"The High King Elaldar I Telcontar is bedridden and delirious, and therefore is unable to make clear and competent decisions. This comes at a most distressing time seeing as such as the High King has not officially designated an heir.
"In order to avoid a crisis in the succession after our current High King it is necessary for a Regent to have the, admittedly unusual, power to name an heir. Circumstances require this amendment to the Gondorian concept of Regency, handed down from Númenor of old, to keep the integrity and dignity of Royal authority intact.
"No outside body or authority is higher than that of the High King of the West, and thus the power to name the heir to the White Throne of the Reunited Kingdom must fall onto those who are closest to the High King.
(signed)
Queen Esgaler I, Regent of the West"
---
---
Tinsereg mounted his horse and strode through the streets of his provincial capital.
"MAKE WAY!" shouted the Captain of the Guard, Herumor, through the streets, "MAKE WAY FOR THE LORD GOVERNOR!"
Lord Governor, Tinsereg thought sardonically. It was his ruling title, but it carried more irony than authority for him. He was no longer a Lord in truth. He had no vassals holding castles to call upon in times of war. He was no Lord, only a mere Governor of a backwater and forgotten province.
The day was sweltering hot, adding to his already sour mood. Maeglad practically baked under the might of the sun, and so too its people. Many hid in their homes awaiting the cooler times when the heat could be tolerated. The city's covered walkways shielded those who were out as they went to and fro with their business, buying fruits and meat, jewelry, furniture, and all sorts of odds and ends, as well as visiting family and friends. They all wore loose fitting layered robes that trapped the cool air near their bodies which kept them from overheating.
Maeglad was a city of imported mud bricks, white-washed plaster, and golden onion-shaped domes that seemed to spring up out of nowhere. For leagues and leagues in any direction there was nothing but arid savanna and shrub-land, crisscrossed by seasonal streams and patched with desert sands. It was a land that supported only scattered nomadic tribes and tiny diseased settlements built into the leeward sides of rock faces.
Date palms lined the main thoroughfares of Maeglad and aqueducts ran the length and breadth of the city delivering water to all its four quarters. The city itself was built as a garrison town during the days of Elessar at a rich oasis that was a resting stop along the ancient Harad Road.
When Eldarion increased the trading rights and contracts with Khand and Harad, it was a boon for Maeglad. The oasis plants became private gardens, and the underground water supported rich palaces and ornamental baths. However, the Lord Governors of Harondor, usually whoever happened to be the general of the provincial legions, never saw beyond their responsibility to protect the trade caravans that passed up and down the Road. They used the profits from the trade mainly to enrich themselves and their own Houses.
When Tinsereg came, despite over two hundred and fifty years of Gondorian rule, Harondor was still an ignored backwater province. Its fields were desolate and the dry lands devoid of any permanence. All the people traveled as vast caravans between old and crumbling cities and fortifications. They'd graze and plant subsistence crops in one area, then the next year move on. The soil was too poor for anything more.
Unfortunately, Gondor had done little to remedy this. Many of the high lords looked upon the Haradrim as a quaint people, indecipherable and brutish, and definitely not worthy of trust. They did, after all, fight against Minas Anor for many thousands of years.
Though King Elessar may have treated the Haradrim with kindness, his generals did not. The Fall of Sauron, then, did not change the fortunes of Harondor. Its people were still oppressed into a down trodden rabble; the nomadic tribes of the hinter lands still waging a constant guerrilla war against the Kingdom.
Tinsereg had set out to change that.
Since his "exile" Tinsereg had allowed his subjects to enrich themselves on the trade wealth. He shared knowledge, long known in Gondor, on how to prevent plague in the scattered small villages, enacted several land use reforms that revitalized many old fields, and created bank and trade organizations to insure the goods carried in caravans. Soon, more and more of his subjects were settling down in permanent homes.
Trading posts were set up, and soon small towns started to grow around them. As these towns grew wealthy they started to draw in goods from Gondor and the other territories. The assimilation of Harondor had begun, and it was ascending back up to its former glory. This process was helped—in no small part—by the mere presence of his Southron wife, Arientari.
