The sea journey was a difficult time for Tom. There was too much time to brood on what Barard might be suffering, and his thoughts went round and round, doubt and self-blame his constant companions. He spent the first day withdrawn and listless, and did not sleep well at night. He lay listening to the calls of the look out and Mehos snoring, and ached for Barard’s warmth in his arms.
The next morning he remained curled in his bunk, shunning company, but he roused himself for the noon meal, recognising the need to take some care of himself. Afterwards, he sat in the sun and made pretence of watching the soldiers at sword drill. In reality, he barely noticed them. His thoughts were far away in a foreign land. Barard, alone and scared, was almost more than he could bear to think of, but what if he were beaten and abused, tortured? There was nothing Tom could do about it, except feel guilty that he was free to be warmed by the sun when Barard was not. If Barard’s letter was any guide, he must have been in prison for three months already, had possibly been there as Robin lay dying. Three months! Tom hugged his knees close, buried his face in the circle of his arms, and blinked back his tears. His grief for Robin threaded through his grief for Barard, and seemed to be worsening with time, but at least he’d been with Robin when he died; Barard might die alone - might be dead already - because Tom had been with Robin.
‘That is an exercise that will lead only to a sapping of the spirit, Tom. Take your eye from the arrow as you loose it, and it will fly wide.’
Tom rubbed his face against his sleeve, and lifted his head. He half-expected to see Legolas standing there, looking gravely down at him, but there were only the cries of gulls wheeling above and the barked commands of the drill sergeant. It had been a small pleasure to find the sergeant was known to him, but the men were relatively new recruits, who had never even seen a Halfling before. Tom forced himself to watch them with a critical eye. They really weren’t very good.
‘Pah!’ said the sergeant, throwing his hands up in disgust. ‘You’re a bunch of sheep-herders. Do you want to be a laughing stock? A Halfling could do better!’ He turned and winked at Tom.
‘I’d like to see him try,’ muttered one of the men, who had come in for a particularly severe verbal lashing.
‘Well, now. A little wager, maybe,’ said the sergeant, and Tom couldn’t help laughing, despite everything.
‘Don’t tease them, Damlûk,’ he said, pushing up onto his feet. ‘I don’t mind defending the reputation of Halflings - and in truth, I would welcome the exercise - but I’m not going to line your pockets. Have you got a long knife I can use as a sword? I don’t have mine.’
Damlûk lifted the lid of an iron-bound chest that stood below the main mast and pulled out a long knife; there was no scabbard. The haft was a little thicker than Tom was comfortable with, and he took a few moments to get a feel for the grip and balance of the blade. The watching men jeered a little at his awkwardness. Tom glanced at Damlûk, who was grinning, and settled into the resting position: right foot forward, left foot back and the blade tip resting on the deck close to his right instep. It was a position that called for care, taking into consideration his bare feet. There was a slight tilt to the deck, as well, despite the fact they were running smoothly before the wind, and he compensated by standing with his feet a little wider apart than usual. He went through the familiar movements - variations of cut, thrust and parry - and finished with a salute: blade straight up, hilt just above his shoulder, elbow tucked in. On Damlûk’s command, he dropped the blade forward as he straightened his arm.
‘Now,’ bellowed the sergeant, ‘that’s how I want to see it done! Attention!’ Tom slipped onto the end of the line, making sure he was out of sword range of the man next to him, and went through the drill again, enjoying the stretch on his muscles and the chance not to think. Normally he would be damp with sweat after an hour’s drill, but the breeze kept him dry. He was glad of the water ration handed out at the end, however, and he was sitting on the chest drinking it when Mehos joined him.
‘You liked, yes?’
‘Yes, I did. I often drill with the Tower Guard at home. I enjoy the exercise, and it keeps me in practice.’
‘Ah, but practice like that is not fighting, no? You not really fight man. He...’ Mehos searched for the word he was looking for, and then indicated the length of his arm.
‘Would outreach me?’
‘Yes, yes, that is it. He would out reach you.’
‘I wouldn’t like to try and better Damlûk, but I might be able to surprise some of these men.’
‘How is that?’
Tom smiled at Mehos. ‘They would underestimate me, and they would not guard themselves well. I am quick on my feet, even though I am older.’
‘Older and wiser, heh?’
‘Maybe. More experienced, anyway.’
‘These not good soldiers.’
‘But they will be. The King likes to train them with his best troops.’
‘So, his best troops, they are in Umbar?’
Tom shrugged and looked at Mehos thoughtfully. He wondered whether the man was just curious, or if he gathered information for other masters than the king. Time to change the subject, anyway. ‘Will you help me with your language?’ he asked. ‘The more I speak it, the easier it will become.’
Mehos scratched at his head, returning Tom’s gaze. His answer was to give Tom a series of curt instructions in Southron.
‘Not what I had in mind,’ said Tom, understanding him, but not acting on the commands.
‘You will not be convincing slave,’ said Mehos.
