CHAPTER 12: QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
The prisoner was bent over his knees today, his hands shivering from hunger. He saw the large man going back to the table to pick up the plate of food and a mug.
“It tasted good, did it not? There is more here if you want it. Food and water. Why do you protect your leader?”
“I do not protect him!” the prisoner cried hoarsely, suddenly whipping around and catching the interrogator by surprise. “I… I… I fear him.”
“Talk first. You said you fear him? Why?”
“If you knew him, you would fear him too. He has no – no mercy.”
“What does he want?”
“The king’s son, you fool. Could you not tell?”
“Why does he want the king’s son?”
“Revenge, why else? That is all he thinks about.”
“Revenge? For what?”
“His son, the king killed his son in the war! That is all I know. Now give me food first.”
“Not so fast. What is his name? Where is he?”
“His name is Sarambaq, and he will kill me, he will kill me,” the man said miserably, hiding his face in his hands.
“He cannot reach you here. Where is he? Where does he hide?”
“His – his halls. In Adhûn.” The reply was mumbled.
“Where? Remove your hands so I can hear you.”
“By a river. Near the sea.”
“The sea? The sea in the west?”
“No, no. The Sea of Rhûn.”
“How far is Adhûn from here?”
“Two to three weeks on foot, a slow walk.”
The interrogator let out a low whistle. “How did you know the king’s son would be in Ithilien?”
“We watched. Waited and watched. Sarambaq made us.”
A thought occurred to the man of Gondor. “It’s a long way from Adhûn to Ithilien. How do you exchange news?”
“What?”
“How do you communicate with your master? It takes time for you to travel between the two places. Does he send word, ask for news?”
Another snort came. “He has Dárkil.”
“What is a Dárkil?”
“Not a Dárkil, you fool. Just Dárkil. His – his – flying demon.”
This was interesting news, the interrogator thought. Interesting but not welcome. He sat back on his haunches and addressed the prisoner again. “Tell me about Dárkil,” he commanded.
A similar line of questioning was taking place in the woods of Ithilien the day after Legolas rode back from Minas Tirith, but the elves were having less success with their own prisoner.
Elves make terrible interrogators, he conceded. Ah, well, if we draw nothing out of this man from the East, I will have no choice but to send him to Faramir. But they would try their best first.
Aragorn’s face flitted across his mind and he felt a pang of sadness again. Thoughts of his friend had dominated his mind on his ride back from Minas Tirith last night. When he thought of all that he had ever shared with the former Ranger, a member of the Fellowship of the Ring, and now the King of Gondor, he could not believe that Aragorn’s words were anything more than a careless utterance born of frustration. Yet he never imagined that those words could hurt so deeply.
Right now, they had to dress and prepare for the ceremony at twilight. Tonight, they would gather at the graves of their fallen kin to sprinkle blossoms and scented water on them, and they would sing songs of lament to honor them beneath Ithil and the stars of Varda.
In the White City, the king of Gondor looked on the same stars at twilight and thought fondly of the friend who used to sing under them. One more dawn and one more moonrise, and he would ride to that friend.