Tinsereg garrisoned the towns with legionaries, but made it a point to train local levies so the Haradrim could defend their own new homes and fields. He set up a system where half of his professional military held permanent garrisons while the other half wandered the countryside, visiting each town and village at a seemingly random schedule known only to Tinsereg and his generals.
Mounted lancer brigades led by Gondorian chivalry constantly roamed the countryside, looking for bandits and guerrillas. A complex system of message riders and carrier pigeons kept the whole operation together. Over the years he'd developed a strong and able force that could react quickly to trouble anywhere in his provincial fief.
He thought of his success as a happy spite against the vain and ungracious Dúnedain Lords of Gondor who'd sent him there to squalor.
---
The portcullis winched upwards and the huge oaken outer doors rolled outwards from the high arched forecastle. Tinsereg on his hyarmen garron strode out of Maeglad to visit one of the outlying villages. It was important for him to personally visit his subjects. Several of the more superstitious Harad tribesmen refused to enter the "Gondorian City", contenting themselves to do their business in the nearby villages.
He needed his subjects to relax their unease and grow beyond their Sauron-inspired superstitions. He needed them to see themselves as Gondorian Haradrim if there was ever to be true peace in his fiefdom. The safer path towards this goal was the slow one. He adapted his governorship to them instead of forcing his own order upon them, hoping the two would meet in some equitable middle ground. The more Gondorian his subjects willingly became, the better off both ruled and ruler would be.
The ride would only take a few minutes, the empty scenery broken only by the pistachio groves that lined both sides of the road. Sand and silt particles lilted through the air on the morning's breeze. The burnt dust scent sent Tinsereg's mind wandering. The sand had been blowing harder three weeks ago...
---
Bits of quarts in the sand glittered in the midday sun as they passed, blown north by the trade winds of the dune sea to the south. Tinsereg couldn't see the enemy at first. Then, shadows appeared through the blustery sand cloud.
They were Mûmakil, huge oliphaunts, ten meters at the shoulders, girt for war. On their backs rested blood-red painted war towers carrying archers and spearmen. Their plan was as simple as it was direct. The oliphaunts were meant to crash into Gondor's lines with the archers and spearmen harassing Gondorian legionaries, keeping them from reorganizing. Khand had brought three hundred for their front line, which stretched just shy of two miles.
Behind them, thousands of foot and hundreds of horse warriors marched out of the east to take care of the survivors. It was the largest army fielded by Khand since the War of the Ring three hundred years ago. Their goal: annihilate Gondor's power over Harondor and liberate Umbar to free the Haradrim (for their own devices).
But first, they'd have to get past Prince Tinsereg, Lord Governor of Harondor and a former Shield of Gondor. Him, and his own regiment of Mûmakil.
The army marching behind Tinsereg numbered one hundred and fifty thousand. It was an eclectic mix of professional legionaries, mounted lancers, mercenaries, outlaw bands (disguised as mercenaries, here for plunder), tribal bands, levies of peasants fulfilling their feudal obligation, and a few knights. All were organized and trained to fight as one. Tinsereg felt most proud that many of the men behind him were Haradrim, the best testament to the success of his overlordship.
True to form, Khand's general had them plunging straight towards Tinsereg's line. The enemy oliphaunts trumpeted, a huge and guttural sound; their masters screaming wild war yells as the Mûmakil charged forward with all speed. Horns blasted furiously, the ground shook under the feet of the enemy, but the heart of Tinsereg did not tremble.
He stood at the front and center of his own Mûmakil line, garbed in the armor of a prince of Gondor: a black sircoat emblazoned with the White Tree over plate and mail. His high crested helm pressed against his cheeks as he scowled at the enemy. As many as they were, their numbers suggested that Khand was hoping for a general revolt of the Harad tribes to bolster their ranks. Tinsereg smiled to himself at denying them that.