‘Whoa! Who said anything about “slave”? I’m to be your servant.’
Mehos shrugged. ‘No servants, only slaves. I know metal-smith in Umbar who will make collar for you.’
Tom stared at the man, wondering if he were joking. ‘Now just a minute -’
Mehos stood up, his eyes flashing. ‘No, you “just a minute.” If you are thought to be spy, how long before master is arrested, heh? All slaves wear collar. How can I say you my slave, if you no have collar?’
‘A metal collar?’
‘Yes. Like I say.’
Tom swallowed. He was liking this less and less, but the Southron had a point if what he said was true. He suddenly remembered what his da had told him. ‘My father saw one of your soldiers once,’ he said, omitting to say the man had been dead. ‘He was wearing a gold collar.’
‘He was leader, then. High up. Important. Doing the king’s will, and so his slave, yes?’
Tom finished his water, gave the metal cup to one of the soldiers, and walked over to Damlûk, who stood looking out over the widening river. He joined the sergeant, reaching up to lean his elbows on the side of the boat; he was just of a height to rest his chin on his hands. The water was racing by, giving the illusion of speed, but the bank was hardly moving as they slowly made way over the incoming tide. Ahead was the Bay of Belfalas and the open sea. Tom followed Damlûk’s gaze and saw the pilot rowing out to meet them, to guide them safely through the sandbanks and shoals at the mouths of the Anduin.
‘Mehos says there are no servants in Harad, only slaves, and they wear metal collars,’ said Tom. He glanced up to see Damlûk’s reaction.
‘Is that so?’ said the soldier.
‘You don’t know if it’s true, then?’
Damlûk spat into the water that foamed out from the bows to form the wake. ‘I can believe it,’ he said. ‘As long as he isn’t suggesting that you should wear - ’ The man’s eyes widened. ‘Tom! No!’
Tom gazed out into the distance where a group of sails were beating up the bay past the isle of Tolfalas: fishermen, he guessed, heading for the port of Linhir. They had the wind against them, but the flooding tide would be helping them in.
‘I have to get to Hafar, and I can’t just ride up and knock at the gate, can I?’
‘Even so...’
‘If it’s true, then I can’t see any way round it. I can hardly pretend to be a distant relation of his. I can’t see why Mehos would lie over this, but...’ He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Southron was nowhere close. ‘I don’t trust him. King Elessar suggested I go as a servant, so he must have believed that was possible.’
‘If you ask my opinion, the only good Haradrim are dead Haradrim,’ said Damlûk, as though that settled the matter. ‘I’m sorry about Barard.’
Tom rested his forehead on his hands, hit by a wave of grief, and felt Damlûk’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Tom, are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. The sun is rather bright on the water. It’s hurting my eyes.’
‘I understand. Go and sit down. I’ll bring you something stronger to drink.’
Tom shook his head. ‘No, I’ll stay here.’
The banks of the Anduin were disappearing into the distance now, and the pilot was on board. Most of the sandbanks were hidden by the high tide, and ripples and small waves curling on the surface of the water were the only sign of treacherous shallows below. It looked like one great expanse of sea, opening out into the Bay of Belfalas, but if they strayed even a little out of the deep water channel, they would be aground. A sailor stood near the prow, swinging the lead, but his call was never less than two fathoms; the pilot was guiding them well.
‘Two fathoms!’
Tom watched the man haul in the rope, coiling it expertly as the lead came dripping up from the water. By concentrating on the sailor’s task he could avoid thinking about Barard, dulling his pain by following each small action that built up to the whole: a soothing repetition. He watched the man bring his arm back and swing the lead forward, the rope snaking out after it as coil after coil unwound. The lead flew true, hitting the water some way ahead with a faint splash. As they sailed up to it, the rope hung straight down, plumb-lining down to the estuary bed, and the sailor called out the depth. Already, he was coiling in again, ready for the next throw.
‘Two and a half fathoms!’
Again.
‘Three fathoms!’
The sailor hauled the rope in for the last time, and suddenly there was a flurry of activity on board. The sails were sheeted in, and the boat started to list as she picked up speed on her new course. They were tacking out to sea. The journey south had begun.
Tom had seen enough. He made his way to his cabin, staggering slightly with the unfamiliar movement. The wind appeared to have strengthened, and it whipped his hair about his face. The sounds had changed, as well: there was a lap lap of water beneath the boat’s prow, and the rigging was creaking as the ropes took up the strain. In the small cabin he shared with Mehos, Tom threw himself face down on the bottom bunk and buried his face in his arms. Even as misery flooded through him, he spared a thought for their families. He, Barard and Robin had been the babies, indulged by older siblings and running wild. Now Robin had gone, and he and Barard might not be long in following.
Within the darkness he had made, he remembered what had been.
