Forty years ago, the largest host of Corsair ships sailed out of Umbar in more than a thousand years, bound for Gondor. They never returned.

Life inside the bright city walls halted once more. A few of the battered ships limped back to the haven, but in the years that followed the harbour lacked the proud standards of the Corsairs and the security that the free-roaming crews provided to trader vessels; fishing boats started to moor in the spaces once reserved for great captains, who now slept under a strange shore.

Rebuilding was slow, but constant; a slow drag upwards. Umbar was not a target for Gondor's eyes, who turned every so often to their old seat of power, but a port of trade and commerce for Khand and Northern Harad. The cities nearby sprawled into the desert and lined the great man-made Azuladun Canal; beyond the mountains to the north that stretched up to Hildorien lay the forgotten pastures of ancient peoples, and then northwards still was the great wonder of the East, the red mountain range of Guthelabad and the home to the greatest of the dwarves in Haradi legend. Like veins in the beating heart of Middle-Earth, all of these kingdoms connected by water and camel, by boat, foot and wagon. And so had they done for centuries.

Gondor settled back to survey the damage as Wainriders' drowned bodies flushed into the sea or sunk to the bottom of the lakes. To the East, once again the plains Clans clashed and merged to absorb the damage of so many brothers and sisters' deaths, and powers rose and fell unbeknownst to their enemies in Rohan. On the borders of the Orocarni in the vast riverside cities, the Eastern captains met to divide land once again, paying weregild to their lost soldiers and wagon-riders where it was due, and life continued for the Easterlings – those that camped and hunted in the cold wastes north of the Range still migrated down into the middle of the pastures as the cold thawed, and thousands of crow-miles away on the shores of the mighty Sea of Rhun, the Banyuk Clain held their seat of governance over the capital of Dorwinion.

The last of the seats of Black Numenorean rule, Bellakar's capital city of Nilul, still held power in the South of the land, inland where the rivers turned the desert green. Boats laden with wood were sent to rebuild the Corsair ships, along with hundreds of wagonfuls of rice up the Coast Path. With a citadel twice as high as Umbar City itself, the gleaming sandstone of Nilul's walls held temples and seats of learning, wide halls where the scholars of the land drew up the laws of the nearby kingdoms according to old tradition, changed little since the last of the Numenorean bloodline had faded. In those times, the rum trade from nearby Tarkesh blossomed, the Umbar mariners' gold going to soften the blow of dead fellows; in Bozisha, the port town of the southern coast, the fruit harvests of mangoes and dates came and went as they always had done, and the surrounding grasslands continued to nourish the roving cattle: cows, horses, and some wilder kine unseen in other parts of the South. From the vast tent encampment nestled in the valley of Zimrenzil, to the gem-mines of the Haskani tribe in the Mardruak mountains, the inner workings of Harad continued, and Umbar staggered upwards, pulled together by the grief and pride of its citizens.

Midday, Umbar City

Some said Minas Tirith was based on Umbar City. Its curves rising up in a fortress of silver-grey stone, its network of streets arched and dark, and the huge courtyards of fountains bordered with shops built upon one another. The rounded and intricate Numenorean design in the oldest parts below on the shoreline mixed gradually with a fresher, angular Haradi style above; both designs complemented and mocked each other, remnants of the past and the struggling present, often covered by bright drying fabrics, stocked silverware outside smithies and the throng of people passing through each of the City's numerous zeken. These markets spilled out, merging sometimes at all levels down to the sea, and the great labyrinths of commotion, colours and smells mingled into one hypnotic and overpowering haze, especially in the dusk and late afternoon where the sun was at her most tolerable and the streets had been newly swept, stalls laid afresh.

But at noon in the summer, with the heat warping the distant dark smudge of An Karagmir on the eastern horizon, it was quiet; men sat in the shade underneath low canopies, raising glasses of cold mint tea to sweating faces in an effort to cool off, some playing dice games, some making conversation with the trickle of shoppers ambling by.

