A great cloud of dust is aroused, rising from the East;
'Neath the burning heat of sun's glare,
Coming hinder eastward from the Rhûn Sea,
It slithers like a dragon leaving its lair.
An army—a golden horde—large and foreboding,
Their tramping feet giving dust wings,
They march with purpose, hearts filled with loathing;
Kings and Princes tremble at their comings.
Who are these savage men of the East?
They are known to many as the Easterlings,
Violent, evil to the core, and merciless killers,
Wearing bronze plates of jagged scales, polished to a golden sheen.
Armed with serrated-bladed polearms and curved scimitars,
They march in disciplined echelons to the Black Gate,
Deadly, ferocious, tactical, fierce, and professionals of war,
They fight against the Free-Peoples, their hearts consumed with hate.
These Dragon-Warriors are Sauron's most tenacious and efficient soldiers,
Most numerous too, aside from the Orcs, and difficult to uproot.
The Dark Lord sees this, and knowing the benefit of having experienced warriors,
He promises them the rich, fertile lands of the West as their awarded loot.
Eager to ally with one who encouraged their expansionist policy,
The Dragon Hordes moved in with confident ambition,
As they invaded the unsuspecting Free-Folk of the West
And attempted to force them into submission.
They march from the East—from the Sea of Rhûn,
Led by their once-Easterling Emperor, Khamûl the Nazgûl.
To smite the Men of the North, while another Easterling army
Marches to Gondor with Sauron's hordes from Minas Morgûl.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, chant their wander-hardened feet,
The Golden Horde marches alongside their allies.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, their feet sing in synchronized rhythm,
As they march towards Gondor—the land they greatly despise.
Through the wooded region of Ithilien, over the Anduin River,
And through the ruins of Osgiliath, they march with deadly precision,
They smite the Gondorian defenders on this desolate outpost,
And as they go further up and further in, with Minas Tirith in their vision.
Tramp, tramp, tramp! march the Golden Horde seven thousand strong.
Fierce they were—and looked—in their lamed, jagged-scale armor gold,
And garbed in fabrics dyed in red, indigo, and black worn long,
They appear as in like-appearance to those winged serpents of old.
They set up battle lines alongside their Orc compatriots
As they make siege against Gondor's White City;
They will finally smite their ancient foe and own their lands so fertile,
Towards the defenders, the Dragon Horde will show no pity.
Those Dragon-Sons march towards Minas Tirith,
Eager for blood, death, loot, and glorious battle;
In disciplined formation, they parade in victorious triumph,
Their golden armor shake with a staccato-rhythmic rattle.
The siege has begun, the catapults have sprung,
The great White City begins to fall and crumble.
Boom! Boom! Boom! cry the Troll-crewed catapults,
As they unload their burdens and reduce the city to rubble.
But the Defenders aren't done yet, they fight back with ferocity;
Their archers' deadly bows rain death on their foes,
Orc corpses pile up in heaps as they fail to ram the gate,
Those who remain get picked off by veteran arrows.
The gates seemed to be impenetrable—or so they thought;
For the Easterlings watched in awe of what they saw,
As a battering ram of monstrous proportions comes yon hinder gate.
Soon the strong gate splinters under Grond's fiery maw!
A cheer of evil triumph ripples through the ranks, and eager for blood,
They charge into the breach—Trolls first, then the Dragon-Sons;
The Fell-Men and Orcs of Sauron storm the lower levels of the City,
Victory seemed to be theirs—until the sound of horns blew in the horizon.
It was Rohan, come to give Gondor aid—how was this possible?!
The Golden Horde rush into action, in haste, abandoning their current mission,
As the Orc masses scramble to buffer the coming Rohirrim;
And quickly the Dragon-Sons face the coming foe, forming defensive positions.
'Tis a large force indeed—over several thousand strong;
The horns are blowing, the Defenders' hearts soar as hope appears,
With one thunderous hail, they charge with unbridled fury,
The Orcs try to stop them with filthy arrows and malformed spears.
But alas, they are doomed to fail, against the furious onslaught,
As the Rohirrim sliced through their numerous ranks,
Trampling them underneath their horses' hooves,
The Horse-Lords were crumbling Mordor's flank.
All seemed lost for the servants of Sauron, as they fled,
Until, once again, a horn sounded on the bloody Pelannor Fields:
The Haradrim army has come, riding on their Mûmakil,
As they smash 'neath their feet rider, horse, and shield.
With hearts emboldened, their Orc allies renew the fight,
Alongside the monstrous Haradrim Mûmakil,
They swarm after the fallen Rohirrim Riders,
And with the Mûmakils' archers, they rush in for the kill.
The Dragon Legion marches ominously towards their foe,
Pikes in front, swords behind—their presence gives brave men fright,
To help their Haradrim allies clean up the Rohirrim horsemen,
To bring them down and take them out of the fight.
And once Sauron's forces saw the Corsairs from Umbar,
Sailing up with their black fleet on the River Anduin.