He and Barard pushed back their chairs from the table in the Great Smials’ dining hall. They had come late to breakfast, and apart from Robin, the room was deserted.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Robin, jumping up. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Tom and Barard exchanged glances; they had made love in haste the previous evening, but that was too long ago, and they were desperate for each other’s touch. The Gardner family’s summer visit to Great Smials would end all too soon, and then what would they do? Every moment together was precious; it might be Yule before they could see each other again.
Tom cleared his throat. ‘Erm, sorry, Robin. We... we’re...’
‘We’ve got things to do,’ said Barard.
Tom nodded. ‘I’d have thought you’d be off chasing after Angelica,’ he added, rather sourly. He’d been hurt and annoyed at Robin’s new preoccupation with girls - right up until his own startling discovery that skirts didn’t appeal to him, and Barard was everything.
Robin shrugged. ‘She was rude about Da. Said he was an upstart gardener, and that we had no right to live at Bag End.’ Tom stared at his brother in disbelief, but Barard laughed and rolled his eyes.
‘Of course she did, you pillock. The lovely Miss Chubb’s grandmother was a Baggins, and the widow of Folco Boffin. He was Frodo of the Ring’s second cousin, and his closest relation on his father’s side. If Bag End hadn’t been willed to your father - if there’d been no will - she’d probably be living there now.’ Barard looked from brother to brother. ‘What?’
Tom shut his mouth and grinned. Barard could always be relied upon to know things.
‘So what are you two up to, anyway?’ Robin asked, steering the conversation back to where they’d started. ‘Why’ve you both gone red? You’re up to something, aren’t you?’ His eyes widened, and he gave a low whistle. ‘You’re chasing skirt yourselves! Oh, I can’t believe any lass would look twice at you two tricksters; you must have dropped a frog down the back of every dress from here to Hobbiton!’
‘Well, you’re wrong,’ said Barard, and Tom thought, Neat!
‘Hey! This I’ve got to see.’ Robin jumped up, laughing. ‘I’ll come with you, and give you the benefit of my experience.’
‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘Don’t trouble yourself.’
‘We can manage by ourselves,’ added Barard, patting Robin’s shoulder, and Tom nearly choked. They sauntered out, but as soon as they were through the door, they ran. Barard’s room was not to be thought of - a maid would be in to tidy it at some point during the morning - so they raced each other outside, laughing as they skidded through a side door and out into the sunshine. Barard, taller and rangier despite being younger, reached the dell first. In the moments it took Tom to follow him through the undergrowth, Barard had fetched up against the wide bole of a tree, hands behind his head and one leg negligently bent so that his sole rested against the rough bark. Only his heightened colour, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, gave away the fact he’d been running.He smiled and freed his hands to hold his arms out to Tom.
Tom slowed, getting his breath back, and feeling as though the sight of Barard were a physical blow that left him dizzy and weak at the knees. He stepped into arms that curled around his waist, and took possession of Barard’s mouth while his hands ranged freely across the fine cotton of Barard’s shirt. They were too breathless from running to deepen the kiss, and they parted to rest forehead to forehead and gaze into each other’s eyes.
‘I can’t bear to be apart from you,’ whispered Barard. ‘I was awake all night wanting you.’
Tom groaned as Barard’s hand slid between them, caressing his cock through the cord of his breeches. ‘Me, too. I want you in my bed.’
Barard turned his head to nip Tom’s ear lobe with his teeth. He laughed - a deep throaty sound that sent shivers down Tom’s spine - and took a handful of breeches around willing heat. ‘I wasn’t talking to you, short arse. I was talking to your impressive and very handsome cock.’ As suddenly as it had come, his laughter died. ‘I wish you didn’t have to share a room with Robin. I wish you could come and share my room. I wish we could tell Robin, and then he could cover for us.’
Tom’s fingers were busy, even as Tom’s mind was considering what Barard was saying. He had bypassed the buttons of Barard’s shirt as irrelevant and gone straight for those on his breeches. ‘Is this wrong?’ he asked. ‘Is what we’re doing wrong?’ Then, at the sight of Barard’s expression, ‘No. NO! I don’t mean I think it’s wrong.’ He slipped his hand into the warm depths and stroked Barard’s cock with his thumb to reassure him. ‘You’re mine, Barard, always, whatever anyone else thinks.’
Barard had sagged slightly against the tree. ‘Don’t scare me like that, Tom,’ he whispered. ‘I thought you meant... I thought you were going to tell me we had to stop this. I don’t know how I’m going to bear it when you have to go home. This is so right. How can it be wrong?’
‘Maybe we should tell Robin.’
‘And risk his telling? I can’t even begin to guess what the reaction would be. Father would probably tan my hide and forbid our seeing each other. Have you ever heard of lads loving each other like this? Well, have you?’
‘Maybe there’s something wrong with us?’
‘I don’t ever want to be any different.’
