Ruzkrut looked out upon the plains that lay before him. Above him, the bright Sun shone down upon the glimmering tower on which his feet stood. He blinked at the harsh light, the hand of the warrior slowly moving to block off the light he was accustomed to. His gaze drew down form the light above him, and in the distance he could see a speckle of light upon the far ocean. And before it stood a city; black towers rose high above the arid desert before him, and beyond it, dark sails lined the shore. As his focus came to closer things, he saw the city of the Merchants, Abrakan. And due south of him stood the tower of Vârnakh, and the ruined city of Pazghar.
Ruzkrut spat in distaste of what the city now resembled; Karna. He remembered the presence he had felt when he had travelled south from Umbar: dark spirits, constantly haunting the minds of travellers, were enough to make many lose their sanity. The place was cursed: and since the Shadow returned, and Azhkahar taken for the use of his servants, it had become even further so. He drew his mind back to the fateful, faithless day when the city of the Amrûn Road fell to the Eastern savages. He saw Suladan, reforming lines of cavalry as they drew thinner and thinner; Laaneth, ordering a final volley before the bearded ones of Khand set upon them. He had been a mere servant boy back then, but even he had been forced to bear arms. He remembered his father's cry as a blackened blade was brought into the chieftain's abdomen. He felt the tears welling in his eyes once more as his mind screamed, cursing the day the Lords of Umbar had waged war against the Easterlings. But that was the past; Ruzkrut wiped a tear from his tanned cheek, and turned to the North.
The Epehel Duath stood firm against the darkening skyline. Beyond, he could make out the inland sea of Nurnen. He heard in his mind constant screaming of torment, memories of what he himself had suffered there. He felt pity for those who had not escaped, and he rubbed the scar where the whip of his overseer had left a permanent welt. His life had been one of torment, sorrow and pain. But now his time had finally come. Or so he hoped. Stationed at the watchtower of Karush, he was certain that whether it was an attack from the east, or an order to meet the forces of Gondor in the west, he would spill blood before the war ended. He knew it.
A cry issued from the courtyard below. "Look! To the East! They come forth!" a varied, barely broken voice screamed up to the garrison within the tower. Ruzkrut looked across to the East, and sure enough, a host of Arsiyah Cavalry and Nûriag Levies was charging across the open plains.
"Draw your weapons! Prepare for the defence of the tower!" cried the Champion. He drew his scimitar, and ran down the darkened spiral staircase of the tower to the courtyard. He ran across the broken ground, and up the cracked steps to the walls. "How many?" he called with ragged breath to the scouts coming in through the gate.
"At least 60 on foot, bearing great axes, and maybe 20 on horse!" shouted Kedfhy, the leader of the scouting party. "And the Golden Bearded one is there also!"
Ruzkrut growled in his throat at the name. He looked into a golden shield at his face, a scar torn across it reminding him of his last meeting with the Khandish chieftain. But this time would be different. This time, he was prepared.
"Man the gatehouse with your best spearmen, and line the walls with archers! I will remain here with them, but bring me also 40 of our best swordsmen!" Ruzkrut barked orders up and down the walls, and as the swordsman ran to his side, scimitars drawn, a horn rang out from the desert. He looked eastward, and saw, now less than 500 yards away, the Easterlings. As they drew closer, he grabbed the horn from his servant boy, and blew it. He raised his sword, and called in a mighty voice, "Fire!"
Ruzkrut looked down upon the maddened tribesmen below. Half of them filled with arrows, many more bearing great scars, they leapt and growled at the gate to the outpost in tongues unknown to the Champion of Pazghar. He drew his sword, and ran down the broken steps to the gatehouse. Even through the door, strongly made and gifted to the outpost by the Lords of Umbar, even through the rare Oak of the north he heard them. The door bulged at the hammering of the mad axemen of Khand. A mighty voice broke through the clamouring of the Levies, calling in one of the few Khandish voices Ruzkrut knew; "Silence!" it called. "Let Kelistrac through!"
