A Haradrim's tale
His name was Rhoenvir. A Man of Harad. He loved his wife, and their three children, and his elderly parents. Many evenings had been spent gathered around the fire pit that was in front of their home, their youngest sitting on his knee, regaling his children with stories he had heard of the wider world, of places and people he had never truly seen. He was a hunter by trade, spending his time roaming the dry grasslands of his home or doing chores at home. Like his wife he worked tirelessly to ensure his family was fed and clothed and in good health.
And all was well…
There were things that at times made him wonder if all was truly alright in his homeland. Travelers passing through their village occasionally made worried mentions that fell creatures had been seen creeping in the King's palace, rumors of secret conversations and negotiations in the moonlight.
But none of that worried him for all that long. Hearsay, most likely. Besides, what business was it of his who his king treated with? His court was far, in a city about a week's distance by foot from here. He had seen the city now and then admittedly, when he had gone there to trade. But even on those instances he had never entered the city itself, the toll to pass through the gates far too heavy for him. Instead he had conducted his business amongst the many stalls clustered around the gate, bartering for what was needed before heading back home. The interior of the city was a mystery to him, to say nothing of the palace. And truth to be told, if someone had asked him he would have struggled to remember his King's name, or anything about him. Unless that King deigned to come to his village in person, he could not fathom a reason for that to ever change.
All that changed when a rider came to their village. An emissary from the King. He spoke to the people of the village of how a grand alliance had come together under a unifier king, Suladȃn the Serpent Lord. One by one the other kings of Harad had bent the knee to him, acknowledging his overlordship. Suladȃn in turn had apparently thrown in his lot with a lord that was mightier still: Sauron the Great, Lord of Mordor. Now, under the orders of those two lords, a call to war had been issued.
Many creatures had been slain by his arrows over the years on his hunts. Some for their meat, others for their pelts, skin and tusks, which could fetch a good price among the merchants. Some were quite dangerous beasts, able to slay a man if he was careless. And in those instances victory had rightly been his when he had slain them instead. But never before had men felt the sting of his arrows.
There had been a war in the time of his grandfather, when his village had fought against the men of the river folk. But that was an old affair, long since settled. Enough men had died and a peace had been negotiated. Maps had been redrawn, tributes paid and the matter left in the past where it belonged. Trade, shared feasts and marriages had worked to mend any wounds and grudges that might remain. They still had his grandfather's armor, carefully maintained over the years. And the secrets of brewing poisons that might slay a man with a mere scrape on the skin had been passed from family member to family member. It had all been done in precaution against the day that war would come again. But until today it had not.
But the emissary spoke of no single season's squabble between villages. Not even of a clash between regional kings for the right to rule. A vast host the likes of which Harad had not seen in ages was to be assembled. Every able bodied man was called to answer, with all the arms and beasts of war they could muster. That army was to wage war in foreign lands, namely the Kingdom of Gondor.
Rhoenvir had heard the name of this kingdom once or twice, though it had always been a distant tale to him. It was the cities and villages north of here that knew that nation more closely, and those to the west on the coast. When he and others had inquired why the men of Gondor needed to be fought, the Emissary filled their ears with tales.
He painted a picture of a cruel nation, ruled by haughty nobles and tyrant kings who oppressed the peoples they deemed lesser than themselves. The emissary told them of how Gondor was the successor of the foul nation of Numenor, which in ages past had set themselves as overlords of these lands. A tradition that Gondor had seen fit to continue, conquering and expanding into the coastlands. The emissary spoke of past battles, where the Kings of Harad had met with defeat, forced to send heavy tribute and hostages, Gondor growing opulent and bloated from wealth stolen from these lands. Now the time had come for revenge, to set matters right again. And if they did not strike first, if that fell kingdom was not utterly vanquished, then sooner or later the armies Gondor would march south once more, death and devastation riding with them.
The more Rhoenvir listened, the more these strangers from Gondor began to sound like worst people to walk the earth.
Sauron had offered his aid to the cause, and promised a sure victory if only the Men of Harad would join their strength with his, as many Kingdoms of Men had already done. Together they would fight, that Gondor would fall and the people of Harad be safe and free from oppression.