Several of the tribes who were never going to accept Gondorian overlordship did side with Khand's army, but their numbers were far from giving Khand the advantage. This allowed Tinsereg the perfect opportunity to destroy several of the more militant tribes; and he wasn't about to waste it.
Tinsereg ordered his lines to advance. The oliphaunts started slowly, but gradually their tremendous weight propelled them forward with ever increasing speed. The two lines of charging Mûmakil thundered towards each other. At two hundred meters, Tinsereg made his move.
One long blast of the horns followed by two short ones sounded. The drivers steered the oliphaunts to the right, exposing their vulnerable flanks... and the hidden scorpions mounted on the war towers.
"FIRE!"
A wave of two meter steel arrows flew into the heads of Khand's oliphaunts as the order was relayed down the line. They toppled over in resounding thuds. The screams of falling men and the death cries of beasts filled the air. The few oliphaunts who did survive Tinsereg's surprise attack were allowed to charge through his thin line. There, more scorpions and ballistas were waiting for them. In the first few minutes of the battle Khand's Mûmakil forces were completely destroyed.
Tinsereg's cavalry flanked the corpses and descended upon Khand's shocked warriors as his infantry advanced to the front. Several of the fiercest commanders, mostly Haradrim volunteers, were able to marshal their men to charge Tinsereg's lines, but they were no match for Tinsereg's professional horsemen and quickly slaughtered. Then, suddenly, as if some magic lever slammed an invisible wall in front of Gondor's troops, they all halted.
Khand's once proud and feared Variags now stood witless in shocked stillness. Their greatest weapon, the Mûmakil, of whom their General had sworn would assure them of victory, had fallen dead all at once. Then, all those who charged Gondor's lines were swept beneath a wave of hooves and spears, shields and swords.
Tinsereg swung down from the oliphaunt to Alquacam, his steward and aide-de-camp, waiting with his horse. Khand's General would be given a chance to keep his life. It was the honorable thing to do.
His intelligence reports on this general said that the man was a minor chieftain who had united the vast majority of Khand's tribes using diplomacy sometimes, oftentimes the sword, and then the tribes just coalesced behind his banner like it was the natural thing to do. The most important thing to Tinsereg, though, was that between the lines he seemed to see a man who could be negotiated with.
Guarded by a strong praetorian of one hundred Citadel Guards, with two hundred more held just behind, Tinsereg rode out to where his cavalry were waiting with his closest staff. As he passed by the fallen, Tinsereg looked out at the frightened and confused faces of the enemy. He knew that from their perspective, Gondor's cavalry must seem an ominous force which had halted for reasons they did not understand.
He rode out, just shy of bowshot, and awaited his opposite. It took only a minute for Khand's General to ride out to meet him. He was a tall man, armored all in black, who rode a blood red stallion.
Strange though... he appeared to have with him two standard bearers. On the General's left was born the expected snake of Khand, black on a red field, but on his right was born a strange standard Tinsereg had never seen before. It was black on red, just like Khand's, but instead of a snake it was a black tree; a mockery of the White Tree of Gondor.
The General reared up just in front of Tinsereg.
"You're shorter than I thought you'd be," Khand's General began, his voice deep and a-rhythmic, like sandpaper.
"Does that disappoint you," Tinsereg asked.
"To hear tales of you and the Dúnedain, one'd think you stood thrice the size of a man," the General said. "But all I see before me is a petty shape, no greater than the vilest wretch in my host."
"I am but this humble frame."
"I figured that you'd still be attending the festivities at Minas Anor," he said. His stallion restlessly pawed at the ground and wouldn't hold still. It was eager and excited about something.
"I left early," Tinsereg responded, leading his garron calmly out to the General.
"So I see," the angry General said as he raised his visor to reveal a hard-lined sunburnt face.
"You are no man of Khand," Tinsereg observed. This must explain the strange standard.
"And you are no true man of Gondor," the General said.
Tinsereg felt some resentment at that remark, but he let his horse express it with a snort. "And just how is that?" Keep him talking.