Now they knew that victory was theirs, that the Race of Men will fall;
The Fell-Men will now conquer this land for their homeland kin.
But things aren't what they seem—first appearances can be deceptive;
For unknown to them, Aragorn intercepted the marauders,
And now he leads the way with his forces and the Army of the Dead—
No way out; the foes of Gondor will go no further.
For the servants of Sauron, that was the straw that broke the Mûmakil's back:
Any courage and confidence that returned in their evil hearts had fled;
Panic filled the Orcs and they then as one scattered like sheep amongst wolves,
The Free-Peoples pursued them, cut them down, and none could stand against the Dead.
With their oath fulfilled, the Army of the Dead disperse, true to Aragorn's word,
But victory was yet to be won: Not all of Sauron's hordes were dead or gone.
For those Fell-Men of Rhûn and Harad, they stood their ground;
With their backs to the Anduin, they stood tall—against their foes, they stood strong.
This gallant force was all, we're told, to be one thousand strong.
Pikes in front, shields up, swords drawn, archers behind—
They were a fearsome sight, this Golden Horde, of those who remained;
The sun did shone its rays, the gold in their lamellar armor shined!
The Dragon Sons and Southrons elected to stay behind;
To give their few comrades time as they fled to Mordorland.
They blocked the path homeward through the River Anduin,
And it was there on those riverbanks, the Fell-Men made their stand.
Despite their numbers, the Free-Peoples struggled to defeat them;
Many casualties did they sustain at the hands of the Easterlings.
Because of their surprisingly stalwart, valorous stand,
Did it prolong the inevitable finality of the War of the Ring.
The battle is finally won, but at a terrible, pyrrhic cost:
Many were lost fighting in the City and on the Pelannor Fields,
And many more were slain fighting the Golden Horde;
The battlefield is strewn with corpses, weapons, and broken shields.
Yea, the Fell-Men gave them more trouble as they marched on to Morannon,
They prepared an ambush for them in the woods of Ithilien.
When the time was right, they sprung their trap, swarming them like ants;
But the Fell-Men were pushed back, unable to slay nary a man.
They came again when the Army of the West came to the Gate,
The Mouth of Sauron ordered Mordor's legions to attack.
Orcs on the West-Men's front, Easterlings on their left, Haradrim on their right—
They surrounded the Men of the West, forced them back-to-back.
The Free-Peoples fought on valiantly, keeping the Eye fixed on them,
So Frodo could destroy the Ring into the place of its making.
They fought hour upon hour throughout the gloomy day,
Great were the losses that both sides were taking.
The Orcs swarmed to overwhelm their foe's front lines,
But the Gondorians' ironclad defense held fast.
The Rohirrim neutralized the Haradrim and routed their army,
The Golden Horde's attack also did not last.
All sides, for the moment, had to desist, though not for long:
They brought forth their ferocious battle trolls, the Olog-hai.
The trolls charged into the Free-Folk's ranks, throwing them into disarray,
The Easterlings and Orcs renewed their attacks with savage battle cries.
As time passed, and more Men died, less were their chances of surviving;
It wasn't long before the Men of the West started losing the battle.
The Fell-Men and Creatures of Sauron moved in to increase their advantage,
Their blades blood red, ready and willing to butcher them like cattle.
The hearts of Men grew cold with fear when they looked East,
Deep and dark was their despair when the Nazgûl entered the fight.
The hearts of the Fell Servants of Sauron rejoiced at their coming,
And all seemed lost for the West - until the Eagles came in sight.
The mighty Eagles came and attacked the Nazgûl and their Fell-Beasts,
Hope in Men's hearts revived and fought back with renewed courage.
But they were still slowly losing the fight, the Fell-Men closing in,
Until a shriek was heard and all were silent on Morannon's edge.
The Eye was falling, the Tower of Barad-dûr was collapsing, crumbling;
When he hit the ground, a concussion sound caused a mighty earthquake.
The Black Gate, Towers of the Teeth and all of Mordor were laid to waste,
The quakes and fiery missiles brought down the Nazgûl and their Fell-Drakes.
The Orcs, directionless, were easily overwhelmed and defeated,
But those Easterlings, those Dragon-Sons, they fought on stalwartly,
Last ones to stand, last ones to fight, they fought like the Dragons of old,
Until they were forced to surrender their weapons reluctantly.
King Aragorn in his mercy and compassion let them go,
When the time of day was near its gloam.
He bade them to return to the lands of the East,
To return to the steppes which they called home.
Alas, the Easterlings weren't yet finished with the Men of the West,
And the War of the Ring in the North was not yet done.
For they invaded the kingdoms of Dale and of Erebor,
And Khamûl's forces were still fighting, including the Dragon-Sons.
Alas, Khamûl's armies were also driven back and routed from their assaults,
As they tried to destroy the forest-kingdoms of the Wood Elves.
They invaded the Forests of Lórien and Mirkwood but were thwarted;
After Dol Guldur's ruin, those of Khamûl's ilk fled every man for themselves.