If you walked for an hour up to the high levels (close to the wall; the wagon drivers were notorious), the street became one road as it lead up the centre of the Old City, ascending to the bulbous domed tower of the Ivory Hall that glistened brass and gold in the high sun. 'The High Buildings'they were called by the locals, for in this district they rose in great formations one behind the other, and all in a complex series of narrow alleyways and walkways in the shape of the crescent moon: the Hall and seat of the Queen's power, the Temple (that burned now monthly instead of thrice daily), and the Library.

The Library was one of Umbar's prides, saved from destruction multiple times throughout the Ages by the temple guard and a secretive stronghold that lay deep within the palace itself. If you got past the guards or earned the favour of one of the scholars, the great iron doors would give way to towering stone spirals of manuscripts from the Orocarni dwarves to Anballukhorian tablets, Agoni Clan maps charting the laws of the ancient land before Numenorean rule, Har Shulam tapestries hanging in shaded corners, and the quiet alcoves high in the roofs dedicated to transcribing and translation. Though Umbar had been burned and ransacked over the years, the Library was a haven of peace.

The midday bell rang for council throughout the Hall, and one by one, the councillors of Umbar made their way to their seats. Queen Althidi sat in an onyx chair; aside from the Library, the seat of Kings (or Queens) was a remnant from an earlier time, and had seen both politician, tribal lord and Corsair Admiral take to it to govern the City. An Admiral Captain of the Corsair still had not been appointed, the elder Corsair taken to the bottom of the northern waters with his greatship before the Queen's birth. Since then, the Corsairs had resumed a form of self-government, rising ships taking precedence in the waters, but somehow with very little dissent amongst the newer vessels. The space reserved for him at the grand council table, however, still remained vacant in a sign of proprietary.

Althidi waited for the bustle to subside, leaning back and watching the dust spin up in the small patch of light that fell across the documents in her lap. Far away from the streets below, she could almost pretend a national crisis wasn't happening. More than once this past month she'd had the urge to barricade herself inside the cool walls of the Ivory Hall, away from the tents in the streets and the endless lines of people – more came every day. Now, after the fall last night of Mardruak to Gondorian ships, it was impossible to push out of mind for much longer.

An uncomfortable silence fell in the council chamber, and every expectant face turned towards her. With one glance at Chancellor Haidi to her left, Althidi rose, taking in a deep breath of crisp air and the official's strong perfume oil.

"Welcome, Council, and well met," she began, a twisted metal glass flute in between her fingers. The others followed suit, a few of the elders standing out of old habit.

"May the rule of Umbar be strong."

Althidi tipped the stringent liquid down her throat, the fire coursing into her stomach and making her eyes water. She set the glass down quickly; many others had only taken a sip of the customary drink after muttering the reply, but some, like her, had needed the kick.

Lowering herself down again, the Queen spread the papers in front of her. Maps, reports, city numbers that had been collected and grown, reports from the food traders. Where to begin? She thought dismally, her eyes tracing over pleas and the increasingly frantic tones of the head of the City's watch.

"More come every day, my Lady Althidi."

The Queen's eyes raised to the Captain of the Watch, who now pushed another paper towards her across the table. He was tired, as were they all, but him moreso. His tightly curled hair had more grey in it since they last met, and his face was sagging and creased, his dark eyes speaking of not enough sleep and far too much stress.

"Last night there were people coming in until day broke. Gondorian ships left the coastline around the same time, and we have heard about no sightings since," he finished, shrugging his shoulders in defeat. He looked to his right at the Coastal Captain, whose head jerked in a nod.

"Bozisha are still sending supplies for repairs northwards, but..." The captain trailed off, staring at the map that was spread wide on the table. Althidi leaned forwards, glancing at the red wax marking the points that had been hit. One main province was left clear, but circled in a wide, black line.

