Khamul strides through the dirty streets of his village. He remembers what he dreamed for these streets when he was young and such things mattered. Then, he wanted to help his people; he thought he was different from the usual greedy kings. Now he thinks: installing good sewage systems, eradicating poverty, there is still time for that later. He twists the ring on his finger thoughtfully and decides, Yes. There is plenty of time.
He reaches the crude outdoor pavilion and sits on the raised chair where he will oversee business for the next few hours.
"Your Majesty, the Second Warrior Faction has returned from Khand."
Khamul stares at the little man announcing the message. What is his name? He is a pathetic specimen of a human being, small and ratty-looking with dirty hair, wheezing in the cold air. Asthmatic. He's probably a relative of Khamul's wife. Khamul smiles at the thought of his wife. She is a lovely woman, although possessing of some highly deplorable family members. This would be a cousin of hers –
"Your Majesty?"
Khamul glares at him. The man shrinks back, obviously terrified. Khamul sighs. He doesn't really want to make enemies with this man or his family. "Show them in," he says.
The Second Warrior Faction is just a proud name for one of Khamul's larger raiding parties. The loot they present is ridiculously modest. Khamul straightens, incensed. "How is this POSSIBLE?" he roars. "You have been gone a month, and this is all you bring me? This will hardly even feed a village, much less bring profit!" He realizes he is being unfair, but bringing profit to Rhún matters so much. How could this have happened?
The captain, a short, stocky man of Harad, speaks up. "Your Majesty, we captured more from some of the richer Khand villages, but on the way back we were attacked by a legion of Variag cavalry. We were forced to flee and lost most of the valuables we had acquired. The toll is seventeen dead and thirty-four injured." He says this in a plain, monotonous voice, stating facts. Khamul reevaluates the soldiers standing before him. He sees now that they are bone-weary; some of them sport sluggishly bleeding wounds. The group has diminished to less than half of the ninety-seven healthy warriors he sent out last month. They barely hold their axes upright. Khamul twists the ring on his finger. A thought whispers into his mind. You are too good for these people, it says. These dirty, pathetic villagers don't deserve to have a king like you. He pushes the thought away. Damn those Variags. He isn't going to be able to deal with them alone.
"All right," he says. "Have your injured treated as best you can. There will be no assignments for a few days, perhaps more. Use the time to rest and recuperate. Captain Baku, please stay behind for a few moments. The rest of you are dismissed."
After his meeting with the captain, Khamul feels, if not particularly hopeful, at least less helpless and frustrated about his empire. He tries not to think about how much depends on Baku's ability to communicate with his Harad relatives. He needs allies. He can feel nearby Khand loom threateningly. He knows he must prepare for war.
Khamul broods for several minutes before he is interrupted once again by that intolerable man, his wife's cousin. "Your Majesty, the Lord of Mordor is here to see you." Khamul starts and the man flinches slightly, but Khamul says nothing, only signals for him to leave.
"Lord Sauron," he greets the Maia.
"Khamul." The lack of a title is deliberate. "How have you fared since our last meeting?"
"Tolerable." Khamul's face is expressionless. He wonders how much Sauron knows about his political situation. "I have been considering your offer."
"And?" Sauron knows what the answer will be. He sees it in the way Khamul has been twisting the ring on his finger, in the fear that barely registered on Khamul's face before it became impassive. He senses the hunger for power that consumes them both. He senses, also, the bondage that the ring already holds over the Easterling. He waits.
Khamul knows that even if he obtains a Harad alliance, it is not enough to defeat Khand. If Khand is dealing with the Southrons, they will crush him. Sauron is offering him power such as he has only dreamed of. He struggles faintly with his sense of pride, with his inborn independence and honor. He thinks he knows the consequences of this decision. That it has already been decided for him, he does not guess. It is what you deserve, whispers the ring. It is your destiny.
"I accept," says Khamul.
Sauron alights on his tower and resumes his usual, wingless shape. Crossing the room, he comes to a piece of parchment, on which he has written nine names. He scribbles some notes beneath the list.
Khamul is the second king to accept fealty. All have the rings of power. It will not be long before the rest succumb.
He smiles. These will be his Nazgul, his ring-servants: undying, powerful wraiths. They begin a reign which will rival Morgoth's. He, Sauron, is the new Dark Lord.
"You wanted power?" he mutters to the Easterling king he has just left. "Well. You will have power."