Their last chance was in Dale—where the bulk of their legions were stationed;
Rhûn's legions, two hundred thousand strong, attacked Dale, taking them by surprise.
They tried to bribe the King-Under-The-Mountain, promising peace to them,
But King Dáin Ironfoot of Erebor, a wise being, saw at once through their lies.
So the Dragon Legions besieged Dale and Erebor, and fought against their armies,
Led by King Dáin of the Dwarves and the Dalian King Brand.
Both sides contested ferociously for the possession of the region,
For whoever won this battle would hold claim to Dale's fertile lands.
As three days progressed, the battle was swerving to Rhûn's favor,
Due to their numbers, their elite troops, and their veterancy in battle.
They overwhelmed the Dale-Dwarvish Alliance and pushed them to the Mountain,
The Golden Horde had them cornered, ready to slaughter them like cattle.
As the Men of Dale and the Dwarves of Erebor flee into the Lonely Mountain,
Defending the Mountain Gate is a small force led by their courageous Kings,
Fighting side-to-side against the Fell-Men of Rhûn, slaying all who came near,
Their skill and valor in battle struck fear into the hearts of the Easterlings.
Alas, the Easterlings' massive numbers soon overwhelmed their valiant defense,
And among the heroic fallen at the Gate lay King Brand and thus stands King Dáin.
The King-Under-The-Mountain refuses to back down before his foes,
Even now he dies defending the body of his ally King Brand, son of Bain.
The Golden Horde may seem to have victory, but things aren't as they seem,
For as they besiege the Lonely Mountain, they heard of the Dark Lord's demise.
With the death of their Master, the Golden Horde began to lose heart,
And when their enemies struck back, they fled, leaving behind those who died.
Alas, yea, though the Golden Hordes were thoroughly routed, it wouldn't last;
The Fell-Men of Rhûn, in spite being on the losing side, wasn't done in the least.
They continued to be a constant threat throughout the early Fourth Age,
Resulting in Aragorn leading a coalition force of Gondor and Allies to the East.
Consisting of the Reunited Kingdom, Rohan, Dale, and others,
They march against those accursed Easterlings, who won't give them rest.
They will finally do to them what they've done for centuries;
The Men of the West will take the lands of Rhûn as theirs to possess.
The time of the Elves, the time of the Orc and the era of the Dwarves is over,
Now comes a new Age—the Fourth Age, known as the Age of Men.
Weary of the constant raids and invasions by the Golden Hordes of Rhûn,
They march with a great host of many nations towards the Dragons' Den.
The Western Host is a wondrous sight to behold, King Elessar in the lead,
As they confront the Dragon Hordes led by their imperial Emperor.
The Easterlings brought forth all their warriors to defend their homeland;
Even the women are ordered to grab armor and weapons to fight the invaders.
The tables are now turned: the hunters have now become the hunted;
The Dragon-Sons form their battle ranks near the Sea of Rhûn, ready to fight.
Polearms down, shields up, scimitars drawn, axes and maces at the ready,
Weapons and armor on both sides gleamed in the hot afternoon sunlight.
And so they fought long and hard 'neath the burning Rhûnic sun,
They fought valorously and with great skill, but they weren't going to win.
Those who didn't fall either fled or surrendered in final defeat,
And watched in horror as their enemies burned their cities and temples to ruin.
And thus was the end of this fierce and merciless, yet valorous race,
These Dragon-Sons, the Golden Horde, these people known as Easterlings.
The dragon has been declawed, its teeth taken out, and its fire burned out,
The Dragon of Rhûn has now bowed in submission to Gondor's High King.
What their fate was or what was known of them after this period, I know not,
For we ne'er hear of this fierce and proud race in the ancient Tomes.
We can only speculate that they intermingled with their former enemies in peace,
While others continued their evil, hostile raids on places where they roamed.
With the Easterlings' defeat, there is now peace throughout Middle-Earth;
Homes are rebuilt, families multiplied, and the once-lost Line of Isildur restored.
The Kingdom, thought fore'er broken, is now reunited, under King Elessar,
And the events of the War of the Ring via witnesses we will reverently record.
So farewell, friend, I hope thou hast a splendid day until next we meet;
There are duties of which I must away and tend to as Chief Scribe to the King.
I pray thee stay whilst you rest from thine weary journey, explore our fair City,
And do come again if ever you wish to hear once more the Tale of the Easterlings.
A.N.: "The Golden Horde", like "The Black Easterling", is a narrative poem. While the previous one was concerning Khamûl the Nazgûl himself, this one is focused on the Easterlings themselves and their involvement in the War of the Ring. This is mainly inspired and based from the books. The POV is from the narrator - the Chief Scribe to King Aragorn II Elessar - as he reads from the Tomes concerning the Easterlings' part in the War of the Ring.
Please give a review or a like and give me some constructive critique. I am to improve myself. I hope you enjoy this recent addition to my works. Have a blessed day, friends. ^_^