"You think Bozisha will be next?" she asked, drawing her hand up to her hair and threading her fingers in the mussed braids. There was no shock to her captain's statement; moreover, it was a miracle that the rich province, which had one of the best coastline defences, had not been the first to go.

"We can't pretend it won't happen," the captain offered. Around the table, there was a noise of accord – more like a collective groan. The Moksahb slumped his head in his hands to her right, his moan stifled by his palms.

"We can't keep feeding half of Harad," he said, eyes closed tightly. His domain was the markets of Umbar, which now, he had reported for the past few weeks, were at a state of emergency.

"The fishermen are too scared to venture out into open water, and the Corsairs are returning South, or not at all. No word has come out of Felaya since it fell four weeks ago, and if Bozisha goes-"

"Husband-" Chancellor Haidi hissed to the Queen's left, reaching behind her to place a stilling had on his arm. The man quietened, but his imploring look to Althidi was unmissable as he distractedly took a sip of his drink. Several around the table shifted in their seats, raising their eyes to the painted ceiling or around at the carven statues, each one depicting a loremaster or ruler of Umbar since the Second Age – the eldest, a faded carving of pioneering scholar Mizokh, who founded the Library and the first scholar to collect historical manuscripts; the most recent of Nazmir, the late Corsair captain and Admiral of Umbar.

"Haidi, you said you have news from the Outer States?" The Queen asked, raising an eyebrow at her Chancellor, and for a moment leaving the news of the new Gondorian threat. The woman looked at her sadly, then to the Coastal Captain. Both seemed to struggle to get words out, and it was Haidi who spoke first, in a measured tone that bore the hallmarks of being pondered over far too much.

"I have been meeting with the captain frequently since the raids started," she began softly, avoiding the Queen's gaze somewhat and twisting the heavy black ring of office on her finger, "and it has come to light that there has been an increased disturbance in the cities along the Canal, most specifically Korondaj." Haidi looked up to the captain, who had sunk back in his chair.

"We have seen ships bearing the symbol of the Eye again in the harbours, making trouble with the Corsair captains, or at least trying to," he added with a dry laugh.

The Moksahb sat up straight again, his indigo cloth veil rippling as he settled himself forwards.

"And in the City as well," he added, pushing his headcoverings back a little to dab the sweat on his brow. "Our reports say that new groups of the Zigûr's followers are unifying themselves with some of the unmarked gangs we have been having trouble with. From what I've heard, they think the rule in Umbar is too soft for their liking, that the people want to strike out-"

"But since then, nothing has come from Korondaj. We've sent riders there and they have not returned," Haidi interjected. Her fists clenched hard on the table so tightly that her knuckles whitened, and her sharp eyes bored into the Queen's from beneath her own loose hood. "All the cities under the control of the Zigûr priesthood close down to us; we know this from the past that nobody goes in or out."

Another rumble of agreement swept the room; but this time there were more who stayed silent.

The Queen sighed, biting her lip. She knew well the power the Zigûr had when morale was weak and the people were frightened, when frustration at injustice was at the highest. She had come across the dune sea to An Karagmir in the back of a nomadic caravan, escaping an attack on her Clan in Khand many years ago. As a young woman under the care of her merchant family, Althidi had started priestesshood in the Temple there, one built even greater than the temple in Umbar, and she had found solace in a network more powerful than herself. Soon, though, the City gates closed, with the only movements in or out being the faceless zigûren riders, the only ones free to pass as they pleased. Over the thousands of years that had passed since the heavy hand of the Black Numenoreans, the Common Law of Umbar City, like the landscape of Harad and Khand, had changed; it been amended and looked over by scholar, Corsair, and King alike, and gradually the regime set down by the followers of the Zigûr had become indistinguishable from ethics and some of the more self-serving rules set down by Althidi's forebearers.

"If Korondaj becomes a breeding ground of those who follow the Zigûr, we must be wary," said a man who had not spoken – the old Lawmaster of Umbar. Also the chief scholar at the Library, he held Althidi's gaze with steady grey eyes, slapping a fly away from his beard idly. "We all know the need to do something about Gondor. How we do it is what everyone will fight over."

