Chapter 3, Part I – Gather Your Allies And Smite Your Foes
For several years the pair traversed the landscape of the desert, stopping during the day and travelling together at night. Each day was another challenge for the newly minted lordling, each one a new lesson in history, language or how to deal death to others. No two days were the same and, keeping up their isolation or a pretence of father and son should they meet anyone by chance, the young master quickly absorbed all he was taught in a never-ending flow of asking a question and storing away the answer – quick, easy and effective, and Agannâlo never faltered in his duty as a mentor to his younger charge.
As time went by, though it was but two or three years, Nardukhôr began to understand his role in all things and to pay especial attention to what he was told. He realised why the men of Umbar were at constant war with Gondor, why the Men of Harad disliked them less but still despised them, and why Sauron the Deceiver may appear as an ally to the Haradrim but was ever an enemy of all life. It was he who had darkened the mind of Ar-Pharazôn, so he was told, twisting it and filling it with notions that caused the downfall of his idyllic island land.
Then the 'Faithful', those sailors and warriors who had carved out their twin kingdoms in north and south, had betrayed those already living on the shores of Beleriand. These weak-minded fools had escaped their doom because of hindsight, but ever they were the enemies of true Númenórean blood, Elf-students and worshippers of deities that drowned their homeland. It was these same divinities who had bought about the Curse of Men, disguised as it was as a 'gift', the long life of the Eldar reserved only for the Firstborn and their ilk but not so for the short-lived Edain. No...they died more easily, could be slain by just about anything, and their span of years had shrivelled like the white tree that now sat in the courtyard of Minas Tirith.
Nardukhôr, with the help of the Haradrim, would put an end to that. He would see that only the true Númenóreans would rule Middle-Earth once more, and that all would bow before them...even the Dark Lord himself would be humbled as in the days of old.
For nearly two years they remained isolated in that desert, isolated and alone, seeking only food and shelter. Stories slowly began to circulate of the wandering duo, sightings of a tall knight and his son moving swiftly over the desert landscape, others saying that they never spoke and that to look them in the eye was certain death. It was no wonder then that these rumours got back to the ears of the Grand Serpent, as everything did eventually, nothing that happened in his realm being hidden from his sight.
Without so much as a warning he dispatched his Hasharii to track down these two potential threats to his power. Though no evidence had been provided to show as much, he had not gained his position as overlord of the scattered tribes by going against his gut instincts. These he employed now and commanded a group of his assassins to slip from his palace in Gobel Ancalimon and into the desert.
One thing he did not count on was the intrusion of Umbar into the equation, the great port-city and the surrounding lands ruled outwardly by the Serpent of Harad but truly under the command of Lord Qusay, the Corsair-Lord and true ruler of Umbar and its possessions along the coast. Bonds of blood united his family with that of Khuzaymah with Qusay married to one of the Serpents daughters, but he also held the Spear of Fuinur – the great-weapon of a once powerful Black Númenórean who, with his companion Herumor, had held many tribes of the Haradwaith in their power – and was of Númenórean descent, like most of those in Umbar.
The question was: would he let his bonds to the Haradrim withhold any help he might give to one who could be claimed as his rightful liege? Just a boy, but one day he could become so much more.
************
Dark shapes moved in the shadows, hunched and concealed, soft footfalls leaving not even a print within the ever-shifting sands of the Haradrian desert. All was concealed, cloth of dark reds and deep blues wrapped about sun-browned faces, strips tied about hands and all that could be seen were the twinkling of eyes and the dull glint of blades doused in soot. These were the Hasharii, the order of assassins used for generations by the Serpents of Harad, a group of six sent deep into the desert to find the two that their master had ordered should disappear. Ahead of them burnt a fire, so bright in the darkness that they could see it from miles away, two figures sat about it quietly and unmoving.
Using silent gestures and hand signals they wove their way through the sands, the fire ablaze in the midst of an old Gondorian encampment built of stone in the time of Hyarmendacil the Second. It was this king of old that had subdued the tribes of Harad for a second time, extending the borders of Gondor deep into the south, and was still vehemently hated to this day. In fact there was an old insult used by Haradrian merchants between one another; “I would rather Hyarmendacil than trade with you.” Now the camp was just a ruin, tall walls having succumbed to the witheringly harsh desert sandstorms over time, the towers toppled and its former shine withdrawn into nothing but a shadow.
They were nearly there, seven steps, five steps, three, and two... a flash of blades and some triumphant grunts of fury, the poisoned weapons digging deep into the bodies of their enemies and toppling them onto the ground.
“What is this?” Snarled the leader of the assassins, kicking one of the armoured straw dummies in anger, his comrades giving off their own growls, “search the area, find them!” He commanded, but they would not have to look far. The enemy was already coming to them.