‘Mmmm.’ Tom’s hand closed around Barard’s cock, dragging back the soft skin, and Barard whimpered. It was a small sound that overwhelmed Tom with feelings of love and a fierce desire to protect Barard from anything that might harm him. However much he might crave this physical contact, what he felt was love of a much deeper kind. He smoothed his thumb around swollen tip, mapping the feel and shape. ‘I don’t want you any different, either,’ he whispered as he rolled his weight against Barard’s hip to give himself better access to stroke and tease. Barard whimpered again, and his head fell back against the tree. The sight of his neck stretched back, inviting Tom to feast on warm skin that pulsed with life, was somehow intensely arousing. Tom leant in to take the offering, and shifted slightly to bring some welcome pressure on his own cock. His eyes fluttered shut, and in the darkness his other senses were heightened. His world was bounded by suckling warmth, and by cock thrusting into his encircling fingers, by his own slow grind, and by hands clutching him - urging more, urging harder, urging faster, urging rougher. Barard’s body arched against him as he obeyed, close so close...
A twig snapped, and they both jerked upright, eyes flying open to stare at each other in horror.
‘What are you two doing?’
Robin! Only the fact that he would leave Barard exposed prevented Tom from jumping round to face his brother. How could they have been so stupid as to believe Robin wouldn’t try to follow them!
‘By the Lady, you two must be desperate if you’re resorting to cock-teasing each other.’
Tom adjusted Barard’s breeches, and Barard slipped shaking hands between them to fasten the buttons. Tom’s heart was thumping painfully, and the pulse in Barard’s neck told the same tale. Shit! He turned slowly and glared at his brother, who was almost doubled up in laughter. He wondered whether there was any point in jumping Robin and beating him to a pulp, with the threat of more to come if he told, or whether that wouldn’t simply end up with them in even worse trouble. He glanced at Barard, who had come to stand at his side. Well, he was the older; if Robin told on them, he would try and divert the blame to himself by claiming culpability.
It was Barard who broke the awkward silence. ‘He wasn’t cock-teasing me, you pillock,’ he said - not angrily, just telling Robin how it was. ‘He was fucking well making love to me.’ He looked at Tom and smiled, and just like that, Tom knew Barard was right: whatever the consequences, they couldn’t deny what they felt about each other. He smiled back, and they linked hands and kissed. It was barely more than a light brush of lips, tender and comforting, but when they turned to Robin he was looking at them in shock.
Slowly his shock faded into a nervous laugh. ‘Very funny. Ha bloody ha! Now stop farting about, and admit you’re just a couple of sad bastards who can’t get a girl to look twice at you.’
‘And what are you going to do if we don’t?’ asked Tom quietly, and felt Barard’s fingers tighten against his.
‘What do you mean, “what am I going to do?”’
‘Are you going to tell Da or Frodo?’
‘What! That you’ve been jerking off together, playing with each other’s cocks like a couple of little kids? Course not, what do you take me for? Now, will you stop holding hands like... like...’ He looked back and forth between them, and his expression was one of disgust. ‘Like one of you’s a girl.’
‘Do you promise not to tell?’
‘What’s got into you two?’
‘Do you promise?’
‘Yes, all right! I promise, but I wouldn’t have said anything, anyway!’
Barard half-collapsed against Tom in relief, and Tom took him in his arms while keeping eye contact with his brother. ‘Thank you, Robin,’ he said.
‘So are you going to answer my question? What has got into you two?’
Tom was wondering how to answer, and it was Barard again who showed the way. He laid the palm of one hand against Tom’s chest. ‘I love him,’ he said simply.
Tom covered the hand with his own. ‘We love each other.’
Robin stared at them in disbelief. ‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘You... you can’t!’ Suddenly he was gone, crashing through the undergrowth. Tom and Barard stared at each other.
‘Shit,’ said Tom. He turned Barard round to brush lichen off his shirt. He had no desire to resume their interrupted lovemaking, and it seemed that neither had Barard.
‘Had we better go after him?’
‘I think we’d better go back, anyway.’
Slowly they trailed back to the smial. Tom felt sick and apprehensive. He trusted Robin, really he did, he was - had been? - a good friend to both of them, but his reaction had filled Tom with disquiet. At home, he and Robin were almost inseparable, and in Tuckborough Barard had always been with them, once he had been old enough to keep up with them, that is, and could be relied upon not to fall over and start crying.
They went by the main door - it was, after all, the more direct way to go - but they were waylaid by two more of Tom’s brothers.
‘What have you got to say for yourselves?’ asked Bilbo, an aggressive note in his voice. Tom and Barard looked at each other in panic.
‘What have you done to upset Robin?’ added Hamfast, in the face of their silence. ‘Come on, out with it. I’ve never seen him in such a taking. All he’d tell us is that he’d been with you two.’
‘He... we... we had a misunderstanding,’ said Tom.
‘And I was rude about Angelica,’ added Barard quickly.
‘Oh, well, that’s not difficult,’ said Bilbo, relaxing a little. ‘You two aren’t punishing him for not having time for you these last few weeks, are you?’