When the attacks had first begun, it was unclear what Gondor had wanted. It was raids, lightning fast and destroying earth, resources, and homes alike. The news Chancellor Haidi had brought from her network of ears had spoken of cargo carried off to the north, while other reports said that Arnadil, the new Admiral of Gondor, had begun to blackmail those in power as far as Nilul, encouraging them to turn rule over to Gondorian lords.

"If Umbar is attacked," Haidi said, standing and refilling her water glass from the central jug, "then I can assume the groups in the City with the most power will retaliate in whatever way they want to; whether or not we can regulate it-" she inclined her head respectfully to the Coastal Captain, "is what troubles me."

"For us to strike against Arnadil and his forces ourselves, then," said the Captain of the Watch slowly, "is to stop the movement of any zigûren gangs in our city before they influence the Corsair ships out of our control."

But what if zigûren are right?

That was the unspoken thought around the table, which passed through the glances and silence. Even the captain looked uncertain, glancing up to his Queen and back to the chancellor to check if, really, he was speaking sense.

Althidi cleared her throat, looking to Chancellor Haidi, then at the Lawmaster. The documents each had brought meant little. In her mind, there was only one solution now, no matter how fraught the Coastal Captain looked at the mention of sending more ships out to confront Arnadil's forces.

"A state of emergency is therefore called upon Umbar," she said, her voice falling flat on her ears. "While we are not strong enough to risk open warfare now with Gondor burning the coastline, we must turn our attention to both the zigûren gangs and their influence outside of our power with the Corsair, not only the raids. Any force they might use behind our backs might prove fatal."

The light shifted, illuminating new faces, lined, scared, heavy. Somewhere below, another bell sounded, signalling the mid-afternoon meal was prepared. The bustle of the kitchens drifted up from the rooms below, the heady scent of slow cooked meat wafting in through the open arches in the walls. Althidi's nose twitched, and the Queen gathered her papers, making sure to catch Haidi's eye as a nod of her head indicated the meeting adjourned.

"I will call another council tomorrow to decide a course of action," she said over the clutter of people rising to their feet. She stood, too, gathering her dress around her against the chill breeze blustering through the room and slamming the blinds. The Moksahb had filled Althidi's cup with the toasting drink, and she stood back, raising it to eye-level.

"May Umbar endure until the ending of the World."

"So may it be."

"Althidi!"

The Queen turned to face Haidi, who was walking quickly towards her out of the Ivory Hall's throne room, clutching a meal of rice and pulled beef in sauce. Althidi's stomach complained at not having had the chance to eat yet, and she parted from the Lawmaster – who had insisted on talking to her after the meeting had finished – to face her Chancellor.

The woman smirked and pushed the bowl into Althidi's hands, walking with her back to the throne room and giving the Lawmaster a suspicious glance.

"What did that one want?" she whispered, linking her arm in the Queen's, who was balancing a roll of papers in one and the meal in the other.

"To talk to me more about the Zigûr," she said delicately, frowning at her Chancellor. "He says there could be a way of reconciling with them... I myself..."

Althidi paused to have a spoonful, before plunging it back in and hitching up her purple dress sleeves.

"I have some Khandisgi connections meeting with Arnadil right now, and I should receive his location by this eve," the Chancellor muttered, guiding Althidi to a stop beneath a hanging lamp outside the throne room. Servers and noblemen pushed by and the chatter of many voices in different tongues bubbled up from below. The Chancellor leant in further, casting her black hood over her thick, tightly braided hair.

"What are your orders?"

Night fell over Harad, and the moon rose, crescent like the complex of the High Buildings, peering over the tallest tower of the Library. Miles away from Umbar, Sango shivered, pulling his shawl closer about his skin: it was colder up here; the scent in the air was stranger than he imagined.