"Onwards! Onwards men of Harad! Onwards to Gondor! Our blades will gleam red, and the foe shall know our wrath!" The emissary incited, the crowd erupting into cheers, Rhoenvir cheering with the rest.
Before the emissary had even left Rhoenvir had known he would answer this call. If he failed to do so he would be known as a coward for the rest of his days. A traitor who abandoned his own in their time of need. That he could not abide. And the thought of his family suffering in the clutches of the enemy was too much to bear. So he gathered his arms, donned his grandfather's armor, said his farewells and journeyed once more to the city, where the mustering was taking place.
For his skill with a bow he was granted a place in the howdah of a Mumakil, one of the two the King owned. Rhoenvir's role would be to pepper the enemy with arrows as the beast smashed through the opposing lines. A respectable posting he had been told, from which a man of skill might win great renown. And at the very least he would have it easier on the march than his comrades who had to walk on the ground.
Two months passed as the army assembled, men drawn from every corner. Then they set off on a long march to join the greater army being called together. Days stretched into weeks, the arid lands he had known gradually shifting to greener landscapes. Along the way he began to learn the names of those he travelled with, those who would be his comrades in battle. Lauthnir, their commander, who was most knowledgeable of their enemy, their mission and the lands they passed through. Kroethok, who rode the Mumakil they travelled on, eccentric and borderline crazy, which he was told was a common characteristic of those of Kroethok's trade. Perhaps he was just drunk on the power of controlling a beast like they had. Pelny, a jokester and gambler, always ready with a quip or jest, and likely to swindle you out of all your notable wealth if you weren't careful. After a while only the most foolhardy would play with him. Selmyn, Pelny's big brother, calm and stoic, who never gambled with his brother no matter how the other tried to persuade him. Then there was Olemb, who preferred to be left alone, but who spoke of Sauron often and fondly, seeming to think him some kind of god, doing his best to convert the rest of their troupe to his faith. Many more names, many more faces Rhoenvir learned to know on this long march from home.
They crossed a river they were told marked the border of their enemy's territories. Ithilien the territory was called, so Lauthnir told them. A few days of more travel and no foes challenged their passage.
On another day of travel Rhoenvir was in high spirits, captivated by his surroundings. This land was beautiful and lush, most different from his home. Too bad it belonged to such a wicked people as the Gondorians. But oh well, once victory was theirs and their enemy scattered to the four winds these lands would be free. Perhaps the Haradrim would come to live here in their stead? Rhoenvir could almost imagine it. Green woodlands and clear streams. And likely a multitude of creatures to hunt for food. A man could make a good life in this place.
Next time he would see his children he would have new stories to tell them, he thought to himself. True stories, of things he had seen with his own eyes, rather than just something he had heard about or made up. The thought rather pleased him. He thought of his wife, realizing he missed her.
Absently he was also trying to guess at the name of the bird he heard calling now and then. It didn't sound like anything you could find at home…
There was no warning when the arrows began to fly. Just shouts of alarm as their troops on the ground began falling by the dozens. What followed was panic and pandemonium. Their commanders tried to restore order and organize a defense, but most only received an arrow as thanks for their efforts. No one was able to see who was attacking them, but the arrows continued to fly, more and more falling to them. Some of their soldiers tried to fire back in vain at their invisible enemy. Others charged into the woods, never to be heard from again. Most who could fled onwards, trying to get away from their tormentors.
The Mumakil received their share of the fire. The pain of their wounds and the din of battle made them fly into a rage as they had been trained to do. Several of their comrades in the howdah fell, either from losing their balance as their mount trashed about, or slain by arrows that happened to reach them. The Mumakil charged onwards, impossible for anyone to halt, friend or foe. The best their riders were able to do was to try to steer the beasts away from the bulk of their forces on the ground. Even so many who were too slow were trampled beneath their feet. Meanwhile Rhoenvir and the others were hanging on for dear life, hoping to not fall out.
One last arrow, swift and true, struck him, and he lost his footing. With one last scream he fell to the ground. His body was broken by the fall, and so ended the story of Rhoenvir of Harad. His final fate was contemplated by two Hobbits and a Man of Gondor. His story was one they would never know, though they wondered about it.