From out of the darkness sprung Agannâlo, his young ward swiftly on his heels, the hair of the older warrior loose and streaming as he charged. Clean of armour was he, dressed in a simple jerkin of leather and breeches to match, but in his hands he held his great blade and swung it with deadly efficiency, spearing a foe on the tip and hauling him into the air to throw him off once more. Behind and to his left sprinted Nardukhôr, his own blade bared and burning with an eerie witch-fire, the inexpert fighter yelling a war-cry as he charged and lunging forward to impale an assassin too slow to move.
The remaining four circled their pray, the two of Númenor finally having revealed themselves, all six prepared to die by the blades of the others if they must, and yet each with a mind to massacre their enemies and remain alive to tell the tale.
“What do we have here then?” Came a growl from just outside the circle of light, “looks like we got here just in time lads.”
From outside the ring of combatants stepped a group of twelve men, their clothes dirty and dishevelled, beards thick on their jaws, and unwashed hair matted and dreadlocked . The speaker turned out to be a man both broad and tall, a nasty scar running down his forehead and passing through a milky white eye to end at his chin, a cutlass clutched in one hand. His followers were armed accordingly, a mass of cutlasses, bill-hooks, pikes and daggers running throughout the group.
For a moment all was still, glances passing between them all, before Agannâlo shouted and made to lunge at the nearest assassin. With that he broke the silence, Corsairs flinging themselves at assassins and vice-versa, Agannâlo pressing his arm across his lords chest and drawing him back behind a nearby wall. There they remained, crouched and quiet, until the sounds of battle died down.
“Aye,” came the same voice, “you can come out now. There's but one alive.”
Agannâlo went first, giving a small nod when he saw that they were being told truths instead of lies, his sword remaining in his hand as he moved warily to stand inside the group of Umbarean raiders, all peering down at the hooded leader of the hired murderers who continued to move though without much strength left in his body.
After kneeling down next to him Agannâlo bent to his ear, “listen well,” he hissed, “return to thy master and tell him all that hath passed here. Tell him that we wish no conflict between us, that thy enemy and ours is the same and that if he troubles us not then we shall not trouble him. His leadership of these lands shalt be firm and remain so.”
Turning to peer at the man leading the Corsairs he gave a grim smile, “what news from the Corsair-Lord?”
************
It is said that Númenóreans of the Eldar days had far-sight matching that of and surpassing that of all other men, something that evidently was true, for how else would Agannâlo have been able to do what he did? But what did he do, I hear you ask! That is what I shall recount to you now.
Months before arriving in Amon Eithel, years before even knowing of the birth of Akîl, Agannâlo had travelled to and fro across the vast lands of Harad. He had travelled far, near and into the Hither Lands where the denizens of eastern Middle-Earth were not want to go. During his travels he had fallen into the company of Alatar the Blue, one of the mighty Istari, who had told him all that he needed to know for the coming of the child and what must be done.
So for decades before the coming of the boy he had created links with the Haradrim and the Lords of Umbar, ties as strong as steel but still as malleable as liquid, many tribes seeing him as the reincarnation of Fuinur or Herumor, their shadowy lords from across the sea come back to rule them once again. Fealty was sworn by a number of tribes, others bought into his sphere of influence by blood oaths or bribes, the Lord of Umbar before Qusay swearing that he would help topple Gondor in any way he could and Qusay himself retaking that vow.
Threads that had been woven long ago now came together in that year; the lost lord had been found and the time was now ripe for retribution against Gondor. In the west Qusay had been building a fleet of warships, his Umbarean cohorts eager to return to a land they saw as rightfully their own, happy enough to follow a kindred spirit and really their true lord. Out in the deserts many tribes had sounded the horns and war-drums, tribesmen making their way north into Harondor to be lead into battle as they had been promised years before, eager, angered, and feverish for the blood of their enemy.
All the while the Serpent watched, having accepted the Númenóreans offer against all of his better judgement, but pressing the term that one of his own should have direct command of the Haradrim entering Northern Harondor. Agannâlo had agreed to this on the term that he alone be allowed to select the commander from among the lords of the Haradrim, quashing the protestations of his protégé with a simple wave of his hand, assuring the growing boy that all was in hand.
This seemed agreeable to both parties, and so there was no conflict between them...yet.
“We need a puppet,” he mused, smiling at his master as he smoothed a hand through his beard, “and I have just the pawn. A man of doubtful loyalties, one easily swayed by threats and gold. A man of no morals and even less sense.”
“You know of such a man?”
“I know of many such men, lord.”
“What shall I call this instrument?”
“Sakalkhôr, my lord. Call him Sakalkhôr.”
And just so ye know...