The others responded to his call, except for Inzillomí. Mabalar coaxed the wise Lômi to get clear of the guards. The sky darkened further, threatening clouds lowering as with a pall of doom. Hail began to fall. This was not hail like anything Mabalar had seen before, not the size of small pebbles; these were the size of nuts and apples, and stung like shot from a Soronilian blowgun.

Suddenly he heard someone crying above the fray. It was Moizandú. He was standing on top of a newly made heap of rubble, holding a piece of wood above his head.

"Men of Númenor! This hail, these earthquakes, these are made from the wrath of the Valar! Turn from your evil! Follow Sauron and his minion Herugor no more!"

Some of the guards quailed and dropped their swords to the ground. Others still held their weapons but dropped them to their sides. Most held their weapons firm but wavered, as if unsure between this seeming prophet and their commander. One, standing near Herugor, looked on coldly.

While they were in confusion, Mabalar urged Lômi and the others were now following. Izri was lagging. Something was slowing her. It was Kâthaanî, her hand desperately gripping a hanging rein as Izri dragged her carefully as she could along the ground.

"Kâth!" Mabalar yelled. A thin trail of blood could be seen where she had dragged. She looked up with glazed eyes, mouthing words that looked like a desperate call for help. My child! Mabalar jumped from Lômi and ran to Kâthaanî.

Meanwhile Moizandú continued his harangue. "The so-called Golden King has fallen under the spell of the hated Sauron! Immortality cannot be wrested from the Valar! 'Tis a fool's errand! Turn from the evil!" The guards who had dropped their swords looked remorseful as the hail fell upon them. Those who had let down their guard looked confused. Those who had wavered kept looking back and forth between Moizandú and Herugor. The one with cold eyes raised his bow and nocked and arrow.

Tirú, nearest to Kâthaanî, dismounted and came to Mabalar's aid. Together they lifted the groaning Kâthaanî and got her on Izri's back.

"Hang on, my dear!" he said and turned to Tirú. "Take her reins, my friend!"

"Aye, master!" Tirú's eyes spoke their friend-bond.

"Sauron has betrayed all Númenor! 'Tis a folly to due that fell one's will! Turn! Turn from -urk!" An arrow pierced his throat. He fell. The hail fell harder, and larger. Another quake split the gap wider.

In the midst of all the chaos, Mabalar found a brief moment to embrace Inzi.

"Is she--" she began, tense and afraid. He interrupted her, eying Moizandú's speech with thanks.

"No... though she may be soon. We must ride now. Need you aid? Are you hurt?"

Inzillomì looked into his eyes, her own blank and haunted. "No... no... we must leave Kali behind for another of our party; I pray that he comes in time."

"Then ride with me," Mabalar replied. She nodded and gave him the name of the missing friend, whom Mabalar had never met. He spoke the name to Kali, knowing that she would understand. Mabalar looked again at Inzi with worry before climbing again upon the back of Lômi and helping her up behind him. He cried one last order and the seven faithful rode hard, Tiru holding the reins of Izri, out of the city.

The seven Faithful fled down the streets mounted on the surefooted mearas, Kâthaanî's arms wrapped around the neck of Izri.

Míriel watched from high above, seeing the plight of the seven, the hail falling from a dark green sky, the quakes ripping up Armenelos.

"Valar save them," she said, and pulled her cloak more closely about her shivering frame.

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Himaran's post

The last time Abarzadan had been in a Numenorean mansion was beyond the reach of his more than adequate memory. As he and Ellinel passed through the set of beautifully-crafted heavy wooden doors, the man could only glance at a few of the amazing features displayed before him before a stone-faced (and well-dressed) servant appeared and took their coats; he did not even blink at the sight of Abarzadan's (which was torn, soaked and bloodied). The still-beaming woman beside him touched his shoulder and wispered that she would go and find her father. Both she and the servant disappeared, leaving him to study the house's many intricate details. The atrium was huge; beams with various pictures carved into them supported the walls, and towering above the polished stone floor was a colored glass dome. A central, enormous and gently-curving staircased climbed up the walls, stopping briefly at each level before continuing its upward journey. Surprisingly, it was deathly quiet.

It was not Ellinel who returned to meet him. An older man, tall and well-built with a full head of still-dark hair, appeared from one of the lower doors and stepped towards him. His walk was quick, and he carried his shoulders high. His clothing was custom and exquisite. Every fiber of his being exuded power. "My daughter tells me that you are Abârzadan."

"Such is the case, yes. She believes that you knew my father."

The man's face twisted, but he regained his composure a second later. "Yes, I knew Abâranâ. By your demeanor I understand that he has passed away."

"Again, you are are correct. I thought that since you were friends, there might be some lose ends that needed tying up, assuming you and he had conducted business together."

He was quiet for a moment. "Ah, but I am rude. My name, Abârzadan, is Anadanâ. Welcome to my home. Do you require refreshments, or shall we get right to the task at hand?"

Abârzadan declined the offer, and the two headed up the staircase.


***


Anadanâ's study was immense. Row upon row of shelves was stuffed tight with leather-bound books, and heavy cabinets filled with documents lined the walls whenever an open space presented itself. A huge ivory desk covered with scattered papers sat in the center. The host led his guest straight to it, pulled up and extra chair, and bid him to sit. Anadanâ spent a few moments searching one of the cabinets, but soon returned with a large folder. He sat down and pulled out documents one at time, explaining their significance as he went. Apparently, Abâranâ and he had run a business together for many years. It started out as a small entrepreneurship, but eventually evolved into a highly succesfull enterprise that held a virtual monopoly in the housing industry for a decade. When Abârzadan's father abruptly disappeared, his partner simply took over. "But now that you're here," he assured Abârzadan, "You can sign for him and take your father's place."

Anadanâ pulled out a crumpled paper and blew a cloud of dust off it. "Here we are. Assuming that you want in on this." He picked up an inkwell with his right hand, turned it over, and grimaced. "Ah, it's empty. I will have to go and fetch a fresh bottle. Please excuse me." And with that, he stood and disappeared from the room.

Abârzadan chuckled to himself. Anadanâ had seemed like the sort of man that would have called a servant long before venturing out to find something as trivial as an ink canister. After all, there were several buttons on the a nearby panel, all labeled - a bell system that ran throughout the entire residence. Pushing the thought aside, the man snatched up the paper and read through the legal material. Everything seemed in order, and the previous signiture had indeed been made by Abâranâ Barântâira.

Wait. Batânzâira... Barântâira. That is not his name! Upon making this startling revelation, the man leaped to his feet. Suddenly visible was a dark pool of ink, slowly settling at the bottom of an otherwise-empty silver waste-basket.

And Abârzadan make a quick and accurate assumption. Something about the entire afternoon was very, very wrong.