‘Oh, no. We want to find him now. Do you know where he is?’
‘Gone to your room,’ said Ham. ‘For goodness’ sake, whatever it is you’ve done to upset him, patch it up. Come on, Bil. We’re not going to get the truth out of them. They’ll just have to sort it out themselves.’ He and Bilbo sauntered off.
Barard looked at Tom. ‘That was so far beyond shit I may never get the stains out of my trousers,’ he said with feeling. Tom hiccupped, and suddenly they were leaning against each other quite helpless with laughter.
‘Come on,’ said Tom, reluctantly letting go of Barard. ‘Older brothers are a fucking pain. Let’s go and find Robin, and see if we can at least make him understand.’
Robin was indeed in the bedroom, face down on his bed, his shoulders shaking. Tom sat beside him and laid a hand on his back. ‘Robin? Will you talk to us? Are you angry with us? We can’t help how we feel.’
Robin lifted a tear-stained face. ‘You won’t want me any more,’ he said. ‘You won’t have time for me.’
‘We thought... we thought maybe you wouldn’t want to be with us any more,’ said Barard. ‘You looked -’
‘You looked like we were something disgusting that had crawled out from under a stone,’ said Tom. ‘You looked like you were going to be sick.’ He felt sick himself at the memory.
Robin stared at them, shaking his head. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you can want to love each other like that.’ He swallowed. ‘You reminded me of Ellie and Fastred; you just seem to belong together. You really mean it, don’t you?’
Barard sat down hard on Tom’s bed and flopped over backwards to the accompaniment of springs protesting loudly. Tom took a deep breath and let it out on a great sigh of relief. ‘Yes, we really mean it. I’m sorry we fobbed you off this morning. We just... it’s hard to be together, like that anyway, and... Well, I’m sorry.’
‘Why don’t you just go to his room at night?’ asked Robin.
‘Because you... because...’
Robin pushed himself up and grinned at him. ‘Because I’d know?’
Tom nodded, and Barard made a strange noise, a strangled squeak.
‘Well, here’s the deal. You let me go around with you in the day, and I’ll cover for you at night - if anyone even notices you’re not here, that is.’
Tom wrapped his arms around his brother and hugged him hard, speechless with gratitude.
Robin struggled free. ‘Hey! Let me up, you wanker. If either of you kisses me, the deal’s off!’
Tom felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Barard standing over them, his eyes overly bright. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Robin,’ he said.
‘Yeh, well. You owe me one. Maybe you can find me a girl.’
They had. They’d found him Éowyn, as different from the frills and furbelows of Angelica as it was possible to be. And now she was a widow, and knew this terrible emptiness as well as Tom did. He rolled over, throwing his arm across his eyes.
‘Here, here. I brought you drink. I am sorry if I upset you.’
Tom rubbed his arm over his face, before letting it fall to look up at Mehos. The man was leaning one hand against the top bunk to steady himself against the dip and sway of the boat, and holding out a flask of wine in the other.
‘That’s kind of you, Mehos.’ Tom hoped he wasn’t showing his irritation; he just wanted to be alone with his memories. ‘But the last time I drank some wine, I... I wasn’t well.’
‘Oh. More for me,’ said Mehos, taking a swig. ‘No worries about being slave. I will be good master, yes? And if you keep shirt on, you will not need brand.’
The boat dipped again, and Tom’s stomach went with it. He felt suddenly queasy. ‘Brand?’
‘Yes, yes. Slaves is branded. On the shoulder.’ He winked. ‘Keep your shirt on. Better? Yes?’
Tom swallowed. ‘I think... I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘Silly to come down here. Go up on deck. Have something to eat. Feel better.’
Somehow Tom doubted it, but he found that Mehos was right: food and fresh air settled his nausea. They sat together below the mast, as the sun set and the sky darkened, and spoke together in a mix of Westron and Southron. Mehos, beyond Tom’s expectation, proved a good teacher, and as the days passed, the talk was more in Southron. Occasionally Mehos would bark out a command, and expect Tom to obey it to show he understood, but Tom realised that the man had a point if they were to make a successful pretence.
‘I will call you Tolmos,’ said Mehos one day as he sat scratching at the back of his head. They were nearly three weeks into their journey, and had glimpsed a barren land that morning, before tacking out to sea again. The captain assured them that they were well down the coast towards Umbar. ‘Tolmos is a good name, yes? It means “small bird”, like your Robin. Are all families as large as yours? You must breed like mongrels in the market.’
Tom sighed inwardly. Mehos kept wrong-footing him, like an opponent making a feint of going one way, but then lunging the other. In the middle of an otherwise friendly conversation, he would suddenly make a comment that was downright offensive. Tom swallowed an angry reply and sought for the word he needed. ‘No, it... rare?’
Mehos nodded at the choice of word, but made no other comment, and Tom decided that it was time he learnt something in turn.