"Gondor is a marshal land of men who do not take pity upon kindreds they deem lesser than their own."
"Perhaps the Gondor of your assumptions is not the Gondor of reality," Tinsereg proposed. Why do I always find myself playing the hypocrite?
Khand's General laughed. "I know Gondor quite well."
Tinsereg just smiled. He may be a hypocrite, but this man was showing himself to be nothing more than pompous lies. Disappointing. "I left your men alive so as they can return to their homes, and live out the remainder of their lives in peace."
The General laughed again. "Mercy," he spat out the word. "Mercy on the battlefield! Is this the Tinsereg who destroyed Bascar, Leonith, and Realango? The slayer of Salaliathänyo and Hyrumenetig? You've grown weak. Your demise is all but certain."
"Even they had their chance to surrender. With hindsight, now you know what will happen to you and your men. There is no need for further bloodshed. You've lost. Take your men and ride back to your homes." After all, the recalcitrant Haradrim tribes had already been mostly destroyed. Khand's main threat to Gondor was its oliphaunts, and those lay dead behind Tinsereg. It was oftentimes better to leave a whipped enemy alive than a destroyed one.
"I do not bow to your wishes."
"Go home," Tinsereg ordered. "And never return. My mercy is not without limit."
The General laughed for a third time.
"Do I amuse you," Tinsereg asked, his mood souring.
"The price of half-victory is death," the General quoted as a warning.
In this he purposely betrayed his origin to Tinsereg. It had to be purposeful!
He was of the Black Númenorean race. Thousands of years ago these two generals would have been countrymen. But this black armored snake was descended of those long ago tricked by Sauron into turning against their homeland.
Something bigger and more sinister was going on here than just one invasion of a protectorate province. The White Tower must be warned.
Without warning, Khand's General drew his sword and cried out in unholy fury as he swung it down upon Tinsereg.
---
It was with grim satisfaction that Tinsereg rode back into Maeglad, the head of Khand's General on his pike. Normally it would adorn the ramparts of Maeglad, but Tinsereg had decided to package it off to Minas Anor as proof of his suspicions, written down in an accompanying letter.
Minas Anor had still not replied, or even confirmed that his warning had been received. Very strange...
His seat was now more secure than ever before. Harad had been recently defeated at Umbar, and now Khand on his eastern border was completely demoralized, and several of the surviving obstinate tribes had accepted exile, but Tinsereg couldn't rest and dwell on that. Security needed to be nurtured if it is to last. Despite all his efforts, his was an erratic and volatile land. One misstep could be catastrophic. Politics was now in play, and the sword was no longer enough to rule.
At least the ride to the village wasn't eventful, Tinsereg mused.
They were halfway there when Tinsereg came out of his daydream. Someone must have alerted the village elder of Tinsereg's coming because he came riding out to greet them. He was a small, wire thin man but well dressed and very pleased to meet his liege lord.
For the better part of the past three years he'd styled himself a Gondorian earl, and was entitled to all rights and responsibilities thereof. There were a few ceremonial obligations that accompanied the lordly rank, but Tinsereg excused those and allowed the traditional Haradrim customs to stand. For all practical purposes his job didn't change. He only now had a place at Minas Anor if he ever ventured there. But something in Tinsereg said that that would never occur.
However, that didn't mean that his new title hadn't made him more than a few enemies.
His village had grown into much like a small town with all the superstitious traders coming to and fro. The buildings were mostly small one to two story clay brick structures. Tinsereg enjoyed the fact that, unlike the wooden villages in the north, these buildings didn't loom over the streets ominously.
There was one main thoroughfare that ran straight through the town which doubled as the bazaar. The rest of the town had grown organically around this main road. There was a caravan in-town and the central way was crowded with people buying and selling.
Tinsereg did the rounds, talking to buyers and the caravan sellers, asking about security on the trek over, what goods were to be had and not, how much they intended to sell, and the caravan's final destination.
