Winds of the East
Tobi is a good boy
I do not own LOTR, I own Kazûl
Seven: Lightning Storm
The monotony.
Everyday began the same, being shaken awake, chains rattling.
A brief sip of warm, liquid, thrust down his throat. He had lost weight, on the journey, just fed enough to keep going.
The dry wind.
His lips constantly chapped.
Kazûl's skin had already peeled off, in long strips, revealing tender, pink skin that stung under the constant sun.
The sand, trickling in between his loose sandals. His boots, deemed too good, had been given to someone else in the caravan. The desert seemed to stretch on forever, with brief respites at oasises dotted ahead.
Today, today was different.
Kazûl could feel it, somehow.
They had walked, walked for what seemed months. He had lost track of time, under the heat of the sun.
The desert had shifted, into a rolling landscape with trees and craggy hills. Ahead, the caravan slowed to a stop.
"Wh – wha -what's happening?" Kazûl asked through his dry lips.
The woman, his companion, shook her head. "Don't know." Kazûl still did not know her name. She was simply called the woman, or other names that Kazûl could not bear to repeat.
The guard hissed at them, "Ssh!" His hand was at his scimitar.
Kazûl's senses bristled to attention, hearing the sudden bird call around them, the rustle of trees.
This would be his chance.
He tried to draw up his Magik.
Nothing.
His body was too exhausted.
Beside him, the woman eyed him, "Don't," she whispered.
"This may be our only chance," he said.
The woman laughed. "How are to go back home? Cross the desert? What life will I have in strange lands, even free? I will still be chattel regardless."
Kazûl looked at her. He had not thought, back, back when he attempted his rescue, what would happen to the woman.
"Surely better than a slave?"
"At least I will have honor, in battle," she said, her face grim. It was clear that her thoughts laid elsewhere, on the things that the men could do, worse than calling her names.
Kazûl gazed at the caravan, the shifting of the guards. They bristled with anxiety.
"I cannot stay here. I cannot go to Mordor."
It was her turn to look at him, her dark eyes watching him, "This is a battle, then, to die in."
"No…I cannot…"
She sternly cut him off, "My battle, Dwayrin."
He twisted, to get a better look. The caravan was situated between two high, craggy rocks, the path winding northeast. Trees twitched above them.
The scent, the scent of…salt.
Kazûl liked his lips. He was certain that it was salt.
The Blue God was here, somehow.
The chains on his wrists rattled.
An arrow flew, the guard flopped dead, blood staining the dirt.
Shouts echoed across the caravan, swords unsheathed.
Scrambling as far as his chains would allow, Kazûl pulled the dead guard towards him, fingers searching for the rings of keys. Blood slipped around his hands until he found them. He turned the key around the woman's chains first.
"May the Blue God watch you and Death be merciful."
The woman took the key from him, turning the key in the lock.
The chains fell loose from Kazûl's hands. He rubbed them, gaining feeling back into them.
She picked up the man's sword, a wild grin upon her face, letting loose a cry. Without a backwards glance, she ran forward, slashing at the guards with her sword, leaving behind a trail of blood.
His staff, he knew, was kept in the lead caravan.
Quickly, dodging through the path of bodies and flight of arrows.
His breath caught, tearing through the flap of the lead caravan.
It was empty, everyone fighting the hidden attackers.
Alatar's staff rolled towards him.
He gripped it, feeling the power underneath. Kazûl called upon his rage, channelling his Magik. Outside, on the edge of the desert, lighting cut through the air like a knife.
He smiled.