‘Tell to me of your family,’ he said. It helped pass the time, but it was hard work getting much from Mehos of a personal nature. Tom learnt that his parents and brothers were dead, that he had been recruited as a spy in Umbar after he had given a drunken tirade against the high king in the marketplace, and that he was born in the city of Hafar. It was not much.
By the time they made landfall again, Tom’d had enough of trying to talk to Mehos. He leant on the side of the boat, watching gulls flock in their wake as the cook threw scraps of fish heads and bones overboard, and he jumped when the ship’s captain touched him on the shoulder. Tom looked up, and the captain pointed forward. They were rounding a rocky headland, and Tom stared at the sight that met his eyes. An immense fortress rose sheer from the water, and at its feet a sea wall curved out into the sea.
‘Umbar,’ said the captain, rather unnecessarily. ‘Built by the Númenoreans,’ he added. Tom nodded; he knew that as well, and that Gondor had only retaken it from the Haradrim ten years before, after the Haradrim had launched a large scale attack by land and sea. His knowledge of its history was hazy - that was the sort of thing Barard was good at - but he did know it had been fought over many times, and had been in the hands of the Haradrim for much of the Third Age. With its capture, Gondor had taken back supremacy of the sea, and the first peaceful overtures for trade had come soon afterwards from Hafar.
‘Mehos tells me that slaves wear metal collars in Harad,’ said Tom. ‘Do you know if that’s true?’
‘Well, we don’t see any now, not since King Elessar banned the Haradrim from importing their slaves through Umbar, but I remember seeing them in the past. Yes, they wore collars.’ He spat overboard. ‘They’re a barbaric people.’
They were interrupted by a soldier, bringing a message for Tom. ‘It’s that heathen. He’s getting very agitated, and he wants to see you below. He didn’t say please nor thank you, neither.’
Tom took a last look at the great harbour, thronged with boats, which was appearing through a gap in the seawall, and regretfully hurried to see what Mehos wanted.
Mehos grabbed him as soon as he set foot in their cabin, and pushed the door shut behind him. Tom straightened his shirt where Mehos had pulled it askew, and tried to hide his anger. ‘What’s the idea, Mehos?’ he asked.
‘We stay out of sight,’ said Mehos, answering Tom’s Westron with Southron.
‘Why? This is a Gondorian outpost. What is the danger?’
‘There are many Haradrim living here,’ said Mehos. ‘We must not be seen arriving on a boat bringing soldiers from Gondor. We will wait out of sight until it is well after dark, and then we will go ashore. Safest for me, and safest for you once we’ve left your friends behind.’
‘All right. Have it your way.’ Tom understood, he just couldn’t be bothered to match language. Westron seemed like an old friend he was about to lose.
Tom sat down to wait, looking with interest at what Mehos was wearing: a full-length, white - dress? Tom did not know what else to call it. It was buttoned down the front, and gathered at the waist with a golden belt; a deep blue robe hung open over the top, matching a blue border on the hem of the dress, and on his feet were leather sandals. The clothes were a little creased, naturally, but the effect was still very imposing.
The wait seemed interminable to Tom. He guessed they had passed within the shelter of the harbour wall when the pitching of the boat over the swell of the waves died away. A voice could be heard shouting orders, and a slight bump heralded the moment of arrival. Damlûk came to wish Tom well, and after he had gone, Tom lay down to doze. He had slept badly throughout the journey, and he felt tired and out of sorts. Food was brought to them, but it was the inevitable ships rations when Tom had looked forward to a good meal in an inn.
They disembarked in darkness. This time Tom did not demur from carrying Mehos’s bag, but it was awkward, the handles being too long for a hobbit to carry comfortably. There were torches burning along the quayside, set in sconces on the high sea wall that enclosed the harbour. By their flickering light, Tom could see many boats, their masts standing straight and bare, and their sails furled. The way into the town was protected by huge doors and a guardhouse, but a guard stepped forward and silently opened a small door within the larger to let them pass through. Tom presumed that Damlûk had spoken of them, and also of the need to avoid drawing attention to their arrival. Beyond the gateway was a large open square, and what Tom could see of the buildings was very reminiscent of Minas Tirith. They slipped into a dark alley, and Mehos looked quickly around before knocking on a door. There was not much to see; the darkness was almost complete. The narrowness of the way shut out the stars, and twice Tom tripped on uneven flags. Mehos appeared to have felt his way to their destination.
The door opened, spilling light across the alley, and Tom followed Mehos into the spicy warmth of a large kitchen. He set down the bag, and stretched his fingers to ease the marks where the handles had dug into his palm. Mehos was greeting a Southron who was dressed as any cook in Gondor might be; he did not introduce Tom, and the man looked down at Tom with his eyebrows raised.
‘Oh, that,’ said Mehos carelessly. ‘A new slave. A bargain, although they tried pricing him high for his novelty value. Ridiculous. He doesn’t have the first idea of how to behave. Between you and me, I think they were glad to be rid of him. Look at him now, gazing round the room, instead of looking at the floor as is proper when waiting on his master.’
