These Men So Unafraid To Die*

By Nerwen Calaelen

Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own LotR.  I (possibly) own the characters that I invented and the plot of the story, nothing else, so don't sue me!

A/N: This chapter is only a prologue, it is intended to tell the story so far, before focusing in on the events covered in the story.  It is probably a bit pointless, but hopefully the rest will be better.

This has not been betaed and is probably full of mistakes – grammar etc and canon, any corrections would be very much appreciated.

Hopefully I'll be updating soon, but don't count on it.

*The title is from the English translation of 'Cyrano de Bergerac' by Edmond Rostand, but I can't remember the translator's name, I've got a copy of that version at home and so when I've been back will try and remember to add the translator's name.

Rating: PG. (I don't know – this seemed as good a guess as any)

***

What a tale of warriors and wars

Destined to decide the fate of the world

Four great heroes, one bright tale

An invincible alliance to bring Gondor down

What god made it fail? 

Not a god but mortal pride.

The start of a Khandian epic poem on the subject of the Wainriders.

***

These events took place in the year 1783 of the Third Age, in the East of the lands known as Rhun.

It was a small village, a dozen families, but had been in better times a wealthy one.  The land had been green and fertile, but the droughts had parched it. 

In one of the huts a woman sat beside the bed of as another of her patients died. 

How many is that now?  Five in the last week.  I can do nothing; it is hunger that is killing them.  These small illnesses I could cure, if only there was food to give them, but there is none.  How long since I was not hungry?  I can no longer remember what it feels like to eat enough.  This land is dieing, there is no food for us to eat.  It is our home, but the time has come to move on again.  Our ancestors moved here in the past, but now this land must become our past as their homelands are. 

***

By midday the pyre had burnt out.  After the ashes were raked out, the talk solidified into a council.  For a time it seemed as if it was to be the same as all the other councils over the last few months.  Loud arguments over whether or not it was time to move on, but after a bit the healer started to speak,

"All of the ill have died.  Now is the time to leave.  I know, the goddess had spoken to me in my dreams, she wishes us to move on.  In the past we were a warrior people.  It is time we became warriors again.  Too long have we dwelt in peace."

After she had spoken there was silence, it was unusual for her to speak.  Everyone accepted this without words and so the decision was made.  

The priest cast a hunting spear into the air, "It falls facing south west, that is where our new home will be.  We will leave at dawn tomorrow." 

 The families scattered, returning to their homes to gather up their possessions.  Most of the families had carts, pulled by oxen, and into these were loaded all their possessions.  They harnessed up the war chariots, which had remained hoarded in the families for generations.

Families wept to leave behind their homes, but everyone was ready to leave at first light the next morning. 

***

At every village they passed through, word spread of the omens driving them onwards.  Many joined them, whole villages, families or single warriors.  The small party became a clan, the clan a tribe.

Thus by the time they had reached the edge of the drought, it was a whole nation on the move, many carts and war chariots, surrounded by herds of animals.  They came to the banks of the great river.  Milling about, the leaders eventually found a ford and they crossed into green lands.  There was food aplenty and trees to build more carts from. 

Here they halted and rested, waiting for a sign from the goddess.  Were these the lands that they were destined to settle?

But the omens were for war and the leaders wished to move on to fight.  Most of the leaders were young and burning to return to the days of yore when the tribes had been warriors, dreaded by those whose lands bordered on theirs.

And so they moved on south east, entering the territories of other tribes.  Some of the tribes were friendly, some not.  More tribes and warriors joined the quest.  But in these lands the warriors had their first bloodings, the moving tribes were never beaten but lost some warriors to death.  As the small battles occurred, the natural leaders of the group came to the fore and those who challenged them and failed died.  The greatest of these leaders was Garmillez, whose name was to echo through the history being respected or feared for generations to come.

 Garmillez was born after the march had begun, but he came to the fore in the Battle of the Plain as he killed King Narmacil of Gondor.  Thus allowing peace for a time and a new home for his people, until the armies of Gondor marched north to gain revenge. 

The new king, Calimehtar was determined to get revenge for the death of his father and so sort out Garmillez in the midst of the battle.  He lead the decisive charge into the centre of the Wainriders ranks, and succeeded in killing Garmillez.  And so the army crumbled and was crushed between the Northmen and Gondor.  The Northmen slaves had revolted and burnt their homes, killing those who had remained behind.  And so many fled east, vowing revenge.

***