This one was heading towards Hyarmentur, the late High King Eldarion's darling coastal city directly westward, and then onto Elagor's Arnor by sea. The city had been constructed in a cliff wall as a relief port for the Umbar navy as it patrolled the southern trade routes.
The only member of his staff to join Tinsereg on this excursion today was his steward, Alquacam. He was a man of average height, average weight, and average build. Everything about him was average except his extraordinary talents as an administrator. He was an efficient, pragmatic, and even tempered man with little imagination. He had been with Tinsereg since the better days when his seat was Bar-en-Umbar.
On the far side of the town the fields stretched out for the remaining ten furlongs of a depression that collected rainwater. Small crofts dotted the landscape, breaking up the long wheat rows. To his right a few rows of pistachio trees grew in the moister soil. From the looks of things, Tinsereg figured that this town was going to continue being very successful.
Then he saw something that diminished his hope.
Out from one of the crofts ran a little child, naked in the hot sun. His mother came running after him, trying to cover boy in a tattered cloth. Something appeared wrong with the boy, though. Then Tinsereg saw it.
As the boy turned to face his mother, the boy revealed that his right arm was missing from just above the elbow—a reminder that his Harondor was still a violent and volatile province. A dismal sense of failure washed over Tinsereg as the sight stopped him in his tracks.
Then, out from behind the boy came men on horses. Haradrim raiders, shreds of cloth waving off their armor, breaking up their silhouettes and making them seem more menacing. They had longbows in hand with plenty of arrows. The mother grabbed her child and ran back inside.
It took Tinsereg only half a second to run through the possibilities and come to a decision.
His Citadel Guards rallied into a line, Alquacam bringing up Tinsereg's horse. Tinsereg walked to it and climbed on. He had ten against the raider's eight. However, without bows his men didn't have a chance.
Tinsereg's only hope was that he, himself, would be a more enticing target than the town. The number of raiders suggested that they were only after him anyway. His Guards were fully armored, but it wouldn't do for Tinsereg to mingle with his subjects as such. Instead, he had on only a chain mail shirt cleverly hidden beneath his long tunic. Little help against arrows.
Tinsereg took his line around the town.
"To Maeglad! To Maeglad!" he shouted when the white plaster walls his capital came into view. His men broke out into a gallop, going just slow enough not to tire their horses too quickly. The Guards took up their defensive stations with Tinsereg at the center.
Tinsereg hoped that the raiders' horses were as worn out as he thought they were, but as arrows started to fall amongst them it became clear that the raiders' horses were as fresh as his own. He spurred his horse faster, his eyes hard set on the walls of Maeglad.
The two rear Guards were the first to fall. He moved two out of three Guards on each side to cover his rear. Sending them to face the raiders would be suicide.
Tinsereg heard the cries of horses and his men from behind. They were catching up.
The surviving Guards moved around close to Tinsereg in a small cluster, their shields held over their backs to protect against arrows. The upraised shields would increase the wind resistance and slow the horses, but they had to defend themselves.
At these speeds any sudden movement to either side could be disastrous. They didn't just need to win the race to the city, but somehow find a way to get beyond bowshot. Desperation filled their blood and the sweat rolled into their eyes. Spurring their horses faster faster, always faster, but the strain was quickly becoming too great and the horses began to slow.
Tinsereg heard the hooves tearing up the dusty clay soil, the city getting closer, excruciatingly slowly. TOO SLOW! His back ached from the twist needed to hold his reigns and keep the shield above his back at the same time.
The Guard on Tinsereg's left was the next to fall. An arrow struck his horse in the hindquarters and in his fall he just barely missed Tinsereg. Arrows started banging against his own shield now.
Whether by the grace of Ilúvatar or the simple chance of an arrow passing very near the horse's eye, Tinsereg's garron found its second wind. His shield was nearly torn off his arm as he flew ahead of his Guards. Wind flushed his face as Maeglad now approached at an acceptable pace.