Tom took the hint and hastily studied his toes.
‘What is he?’
‘Some sort of imp from the north. The Eye knows how he came to be in southern Harad, and he doesn’t have enough of the language for me to ask him.’
‘You know your business, my friend, but I would say the bargain was a poor one.’
‘Time will tell, time will tell. It was no more than I was prepared to lose in gaming. I think he will shape up; he seems willing - when he understands what it is I want - and he can always be sent for a flogging if he gives me trouble.’
‘I sometimes think it is imps they have given me,’ said the cook. ‘And I do not have recourse to a whip.’
Mehos laughed. ‘But the pay is good, yes?’
‘Oh, yes, these Gondorian hawks pay well, otherwise I would not stay.’
‘Can you feed us now?’
‘Of course, if you don’t mind reheated leftovers.’
Tom’s stomach rumbled, and the cook laughed. ‘I think your imp understands that he will be fed.’
The food was unfamiliar to Tom. There was yellow rice with seed pods mixed amongst it, and when Tom bit on one the flavour was sharp and green; it was topped with a creamy mix with pieces of chicken. He could have happily eaten more, but only Mehos was offered a second helping.
Tom did not understand all the conversation; sometimes it was too fast, and sometimes there were words he did not understand, although he could mostly hazard a guess. He gathered they were in an inn, and this turned out to be the case when the cook led them through a deserted taproom and up to an attic. There were two beds, but it soon became apparent that this was also the cook’s room.
‘I’m sorry, there is nowhere to send your slave; he will have to stay here and sleep on the floor,’ said the man. It was very obvious that he was apologising to Mehos for the inconvenience of sharing with a slave, not to Tom for having to sleep so uncomfortably. There was no bedding roll for him; he was simply expected to curl up on the floor with a threadbare blanket.
He barely slept, and was happy to rise at first cockcrow. They broke fast in the kitchen and left by the side door. Tom suspected that the inn’s owner was unaware he had fed and sheltered two extra guests. Mehos looked around the alley again, deserted apart from a rather mangy-looking cat. ‘You will need clothes and a pony,’ he said, ‘and you cannot be seen to have the money to buy them. I will leave you at the blacksmith’s while I find what is needful for our journey, but it is best if you give me money now.’
Tom considered this. He did not like the idea of handing money over, but there did not seem any way around it. He felt under his shirt for his money belt and handed over a few silver coins. Mehos nodded. ‘Good, yes, that should be enough. This way.’
Tom was not surprised to find the blacksmith was another Southron. He was smaller than Mehos, although as dark, and his hair was tied back at his nape. He wore baggy trousers that were gathered at his ankles, but his upper body was covered by only a leather apron. As early as it was, his forge was already alight, and the air shimmered around it. Later in the day it would be unbearably hot, but maybe that was why the blacksmith made such an early start. Two horses stood outside waiting to be reshod; there was no sign of their owners.
The man shook his head when Mehos made his request for a collar to be fitted around Tom’s neck. ‘Trouble for me,’ he said.
‘No trouble,’ answered Mehos. ‘None have seen him to know he did not arrive wearing a collar, and we will be gone within an hour or so.’ Tom remembered to look down as the two men haggled out a price; it seemed clear to him that the blacksmith’s reluctance had more to do with getting the best remuneration that he could, rather than real fear of reprisals.
The bargain struck, Tom was taken into a small side room. ‘Wait here,’ said Mehos. He lowered his voice. ‘I do not know if you followed all that was said. He does not want the responsibility of your running away while I am gone, and he insists that I chain you. I tried to persuade him that you were to be trusted, and would give no trouble. I think he is foolish in this; if a soldier sees you chained there will be trouble for him.’ He shrugged. ‘Not for you and me, except in drawing attention to us, since I’m trusting you to get me out of trouble with the Gondorians, if necessary.’
Tom nodded. ‘Of course.’ He swallowed nervously and held out his wrist. Mehos snapped a metal band around it and chained Tom to a ring in the wall. The ring was too high and the chain too short to allow Tom to sit, and he leaned his head against the rough brick wall. The metal was cold against his skin. Oh, Barard, are you chained? Are you even still alive? He rubbed his eyes with his free hand. If this is what I have to do to find you, then I’ll do it. No doubt the blacksmith would think he wept for his lost freedom.
It was a while until the man reappeared, carrying a band of brass in a pair of tongs. He set it down and left without a word, returning with a hot iron, a ladle of water and a collar of thick leather. He said no word to Tom, simply slipping the leather around his neck. The ring followed, and the man pushed the back of Tom’s head to make him drop it forward. Tom felt the air heat around the hot iron, but the leather protected his skin; there was a hiss of steam, and cold water trickled down the back of his shirt. He gagged a little on the tightness, but when the blacksmith removed the leather, the feeling eased.
