THE FACE OF THE ENEMY

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG-13 for rather violent battle scenes

Dedication: for Nerwen Calaelen, who has a keen interest in Mannish cultures which are considered the "enemy". Happy belated birthday, Nerwen!

Author's notes (rather long ones):

This independent story is a side product to "Hope, Born in Darkness", even though there are no direct connections between the two tales. This one can also be considered as an addition to "Pawns and Symbols", a story co-written with Isabeau of Greenlea and posted within the frame of the Dúnadan Project (you can reach the DP through my Favourite Author's list on ff.net, as I can't post either of those stories here).

Andrahar is an OC of Isabeau's, but she has graciously allowed me to use him. We have fleshed out part of the character's background together. If you want to know more about Andrahar, you should read Isabeau's stories and "Pawns and Symbols". All other unknown characters belong to me.

The individual realms and peoples of Harad were based on - and partially named after - the once really existing nomadic or semi-nomadic Asian realms of the early Middle Ages.

For visuals: Iskhandar could be imagined as Borias from Xena, played by the one and only Márton Csókás. Hey, he's a fellow Hungarian (all right, half-Hungarian), I have to support him. ;)

Beta read by Isabeau, thanks!

PART  ONE

22 Esfand in the year 3019 of the Third Age

East-Osgiliath, nighttime hours

The siege of Minas Tirith, the White City of Gondor and the key to the last stronghold of the Men of Westernesse, was complete. Word had come that the Shadow Lord would break down the city's gates at the following sunset. The armies of the individual Haradric realms were preparing for the upcoming battle, calling to their gods for support. Every camp was brimming with life; singing, dancing and the mouth-watering scent of the sacrificial meals.

The camp of Bakshir was one of the largest, counting ten thousand armed and well-trained warriors alone, not to mention the families and servants of the chieftains - for the Hiung-nu never went to war without their usual comforts. At least not the heads of the Great Houses. For all the settled life they usually led back home, the fire of their nomadic ancestors still burned hot in their blood, and when rich bounty was to be expected, they were also willing to take great risks for it.

And this time the rewards looked promising indeed. The realm that would prove the most useful in conquering the White City could also expect to become the most influential one in Harad. The warlord of that realm was to become the Overlord of all Haradric realms, triumphant over the others, after thousands of years spent in embittered, fruitless struggle among each other.

So had the Shadow Lord promised, speaking for the Dark Power that dwelt in Mordor. And Iskhandar, the kha-kan of Bakshir's army, believed it.

He had little other choice but to believe it. Bakshir had suffered severe setbacks in its dealings with the brutal, upstart semi-nomadic realm of Zipangu, and the padisakh, the aging hereditary leader of its chief city, golden Bashidra, was too weak to protect the interests of the powerful Merchant Guild. A new ruler would be needed soon, for Bakshir was in grave peril of losing its leading position among the Haradric realms. The weaker but still powerful realms of Jarkend, Khuman, Khambaluk and Li-ao were waiting greedily for the two strongest ones to wear out each other out, so that one of them could then jump in and grab the overlordship.

Only the support of Mordor could secure the leading position of Bakshir. And only an overwhelmingly victorious battle, fought and won by Bakshir's army and their kha-kan could secure Mordor's support. Once the White City had fallen, Iskhandar could return to Bashidra, his carriages heaped with bounty and followed by long files of chained-together slaves. Those riches and the respect won in battle would open for him the way to the padisakh's seat. Weak old Tahamtan would be removed and Bakshir would flourish under Iskhandar's strong rule as it never had before.

Iskhandar rose from his bedding with the barely controlled strength of an untamed predator and looked around his huge, domed tent. He had left his first and ranking wife, Diláraj, behind in Bashidra, for someone needed to keep an eye on the house and on business issues. Theirs was the second of all the Great Houses of Bakshir, save that of the padisakh, and they had many enemies. His two younger wives - actually very valuable slaves from Jarkend and Zipangu - had followed him to the war and were currently sleeping, well-loved and worn out as was proper, under the watchful eye of Hégay, the chief eunuch of Iskhandar's parda.

The kha-kan turned to his chief guard, a short but incredibly powerful man named Thamuzaddad, who was also ranked first among his khans. The two were sworn shieldmates, brought up like brothers since their births, as Thamuzaddad's mother had been the wet nurse of Iskhandar, as was Hiung-nu custom.

"Is everything ready for the ceremony?" asked the kha-kan in a low, harsh voice.

Thamuzaddad nodded. "All is ready now, kardash mine. The servants of the fire are only waiting for the middle of the night. The Seer has prepared herself for the vision quest... and for you."

"Good," said Iskhandar slowly. "I shall need my strength to be renewed tonight. For tomorrow will decide all for us. My time to rise to power has finally come. The fruits of my long struggles are ripe now."