A signal arrow whistled though the air above the city. The southern gate opened and twenty fresh mounted archers streamed out. They rushed passed Tinsereg in a whoosh of pressure. The raiders, having tired their horses out in the mad dash to the city, were doomed. Tinsereg slowed his garron to a trot and entered through the gate.
Guards from the walls looked down with half worried, half astonished faces. Commoners stopped to watch the commotion as the exhausted prince passed. Alquacam came up at his side, but both riders used the time to the palace's private stables to catch their breath.
"What was that," the steward finally asked between long breaths as stable boys took the horses.
"Desperation," Tinsereg said, still panting a little. "We couldn't be defeated on the battlefield. Assassination is the next best thing." How did they know where I would be? Luck, or...
"They must have snuck past our border guards at night somewhere," Alquacam thought out loud as he followed Tinsereg out.
"All the fords over the Harnen River are watched," Tinsereg said. "They must have crossed hiding in a caravan or swam across. The bows and horses they could have then bought or stolen."
"Their armor?"
"Maybe they used a small raft to ferry themselves across." Not likely, but possible. Most like they hid in a caravan. Those people have to balance all the factions on both sides of the river to stay afloat.
"I thought we controlled both sides of the river," Cam said rhetorically.
Tinsereg answered anyway. "We do."
"I told you the increased trade would result in security problems. With all the money we're spending keeping legions roaming from town to town and the lancers out on patrol, it's those damned caravans that are the real problem. Ilúvatar knows what people come and go in those."
"I told you before Cam, the risk is acceptable," Tinsereg defended himself. "And that it will diminish over time."
"How do you know that? We're fighting a war with ourselves! We need to take some legions or lancers out of the field and put that money towards caravan inspection."
"All caravans are inspected at the border crossings and at the trading posts. The inventories are then compared to records here at the Palace to see if anything's missing or added. You know that, Cam?"
Justice didn't always follow irregularities in caravan goods, though. Tinsereg concentrated his spies in caravans with a history poor record keeping. Actually, it had been his wife's idea. Cam, however, was never comfortable with it. To him, justice was best served swiftly and without plots or extenuating circumstances.
"Perhaps they were exiles you allowed into Khand," Alquacam tried another tract. "These people have no decency! How many more of these incidents..."
Tinsereg spun around to face his steward. "Cam! I will not re-fight old battles with you! How many more incidents would there be if most of the tribes were still openly fighting us?" he shouted. "How many more?"
Alquacam buckled.
He knew the casualty rates were now three hundred percent lower than before. He knew that more money flowed amongst Harondor than ever before, and the value inherent in the Haradrim people. Yet old patterns of thinking are hard to break. Alquacam never was one to easily embrace new ideas.
Still, he didn't deserve to be yelled at. Tinsereg put his hand on his friend's shoulder.
Their responsibilities were great and hard, and in the past year that was beginning to show in both men. Today had pushed them to the edge. 'Incidents', that was the perfect word, Tinsereg thought. The how and why weren't important, it had happened. Now, what were they going to do about it?
"My apologies," Tinsereg consoled. "We take large tribute from all of Harad and Khand; have more wards and hostages than we know what to do with. Some days it seems nothing will subdue the humors of these people. But... I have faith that all will turn out well."
Alquacam sighed deeply and relaxed, then smiled.
Bridges mended, Tinsereg turned away to head up the stairs to his palace. "I'm going to increase the watch along the Harnen and have more Rangers beyond. I want you to send a warning to Bar-en-Umbar telling them what happened today. This might only be a beginning."
In a way, Harad's attack made some kind of perverse sense to Tinsereg. Strike the leader, let the army wilt. This was Tinsereg's Harondor; there was no doubt over it. No one else in Gondor would do as he had done. Attacking him was a great idea. Tinsereg knew he should have prepared for it better. Deep down he knew that Harad would try this one day.
Someone deep down in the Haradwaith was thinking. Suddenly, the words Black Númenorean came into his mind.
"Prince Tinsereg!" The shout came from Beren, the general of the legions responsible for the central Maeglad district, Tinsereg's direct military underling. "It's your father, the King."
---