It was not long before Mehos returned to release him. He checked the ring, slipping his fingers between it and Tom’s neck, and nodded in approval. ‘Here,’ he said, and handed over drab cotton trousers the colour of sand. They were not unlike those worn by the blacksmith. Tom shed his travel stained clothes, donned the trousers, and took a white over-garment that Mehos held out to him. It had no buttons, and Tom pulled it over his head. It came almost to his knees, but the seams at the side were open from the hips down to allow for movement.
‘They good fit,’ he said. They would be loose and cool in the heat of Hafar.
Mehos held out his hand at Tom’s height. ‘I just showed the man how tall you were,’ he said. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a light scarf. ‘Now wrap that round your neck until we are in Harad. Otherwise some officious busybody will want to free you.’
Back by the forge, Mehos handed coins over to the smith, and Tom wondered with grim humour what the man would say if he realised the slave had paid for his own collar.
‘I have packs for the horses, Tolmos,’ said Mehos, turning to Tom. ‘Transfer everything from my bag, and then we can be on our way.’ Tom was glad to obey. The sooner he got to Hafar, the sooner he could try to get some news of Barard. When he took their packs outside, he found “horses” was stretching the truth. One was a fine thoroughbred mare, but standing beside her was a mule with a pannier on either side of its saddle. It looked at Tom with an evil eye, and tried to kick him. He folded his discarded clothes into his pack and placed it into one of the panniers, rearranging some of the food he found there to even the load. It took him a little longer to arrange Mehos’s belongings, and when he looked up, Mehos was talking to an ill-favoured Southron. They were far enough away that Tom could hear nothing of the conversation, but the unknown man glanced his way, and immediately looked away when he caught Tom’s eye. Money changed hands, and the man rode away in some haste.
‘What that about?’ asked Tom when Mehos joined him.
Mehos fussed around his horse, checking the girth. ‘I sent a message ahead to prepare my house.’
Tom stared at him. ‘We there as quick, yes?’
‘I doubt it, not with that mule. I considered the expense worth it to find my house habitable.’
They rode out past a profusion of colour and noise which was the market, and up a long winding street to more gates standing open in a wide arch. Tom rode his mule just behind the mare, and kept his eyes lowered to avoid a soldier’s exclaiming at a Halfling riding out of the city.
Their way ran alongside a river bordered by prosperous-looking farms, but each farmhouse looked like a small fortress. When Tom asked Mehos about this, he shrugged and said that war had frequently swept across the land. While there were farms, they bought milk and meat, but they were well stocked with food, and as the land became poorer they used their own supplies. By the time that Mehos said they were leaving Umbar and entering Harad, the land had turned to semi-desert. From then on they took turns to keep watch at night.
Tom pulled his pack from the mule as they set up camp, and wondered if it was possible to hate at first sight; the beast had not improved on acquaintance, and he was sick of its stubborn ways. It didn’t seem to react in the way of a horse. ‘What danger we watch for?’ he asked.
‘The wolves of the desert,’ answered Mehos scratching his head in the now familiar gesture. ‘Brigands. We are not likely to attract their attention, travelling light as we are, but you never know.’ When it was Tom’s turn to watch, he sat wrapped in blankets, gazing up at the stars. It was cold at night, and the stars shone and glittered. It was good to see Dada’s star, Eärendil, looking down on him, and he was comforted by the familiar constellations. He and Barard had often lain out under the stars, making ridiculous shapes out of the points of light that were splashed across the heavens as though at the flick of a brush.
As they approached Hafar, the land became more rocky. They halted on a height, and Mehos pointed into the distance. It took Tom some time to make out a city on a hill, maybe two day’s journey away. In the distance, a range of mountains ran in a northerly direction, climbing up from low foothills in the south to peaks high enough to be capped with snow. It was on the most southerly and lowest hill that the city stood, seeming to shimmer in and out of view. Hafar!
That night Tom’s sleep became even more erratic as he worried and fretted over Barard. ‘Stop tossing and turning, imp,’ grumbled Mehos during one of his watches. ‘I might as well make you sit up all night for all the sleep you get.’
It might have been better so. Tom slipped from waking agonies over Barard, to dreams, to abrupt wakefulness again as his mule gave its odd whinny come bray. Whinee-aw ah aw. He flung back his blankets, instinctively reaching for his knives, and was in time to see several shadowy shapes closing in. Each second slowed, stretched, while his mind raced on many levels. How many? Shit! I’m surrounded. Where’s Mehos... One straightened, and he clearly saw Mehos lying face down in a crumpled heap, even though it was a glimpse measured by a heartbeat. Two between me and the mule. One knife each. Barard, I love you. He came up into a crouch, knives at the ready, poised and ready to jump into whatever opening presented itself. Did I ever tell you? How much I love you?
He took aim, but staggered as something crashed into the side of his head. Light and pain flared briefly into being, filling his whole world. He toppled sideways, and darkness welcomed him into its all encompassing embrace.