Disclaimer: I don't own Middle Earth, or the Haradrim, or Harad, or anything else of that nature. It all belongs to Tolkien. I'm simply borrowing them for a bit.
High over the sands of Far Harad, the sun blazed with little mercy. It was hot and dry, the only respite being a swift breeze that twisted among the dunes. Even that was not as much a relief as it could have been, for it blew warm gritty sand into the unwary traveler's eyes.
Clad in tunics of mainly scarlet red, the Haradrim were a striking group. Most were tending to weapons and armor, while others were taking refuge in the shade until the sun began to go down. Evenings and mornings were the best time to practice exercises. They traveled at night.
There were a few horses. Most of the Haradrim did not own the animals, as they were rare. Those that did own them, however, were just as fond of them as the Rohirrim were of their Mearas. The only drawback to taking horses to the north was that even Harad-bred beasts would most often balk at the sight of the great mumakil. Nevertheless, though it was rare, some horses did come north. This particular company had no mumakil, which made it easier.
One of the Haradrim in particular would come either with his horse, or not at all.
Most of the men resided in small groups, talking amongst themselves, but this one was on the edge of the camp. He was perfectly happy being alone, and the others seemed obliging enough. His only company was a dusty bay mare. She had an almost yellow sheen to her coat, which shone from a good grooming. She was small, and slender, as desert horses were, and in very good condition. Amir took better care of his horse than he did of himself, the men would say, and it was true enough.
They said many things about Amir, really. Nearly every company had at least one slightly odd member. This one was no exception.
Amir was shorter than most of the others by at least a couple of inches, and had the most boyish of looks though he was eighteen years old. His black hair he kept cut short, just long enough to cover his ears, unlike the others who had their hair long and often in braids.
"Off a moment, Nadia, I can't see what I'm doing around your nose," Amir said gruffly as he gently pushed away his mare's head. He was sitting on a convenient pack and trying to fletch some arrows. Nadia's interest in the process was short lived, as she soon wandered on the other side of her tether, looking for some sparse desert grass to eat.
Amir did not have as much brute strength as some, so he had developed his talents as an archer rather than wielding heavier weapons. He was still practicing, of course, but whenever he had a choice, he would always reach for his bow first. Even while on horseback, his aim was excellent.
He had a fondness for horses, as it ran in his family. Some desert tribes were more secluded than others were. These peoples were known as the Narakshi. These people had lighter skin, bronze in hue, and some were especially notable for their horses. They generally remained concerned with their own affairs, taking up arms only to defend themselves.
Ten arrows done, just a few more to do, Amir mused to himself. He paused in his work to look at the knife that he was using. It was something of his that he had kept from his family. It was a valuable heirloom, to be sure, as metal was rare among the Narakshi. Almost as valuable as his horse, it was. Engraved on the hilt was a lion and a snake, both familiar symbols. He shook his head at such fanciful thoughts.
He just happened to glance up and past Nadia when he noticed several specs in the distance, moving slowly across the desert. He frowned, brows furrowing as he watched. He stood up, carefully setting down his arrows and returning his knife to its sheath.
He made his way through the tents, not stopping to answer greetings, or other comments, from his comrades. He was headed for the largest dwelling, that of the captain. He personally disliked the shrewd man as much as any of the others did but he had enough sense to keep his opinions to himself in that respect.
As he was walking swiftly around one of the canvas tents, he found his path suddenly blocked by a man much taller and a good bit wider than he was. Amir squinted up at the man, trying to decide which of his least favorite people had decided to make his day difficult once again.
"Where are you going in such haste, runt?" the man asked sharply, his dark eyes fixed on Amir's face. Long braids of black hair framed this man's rather smirking expression.
"To report," Amir answered tersely, as shortly as he could while trying not to provoke an argument. He did not feel in the mood to banter with Jibran. He hardly ever did, as arguing with this particular man was a pointless venture at best.
"You had better let him on his way then," another man spoke up smoothly from his seat nearby. This one was darker-skinned than most of the others, and though he did not have an entirely kind look to him, he was not openly mocking Amir. "Besides," he continued with a grin, "Amir is likely to 'accidentally' let an arrow loose in your back in some battle on ahead if you persist in being a pestilence."
The taller man laughed, ignoring Amir's unimpressed and stoic stance. "You speak truth, Sinan. Mark my words, never trust the runts. They always turn out to be trouble."
Amir took the opportunity to swerve around Jibran, not caring whether or not they followed him. Sometimes he would give them some kind of retort, but not this time. As much as they suggested, they hardly ever truly insulted him. Amir did have some respect, but not so much that he was beyond a generous amount of teasing.
He continued on his way, ignoring the conversation that continued in his wake. By then he had arrived at the biggest tent of the encampment. He paused to dust off his tunic, and then stepped in front of the open entrance and bowed.
"Captain?" He then waited patiently for a reply.
"What is it?" The captain had been standing just inside, but at Amir's arrival, he turned to fix his intense gaze on the warrior. He was in his mid-thirties, at least, though he could have been half or twice that and likely looked no less stern or immovable. This was a deadly soldier, and a sharp-minded commander, though he did not have much charisma. He had little need for it.
"To the west, captain, there seems to be a small caravan of some kind. They are traveling south at a good pace," Amir explained hastily. He did not put forward any plans of what to do about this. It was not his job to plan; he had done his duty by reporting.
The veteran captain mulled over the information. It could not be any of those Gondorian heathens, he decided quickly. They would never make it this far into Harad, not that he even expected them to try. Were they traders? Perhaps they could be, but they were more likely thieves. Maybe it was a tribe of locals, though he was not sure what they would have been doing so far north in the first place.
Amir noticed that the tent had an organized look, unlike most of the others. Since they never stopped for very long, it was rather pointless to worry too much about appearances. Captains were usually too interested in keeping their men on their toes to be worried with their own things. Somehow, this one seemed to accomplish both tasks easily.
"Were they moving too fast to approach on horseback?" He asked finally, causing Amir to snap back to attention.
"No, captain," Amir answered, though he grimaced inwardly. He had a feeling that he knew what was coming.
"I want you to see who they are, then. Observe them and report to me before nightfall. I doubt that they are of any consequence, but I am not going to take any chances."
With that, the captain turned and strode back into his tent. It was as much of a dismissal as Amir was going to get.
"If I were to get shot down by bandits before we even cross the Poros, that would be ironic," He muttered to himself before heading off back towards his own tent.