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There was no saving the fort. It hadn't been a particularly solid structure to begin with, built on shanty bones. Gothmog directed his men—who had, but for two, survived—to empty the precious rain barrels around the edges, dampening the ground and keeping the fire from spreading. Then they stood back and watched the walls burn, until black ash alone remained, floating feather-fine on the wind.
The regimental soldiers had dropped like flies, at the hands of a few boys. “Put the bodies in the cellar, and fill it in,” he ordered, and the men obeyed. Well, his men obeyed. The regiment’s surviving sergeant, a sniveling man whose head barely reached Gothmog’s massive shoulder, protested.
“These were army men!” he said. “We will have to send word to the nearest—”
Gothmog clamped one heavy hand on the back of the man’s neck and smiled. He didn’t have a pleasant smile. He didn’t rightly care.
“I’ll do you one better,” he said, “And send you to Bauglir. He’ll want to hear of this.”
“I’ll give him a piece of my mind,” sputtered the sergeant.
“No doubt you will.” Gothmog released him. “It’s a day’s ride. Can you bear it?”
“For my men? Anything.”
The bodies were buried. Gothmog didn’t see the point in mourning the fallen. He was more concerned with a dead man yet unburied, a man who might not yet be dead.
In a quarter of an hour, the sergeant was gone, ash still gusting in the wake of his hooves.
Gothmog knew with certainty that he’d never be seen again, and turned back to his men, considering. “Secure what you can,” he ordered, not even needing to gesture to the ties and uncut lumber around them. “Look for me after three o’clock.”
“If I am to understand correctly,” you say, smiling, “Gothmog directed you to come here, and report that our headquarters at Utumno have been razed to the ground?”
“He gave me a map,” the sergeant says. He is slope-shouldered with exhaustion. For those who do not know the proper paths—the guarded road you yourself use—the mountain pass is grim. “I left yesterday forenoon. But I’ve come here to tell you that my men have had enough of your orders. The pay may be good enough to keep them quiet for now, but I shan’t stand for it much—”
You reach for your pistol when his back is turned—he was pacing your floors, already a capital offense—and shoot for the base of the neck.
It makes a lovely mess.
You’ll give the regiment more gold. Mairon would send them back their sergeant in pieces, but Mairon has much to learn.
“And now,” you reflect, to the body and the spreading stain and the windows beyond, “What news does Gothmog really have for me?”
Only Feanor would be so bold to go to Utumno, armed. Only Feanor has the power to burn it, so quickly and ruthlessly, to the ground.
And even for Feanor, this is new precedent.
(The homing pigeon arrives an hour later.)
Matters were simpler, in the south. There, he could rule with the lash, not with these chess-piece trades. He’d not been opposed to higher stakes: he’d once soaked a man in oil and watched him burn alive. Aside from the screams, it was not so different from watching Utumno crumble. In the end, though, he hadn’t the patience. Death had been more trouble than it was worth; he liked slaves who could leave the whipping-post and return to their work.
Usefulness. That was the key.
Here, he had to apply the same metric to himself. He had forgotten it this morning, when the Irishmen ran his ever-gabbing mouth too long.
“You have a message for me?” Gothmog asked, and the tavern-keeper nodded.
“He was here at noon, sir. Left something.”
The message was short, scrawled on a scrap of parchment which, though of fine weave, was not the genteel letter-stock the spy usually used.
Rumil’s supplies must be running low.
Gothmog read it, and grinned. This might be enough to save his neck, as far as Bauglir was concerned.
That was all that mattered, now.
Bound to the bird’s leg is a finger-width of paper. In block letters: Feanor dead. Youngest son lost. The eldest out searching. Will bring survivors to you.
You always thought you’d be the one to do it. Strangling would have been satisfying, if only because the panic would have flooded his face along with blood. Everyone panics, when they cannot breathe.
Popping his eyes from the sockets. Nails sinking into his flesh. But then again, to leave his face unmarred—it is (or was) a beautiful face—
That is tempting too.
(Was.)
This, Gothmog took from you. Someday, you’ll see him killed for it. For now?
For now, he sends you proof of his worth.
Youngest son lost. Eldest out searching.
(This is tempting, too.)