Ruzkrut turned, and ran back up to the walls. As he looked down, the clouds darkened, seemingly in acknowledgment of he who now stepped forward from behind the Bearded One who led the savages. Muscles bulged from tanned arms, and his bare chest, covered in black hairs, was marked in red tattoos, and most prominent of all of these symbols was a serpent; not the Black serpent upon red, the symbol of Harad; but the Red serpent upon the blackened hairs of the mighty tribesman, the mark of accursed Khand. He held in his hands an enormous axe, even bigger than that of normal tribal axes. The Khand lifted it up, and swiftly brought it into the sturdy oak door. Below Ruzkrut, he heard the door crack. He ran again, down the steps to the gatehouse, and there his men stood. He barged past all of them, and prepared to face the onslaught of the tribesmen of the east., A second strike came, and he saw the blade of the axe come through the door. It was wrenched out fast, and struck again with worrying precision. A third stroke, and the door was breached.
The tribesmen swarmed into the gatehouse, and the men of Harad roared in anger at the sight of their foes. Ruzkrut roared with them, and charged forth, scimitar in hand, to face the men of the Khagan.
A blade came down towards the Southron's shoulder. He blocked it, and leaping back, brought his scimitar into the Tribesman's chest. He drew it out, blood spurting from the dark chest, and swung it at the neck, bringing off the head. Ruzkrut looked forward, and brought his sword straight up into a horse's body, before it came charging into him. He collapsed under the weight of the oncoming beast, and wheezed as the rider came down onto him as well. He saw a dark, blood stained face, grinning, rejoicing in the blood of the battle. The mercenary raised his blade, but did not bring it down. His eyes stopped looking, his arms stopped moving, and Ruzkrut saw a gauntleted hand drag him off the horse. The horse was lifted, and Ruzkrut stood slowly to thank the man. Then he saw him. The bearded one of the east; his father's slayer.
"I thought I'd take the liberty of killing you personally, Rat boy," sneered he, as he pushed the champion to the ground, standing on his neck. "I couldn't let those savages have all the fun. They were only fighting for money. I am fighting for my Kingdom."
"What the hell are you on about, scumbag?"
"Well, you may remember that day when I killed your father. We destroyed the city too, remember? Well, as soon as that Suladan gathered his forces, he struck my kingdom, and the leader of our forces, my greatest ally. And he struck them hard, relieving my friend of his life, curse him. I was disgraced because of the loss I had caused my kingdom. I was usurped by my own son. The only way to get my kingdom back is to bring back the head of one of Suladan's champions. And if my spies are right, you are one of them." As the Khand spoke, Ruzkrut quietly slipped his scimitar from his side, and held it strong in his sword hand.
"So here it ends. Nothing left for you, and nothing left for your mockery of a realm. Goodbye, Ruzkrut, son of Kelaad. I bid you farewell." He raised a great sword above his head. And Ruzkrut struck. He brought his blade up into the bearded one's groin, and hacked. The Khand gasped, dropping his blade and releasing his grip on Ruzkrut's neck. Ruzkrut kicked him away, stood, and delivered his scimitar to the throat of his father's killer; his nemesis. It drooped to the floor, bounced and rolled, landing against the wall, the beard stained with blood.
"Right you are," hissed Ruzkrut, as he stood, and regained his breath. "Here it ends."
"Ruzkrut! He is here!" called one of the sentries atop the tower.
"Who is here?"
"The Serpent Lord!"
Ruzkrut slammed open the door of his small chamber, and ran down the winding staircase to the bottom of the tower. He ran across the courtyard, still stained with Khandish blood, to the gate. He reached up to the huge iron lock and quickly raised the bolt, creaking as the door swung inwards. He ran across the dry earth, his sandels flapping as he sped along towards the rising dust in the distance. He sprinted for about 100 yards, and began to slow. As he did, he raised a hand against the bright sun, and saw clearly what was coming before him. He saw a glimmer of gold, mounted atop a mighty dark horse, charging swiftly towards the outpost. As he looked on, they drew closer, until they were no more then a few hundred yards from Ruzkrut. Closer still they came as he looked on, and soon a mass of many riders were no more than 50 yards from him. They stopped, about 10 yards from the champion, and one rider dismounted; the rider with armour of shimmering gold, inscribed with foreign scripts, with a scattering of precious gems amongst the gold. Suladan, Serpent Lord of Far Harad, Guardian of the Amrun Road, Captain of the Garrison of Pazghar.
