Disclaimer- I don't own or make money of LotR! Gosh! Stop asking! Oh, and compulsion is Robert Jordan's thing. From the Wheel of Time series. But I changed it slightly anyways.

Chapter IV: The Power of The Mouth

Ar-Taravorn sipped his wine and sighed pleasurably, a slight smile touching his lips. It really was quite amazing how quickly you could shift from refugee to king. His high-backed wooden chair was piled high with silk cushions and ornate rugs from Khand covered the ground of his tent. Two dark Haradrim women dressed in all white stood at either side of him, ready to do his bidding.

Taravorn shifted in his makeshift throne. The weather in Near Harad was warmer than he had expected, and muggy. His long, priestly, black robes were stifling. The air seemed still and stagnant. Grimacing, Ar-Taravorn waved vaguely in the direction of a man in the corner with his finger, and the musician started to play his harp without delay. Calming his seething mind, he let out his command. Wind.

A gust of wind abruptly threw back the flap of his tent, revealing two banners buffeting crazily in the now windy day. They bore his insignia of course, all black with the white star in the center. Startled, the two serving-maids shifted uneasily. The musician faltered, and the harp let out a grating plunk. The musician glanced up at the Dark Lord, sweat beading on his brow. The flap settled closed again as the wind died down, and Ar-Taravorn rose from his seat, sneering menacingly at the musician. He had extended his hand, mouth half-open as if he were going to speak, when he paused.

Suddenly and distinctly, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord was aware of Zarahir on a nearby hillock. Confusion and anger stabbed out of him towards Taravorn like knives, dulled partly by a rapidly growing resistance to Taravorn's gorlûm spell. The gorlûm was known as compulsion in many parts of Middle-Earth, its effect being to overpower the victim's will, forcing them to do whatever the sorcerer wished. In the Third Age, the wizard Saruman had the gorlûm down to an art, to the point where merely hearing his voice was a spell in itself. Taravorn calmly strengthened his hold on the veteran warlord's mind, quietly cursing in his annoyance at the strong will of the other man.

The slightly disturbing event over, Taravorn returned to the present where he found that the musician had already resumed playing. The serving maids stared at him, stark terror painting their faces. He abruptly realized that he was still frozen in the same position, one hand out and his face twisted in a snarl. He smoothed his face, trying to look as sane as possible. By the looks on the faces of the serving maids, he knew he failed.

Zarahir paused outside of Ar-Taravorn's tent. It was more like a pavilion, really. By far the biggest tent in the camp, it was pitch black decorated with gold trim and tassels. Tassels! It made Zarahir disgusted just looking at it. A tent like that emanated pride. Taravorn had not earned the right to that pride, yet. It will be his downfall nonetheless, Zarahir mused. I just need to prevent that until he has given me Middle-Earth. For now, the only path to victory is to keep him from making stupid mistakes.

Zarahir did not trust Ar-Taravorn in the least. Even though he was originally from Far Harad, where Black Númenóreans had been in control for the majority of the Third Age and even into this Age, this particular Númenórean was distinctly different. He was ignorant and proud, two traits that should never be mixed. However, Zarahir knew that all of his chances of defeating Gondor lay with this fool, and he was not going to throw this opportunity away.

Zarahir quietly sighed and lifted up the flap of the tent.

Ar-Taravorn was just starting to succeed at restoring his mask of not-quite serenity when Zarahir entered. The giant of a man ignored Taravorn's slightly twitching face and silently gave a slight bow, barely more than a nod of the head. "I have come. What is it?"

Taravorn wanted to snarl at this lack of respect, but he didn't. I have spent too long surrounded by orcs, he reflected. Maintaining my composure was never this hard before. Instead he smiled. "I have sent for you to inquire how much longer you expect to wait before your army is gathered."

"No more than a few days," Zarahir paused, watching the sorcerer. "Forgive me, but Harad is quite a large region."

Taravorn cleared his throat roughly and eyed Zarahir. It would seem that this "warlord" was too proud to show any deference. He said nothing.

In order to break the silence, Zarahir continued. "There is still some cavalry coming up from Far Harad, near the port of—"

"Ah, yes, more cavalry," Ar-Taravorn mumbled, uninterested. "How much cavalry could you possibly have? Who do you think you are, the bloody Rohirrim?"

"The Haradrim have always been known for—"

Taravorn looked up, seemingly surprised he had spoken aloud. "Did I ask you to speak?"

Zarahir ground his teeth.

"No, the true reason I have summoned you here," the Dark Lord leaned forward, the tattoos on his face moving as he narrowed his eyes, "is to tell you that once you are done here, we will be heading east."

The dark man started, his eyes stark against his nearly black skin as he glared at Ar-Taravorn. "Why east?"

"Because there, we will gather the Easterlings to our banner. We have a mighty army here, but the union of Gondor and Rohan is strong. I will not take any chances. The easterlings are a strong and hardy people, who share our hate for Gondor. Remember the Wainriders?" The Wainriders were a legendary confederation of Easterling tribes who almost destroyed Gondor in the Third Age. "And the Balchoth?" Another confederation similar to the Wainriders, the Balchoth had come even closer to destroying Gondor. They were only defeated when Eorl the Young suddenly appeared with his Éothéod out of Rohan.

Ignoring the trivia questions, Zarahir growled, "You said the Haradrim would be fully responsible for the fall of Rohan and Gondor. You said the glory would be ours and ours alone!"

"You mean the glory would be yours," Taravorn corrected. "And did I really say that?"

"Yes!"

"Then I lied. In three days time, we will be heading into the lands of the Easterlings. If you no longer wish to aid me, I will find another willing to lead the Haradrim. It should not present any difficulties." The sorcerer paused long enough to glance at the renowned warlord, who stood rigidly in the center of the tent. "Yes, I thought you would stay. Now that you are informed, you may go."

Teeth clenched, and sweat glistening on his dark face, Zarahir muttered a strangled, "Yes, my lord," before striding quickly out of the tent.

The Dark Lord almost laughed when Zarahir was gone. That task had not even required the use of the gorlûm. With both the Haradrim and the Easterlings behind him, his force would be nigh on impossible to defeat. Nothing could stop him now.

A/N: Sorry for the wicked long time I took updating this. I know, I'm a horrible person. I've been kinda busy and stuff, I'll try to update more often. Oh, and remember, REVIEW! lol.

Darth Suroth you will serve and obey