A week had passed since the raid on Bozisha-Dar, and he shifted uncomfortably as he felt the blood rushing back to his arse. He'd been sitting in this wagon for days, with books, gold, and gems laden about him and the others.

"If this gets raided," he warned Jarmil, as he was unceremoniously pushed into the back of the overcrowded cart, "then I'm not going to be treated kindly. You know the zigûren have returned-"

"I wonder if he's alright."

Sango turned to the woman who had spoken, a young girl of around seventeen, with her large eyes set deep in her face. Her skin glistened with the light of the towns they passed and the moon through the trees, which were becoming more sparse the more north they went. Her own shawl was pressed around her, threads of gold running through the plum-coloured fabric.

"He's Jarmil; he'll be fine," Sango replied defiantly, settling his head back and forcing sleep to come.

"My arse hurts."

Sango sighed, turning over to face the girl (he'd already forgotten her name again; he'd not eaten properly in days) and drew his long legs up to his chest.

"Everyone's arse hurts-"

"M'tiba," she said quietly.

"Everyone's arse hurts, M'tiba," Sango said, lurching forwards as the wagon gave a harsh jolt.

M'tiba fiddled with her silver bracelet, counting the charms on it once more and twisting it in her hands. Out of habit, Sango's fingers found his necklace, and the sigil of Olou slipped through his fingers.

"Should have worn Asa to drown those Gondor rats," he said harshly, throwing down the metal onto his chest.

Minutes passed, and the cart slowed down again, the horse picking its way through a rough patch of stone.

"I'm wearing Asa, but he doesn't do anything anymore," M'tiba said, leaning against Sango and shivering. The man creaked open an eye, reaching to cover his bald head from the cold.

"There are rumours on the shore that the Zigûr men are looking for a great sea captain to turn him into a Lord."

Sango slumped backwards, throwing the edge of his cloak tighter around him as he hunched over, his breath rising before him like one of those Orocarni ice-dragons he'd heard about in his childhood. For a moment he thought he'd remembered a story about how the Stiffbeard dwarves still had a few chained up. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep...

"There are no great captains anymore. At least not up in Umbar," he said, rifling through his pack to find some cured beef.

There had been no warning, just the appearance of ships on the horizon, and the blast of the horn sounding from the shore. But they had all expected it: Bozisha would be the last place to fall.

Before he realised how he'd got to the shore side, Sango was laden like a mule, with books, papers, money, food – anything Captain Jarmil could get his hands on, Sango took and threw into the back of the wagon, which was already retreating up the path. People were pushing to get onto it, and several fell back into the mud when their feet lost grip, or as they were shoved away in desperate panic.

"LISTEN TO ME!" Jarmil shouted, casting a glance over his shoulder towards the torched houses. Sango was hanging out now, Jarmil running behind – he wasn't getting on the wagon, he could get on the wagon-

"Please, I don't want to leave you – my captain-" Sango said, pulling at the man's hand, but it was no use, the cart was pulling away, people still throwing their possessions into it and climbing on top of others – women, children – to get on... Sango hadn't thought it would be like this, he thought there would be more time-

A letter was thrust into his hand, and as he snatched it, Jarmil pulled away, standing in the track left behind. Sango could see him draw his scimitar out, glancing behind him as the first of the raider crafts landed.

"OPEN THE LETTER AND READ IT!"

Sango took out the meat, throwing a slab to M'tiba before unfolding the letter. Many had got off as the cart had wound itself around coastal towns, avoiding much of the path that had been destroyed. It was, as the cart driver had put it, the 'scenic' route around to Umbar City.

Now only a handful of people were left, with Sango and M'tiba at the back.

Holding it up to the light of the moon, he could just make out the hastily scrawled lettering. It wasn't a long paragraph, nor was it a will or last testament. It said simply:

Balar Jazrul, Red Cap.

The Orocarni is next.

-Tell him Jarmil sent you-