Ruzkrut bowed, as the Serpent Lord drew closer. He knelt before him, and after a cold silence, the Lord laughed.
"Why in Mardat's name are YOU kneeling to me? A champion need not kneel before his lord." Ruzkrut rose, and a smile spread across his face, as the two mighty men embraced. "It has been too long, Suladan," he laughed as he stepped back from the embrace.
"Too true, my friend, too true. And from what the soldiers at the garrison have told me, you could have done with me being here a few days ago."
"I for one am glad you weren't. I have killed him."
"It gladdens my heart to hear those words at last," smiled Suladan. "I am pleased that it was you who avenged your father, and no other. He was a great man. As shall you be."
"But other matters press. You and I have been summoned by Alnarnin and the Lords of the Ships of Umbar. My messengers can only guess what they wish of us, but I for one can guess that Drozhna will have a part in it."
"Are they still pressing you to lead the Great Army?"
"Sadly, yes. But these talks can wait. My men are hungry, as am I, and I trust the men of your outpost can provide…..?"
Ruzkrut smiled. "Whether they can or not, they shall."
A servant boy poured wine into a goblet for Ruzkrut, and another for Suladan. "Thank you, Heasc," Ruzkrut smiled to the boy. "You may leave to prepare your own meal." The boy bowed, and exited the chamber. "So," Ruzkrut sighed, leaning back in the silk chair. "To what do I truly owe this visit?"
"A deal of bloody good luck," grimaced the Serpent Lord. "If you hadn't survived that attack by the Khandish scum, they wouldn't have summoned us both. Looks like you've dug your own hole there, my friend. As I said, if Drozhna has anything to do with it, it'll have something to do with a certain rather large army."
"I know that much. So, when do we leave?"
"Tomorrow at dawn."
"Is that by your choice or theirs?"
"I'll give you a clue. It wasn't my idea."
Ruzkrut smiled, and sipped at his wine. "At least we'll be able to get some sleep, thanks to this. Finest wines, imported from Khand, bless the scum. If they do one thing right, they make damn good wine." Suladan laughed, sipping at his goblet. "I take it you bought it at Abrakan?"
"How did you guess?!" Ruzkrut laughed. "Thanks to the Lithanorim tribe. They're a great help against all these attacks from the east, and as a thank-you gift, they gave me a great pot of this stuff."
"They'll have to manage without me and you for a while. I've left Pazghar to one of the Abrakan elders, and I suggest you leave this outpost to them too. If the eastern borders are going to last out until we return, they'll need some strong leaders. I would employ the aid of the Hâshryiin tribe, but I doubt they would work with the Lithanorim. You know what the two tribes have been like recently. "
Ruzkrut cast his mind back to the last raid by the Hâshryiin. A small company of raiders had smashed straight into a Merchant caravan guard, provoking a counter attack by the Lithanorim. They had dispatched a large force of Merchant Guard, sending them forth towards Karna. They had met in battle with many of the Hâshryiin tribe, each falling upon each other's spears. The battle had ended as a stalemate, and the two tribes still held each other off with short lightning raids, neither side gaining a true advantage. Ruzkrut knew that they would have to unite if they were to repel the threat of Khand. His mind awoke at Suladan's voice.
"My friend, you are already drifting off. I will give orders to my men to prepare a chamber for me, and then I will turn in for the night. I suggest you get some sleep also. We will be up before dawn in the morning." Suladan got to his feet, and bid Ruzkrut good night. Ruzkrut lifted his head in acknowledgement, then fell back in his chair in great slumber.
"Wake up, lazy! You're harder to shift than a grumpy Mumak in the mornings!" shouted Suladan into the ear of his champion. "We have a long day ahead of us." He stepped back, as Ruzkrut rose, groggy-throated and cross-eyed. "What time is it?"
"2 hours before dawn, but the sky is still beginning to turn pink already. Get up, and get your travelling robes on. Then I'll order my servants to bring food, and a map showing the road we shall take. Come on! Up!"
Ruzkrut rose, rubbed his eyes and yawned long and hard. His robes were slung in a corner,