Book I, Chapter 2- Who You Truly Are, Part I
When the Haradrim finally did arrive, belched forth from their desert lands like ants from an anthill, hundreds of robed warriors trudging side-by-side for miles on end, they came for what would turn out to be a prolonged engagement. No-one knew it would be as long as it was, and if those within the walls of Amon Eithel had then they may have surrendered the city sooner. It was only because of fear, fear of what would be done with them should they relent, that kept the motley bands of inhabitants that had taken up the axe or the sword from disbanding immediately.
It was foolish of them to believe that although they had enough food and water to last a year that the men of the south would simply leave their lands unmolested, the lands of Harondor fertile and lush in comparison to their harsh and burning home to the south. That, and their leader Karbâzir had been promised the position of Emir of Harondor should he succeed. These reasons were incentive enough for nearly two-thousand angry Southrons to remain outside the wooden palisade that acted as a wall, living off the land and laughing to one another in the strange and unintelligible tongue.
There had been attempts to call for aid, oh yes. Three messengers had been hurried out of the city and directed toward Minas Tirith, Dol Amroth and Pelargir, the next day when the sun rose all three were seen staked out before the city, ritually castrated and left to bleed to death as the day wore on. It was an act of savagery that was rare among the the usually peaceful desert-dwellers, and designed more to cause some rash action among the enemy.
Had the messengers gotten through it is unlikely that any help would have been sent, the whole of Gondor being embroiled in war with the rising power of Mordor, thousands of Orcs surging through Southern Osgiliath that needed to be pushed back and then kept at bay. The strength of Dol Amroth, powerful as it was, was directed there as well, that of Pelargir demanded by the Steward himself to secure the northern regions of Harondor against any attempted incursion from the south.
Harondor was all that was wanted though, the central lands, ringed by rising and towering walls of naturally built earth and rock, akin to mountain ranges but not mountain ranges themselves, being both fertile and easily defensible. Any enemy that wished to cross into the Haradwaith would be forced to choose a pass to enter, then march his way through to reach his objective. So, the importance of the region both militarily and economically could not be understated, and the Great Black Serpent of Harad wished it to be in his power.
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Eventually the food was all eaten, the reserves of water being drunk and then rationed, anger rising from the majority of the denizens of Amon Eithel against the armed minority that had sworn to protect them. Now they were trapped, starving, thirsting for much-needed water, and there was only one way out of the pit they had dug when they trapped themselves behind their walls.
The battle that followed lasted no more than a couple of hours; at midday, the hottest part of the day, and lead by a fat merchant who fancied himself a saviour, the armed citizens and merchant caravan guards threw their weight against the Haradrim with all their zeal and vigour. By contrast the Southrons moved slowly, forming a sturdy line of spears to face the oncoming wave, their archers – hunters for the most part, and expert shots with a bow – placing their own ranks behind that of the spearmen in front. By the time the half-breeds of Amon Eithel, some more Haradrim, some more Gondorian by blood, hit the spear wall they were already dead.
Midday heat, especially in a more temperate region such as Harondor, took no toll on the men of the Haradwaith. Each of them had grown up in a burning cauldron of blistering sunshine and sand, learning from an early age how to exist in the desert, learning how to ride a horse or camel, adapting to their lifestyles and becoming one with their homeland. Those men of Amon Eithel, landed farmers and traders, had no such time for 'rubbish' like that, and by the time they hit the ranks of spears they were heaving and drenched in sweat.
It was a short, brutal, but not overly drawn out rout which followed. Every man of Amon Eithel turned tale and fled, some filled with arrows as they ran, others hacked down by the blade of a curved scimitar, and some even reaching the town. Here the Haradrim had entered and were among the general populace before they even knew what was happening, the cries of the dying and the screams of the violated soon ringing through the streets.
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As the battle had progressed there were three, unlike many others that had left their homes to watch the slaughter from the walls, that remained in their home and cowered in their central room. All around them were the trappings of a simple family, their wooden table where they ate and the fire-pit in the middle of the room, shelves stacked with herbs and spices and preserved meats dangling from a beam on the ceiling. Nearby were the roll-mats where they slept close to one-another, and it was here that they now crouched, waiting in terror for the promised one to arrive at their door.
Nadárey, the eldest and grey-haired grandmother of the trio, the one to whom the robed figure had spoken, breathed slowly and almost silently to herself. In her arms she could feel he daughter son, only fifteen years of age, not yet a full man and in many ways still a child, shivering anxiously. The deep lines on her once handsome face showed all that she had gone through in life, her arms and legs, all now marked with blue veins and paper-thin skin, once muscular and firm. A glance was cast at her daughter with her eyes that had never began to fade, her offspring a beautiful maiden with caramel flesh and the same grey eyes as her son. Slender but well-built, she had made her previous husband very happy, now she was alone but for her mother and son, and Nadárey silently wondered to herself how long that would last.
“Grandmother,” whispered the boy, flinching as a scream was heard from the end of their cobbled street, the smell of burning already reaching her nostrils, “are we going to die?”
“No, Akîl, my child. We are not going to die.”
Was she certain of that? This promise she had just made, would it be broken? She did not know, but looking into those eyes, eyes with the colour but also the strength of a stormy night, she could not tell him otherwise.
“Mama, listen.”
Slowly the sound of fighting, the screams of the dying, and the nerves that flew beside them started to recede away from the families home. Nadárey could not quite let herself believe it, all three waiting with baited breath, then silence.
“Midija,” hissed the aged woman of Harad, “check the door.”
With the litheness and stealth of a serpent the younger woman went to the door, nervously reaching out to touch the undamaged wood, and finally pressing her ear to it. For a moment she tensed, imagining instant death for her actions, but when nothing happened she allowed herself to relax.
Thump!
She jerked her ear away and her head back quickly, glaring at the door as if it would explode inward, teeth gritted and fists balled. Ready to protect, and to die for her family if needed.
Thump!
“I shalt not knock again,” called a voice, “my politeness grows thin. Open the door, that I might see the child. That I might do what must be done.”
The door was opened, eventually, only a single figure standing in the street and turning to look at the three curious faces...it was no Harad-born man, that was certain.
Standing before them was a figure from legend, a warrior bearing a long sword and towering above them, nearly six feet and six inches high, unmarked plate armour covering his form. A smooth chest-plate, vambraces, greaves and all. On his head he bore a lofty helmet, a flowing crest of red dyed horsehair running from back to front and flanked by two simple horns, his face obscured by a mask shaped in the likeness of a stern but beautiful face. Only the two eyes could be seen, orbs the colour of ash never wavering from Akîl, piercing him as well as any arrow could.
“Nakh,” came the voice, powerful and ageless, from behind the mask, “nakh, bâr.”
Words such as this had not been heard for centuries in Harondor, or at all by Akîl, words of the lost Adûnaic tongue. Yet the boy seemed to inherently understand the request, taking a step away from his Grandmother, the old woman reaching for him as he went to stand between his family and this newcomer. Truly he had a noble air about him, but it was warped somehow, the feeling of the air around him somehow made sour by his presence.
After a moment, a moment that crawled one second-by-second, the figure spoke again. He had been studying the boy from head to toe, and now gave the slightest of nods.
“So...it is true.”
Openly impressed by something, the figure knelt to one knee and reached out his hand to the boy, his fingers curling in a gesture for him to take it.
“Thou shouldst have no fear of me boy, I dost not seek to harm thee. Nor wouldst I ever do.”
For the briefest of moments Akîl glanced back, a smile on his childish face. For the first time in his life, though he knew not how, he felt something tugging at him that was not of this world. All else seemed to narrow about him, the death and destruction of his town and the very presence of his family all but forgotten. His mind told him that there was something not right about the nameless warrior who extended his arm, but also something that should be so familiar.
Nadárey watched the exchange of looks with emotion welling up inside her, the smile near breaking her heart. Nonetheless, she had been told by a lone prophet that a man would come and that to him she would have to give the life of her daughters son. Why? She could not say. Would her daughter ever understand? She did not think so. And yet...and yet it felt like the right thing to do.
“Go with him,” she said heavily, her daughter letting the tears flow freely and moaning on her shoulder, “you will be safe, it has been told.”
“Mother,” said the boy, nearly the height of his weeping parent, “do not shed so many tears for me. Am I not still alive?” Tenderly he embraced her, giving a long squeeze, the stranger rising once more to his feet, “I will see you and Grandma again. I promise.”
Not even Akîl truly understood why he was leaving, but gathering nothing to take with him, dressed only in a simple tunic and trousers, he was lead away by the noble stranger.
“Trust in me, Akîl,” the warrior uttered as they walked toward what had once been the gate of Amon Eithel, eyes looking at them but their owners never moving to stop them on their way, “trust yourself, for there are great things ahead of you. You shalt become great, young one, but first you must know where you come from.”