Iskhandar was not a young man anymore - he had seen sixty-eight summers already, which was considered the end of strength among the Hiung-nu. But his father had the blood of Westernesse in his veins, descending from the old rulers of Umbar, and though Iskhandar himself took more after his purely Hiung-nu mother, he knew he could expect a much longer life than most of his people. Unless he got killed in battle, he would be able to rule Bakshir - and the whole of Harad - for many years yet.

He did not truly worry about the battle though, as he was a proven warrior, and his short but powerful body a mighty tool of death and destruction. A shrewd and skilled merchant when in his father's noblehouse, he was still capable of killing the large, saber-toothed tiger that dwelt on Bakshir's savannahs with his bare hands. In fact, he had done it several times. In a battle rage, he once had torn out the tusk of a mumak and killed the large beast with it during a local war against Khambaluk. Mere Men could do nothing to stop him in battle.

But Men were not the only ones who took part in this war, on either side. While the Dark Power of Mordor sent out the daiva - ugly, fanged and hairy demons that called themselves Orcs and were always ready to fall upon their own allies when overcome by their ravenous hunger for Man-flesh - the Men of Westernesse were allied to the pairiki. Or perí, as they were called in other Haradric languages. These were cold and distant, cruelly beautiful creatures who wielded magic as easily as they wielded a sword or a spear.

Fortunately, there were not many of them left, after the last great war fought a long time ago. But it was told in Umbar's taverns that some of them still dwelt in Perímahall, or Elf-Haven as the Gondorrim called it. There were terrifying tales about their padisakh, he of the golden hair and the cruel eyes of ice, as quick in battle as lightning and twice as deadly. The wildest corsairs of Umbar shook with fear when the small, fast ships of that pairiki - built in the shape of some white sea-bird - sailed along their borders. Zahhák they called him, after the great, golden dragon of the old tales, the evil beast that scorched the savannahs with its fire and held the waters captive until the raining season.

There was no way to know if the pairiki and his servants were to come to the White City's aid. But even if they had not, the Swan Lord from the southwestern shores already had. And it was a known thing that the blood of the pairiki flowed in his veins and in the veins of his whole House.

Thus Iskhandar felt it necessary to ward himself against this abomination. To have his body and his heart cleansed in the Hallowed Fire, into the service of which his forefathers had long entered - the service of Mordor, where the last mighty khan of the great Anhramain was now gathering all his dark powers to crush the northern and western lands under his iron boot. Iskhandar had seen the enormous strength of that power and was grateful for the choice of his ancestors. He knew not if there truly was aught after death, but he knew where strength and power ruled before it. And he preferred to use that strength to his own benefit, rather than getting crushed by it.

He left his tent and walked over to the wheeled temple of the Hallowed Fire - an enormous cart that was usually drawn by twenty-four oxen but now stood alone and seemingly abandoned in the middle of the camp. The Hiung-nu knew better than approach it without being called - the Fire could just as easily consume them as it did protect them, and its guardians were unpredictable in their protectiveness.

But Iskhandar was expected tonight, and his heart, as always, filled with awe as he gazed upon the cart. There might be other temples in the city of Bashidra, bigger ones, built of stone, but none of those was as holy as this one. The wandering sanctum that followed the people wherever they went. To battle and death, if the Fire God chose to turn His face away. To glory and conquest, if He looked at His children benignly.

Iskhandar hoped that the upcoming battle would please Him. After all, they were about to extinguish all His enemies in one last, glorious battle.

The cart truly looked like a mobile fortress, now resting upon its twelve solid wheels, safely chocked with huge rocks so that it could not roll away by accident. A terraced hall it was, built of bent metal and masterfully carved, scented wood and of the tough hides of more than six thousand white oxen. Six levels it had, each one a little smaller than the one beneath, adorned with gold-embroidered, heavy brocade curtains and bronze reliefs. Upon the sixth level a small chamber made of pure gold stood, glittering in overworldly beauty and breathing hot steam through its narrow shafts.

That was the most sacred place of the whole temple. That was where the Eternal Fire was kept.

Advishura, the eldest mage of the temple, was already waiting on the uppermost terrace, ready to perform his sacred duty in the Chamber of Fire. He wore the purple red ceremonial cloak, lined with golden quasts and small, golden bells, over the flawless white robe worn by all members of his holy caste and the golden circlet, set with fire-red gems, of his sacred office upon his brow. His black hair and beard was carefully ordered in the plaits and curls that was the custom of all mages since the foundation of their caste.

Next to him Haôma stood, the Seer, clad in white, her face hidden from all intruding looks by a thin veil that covered her head and reached to the floor. She was the keeper and feeder of the Fire, and no man was allowed to touch her or even to look at her naked face without the punishment of instant death. She was the voice of the Fire God who spoke through her in visions. She was instrumental for the well-being of her people - as long as her visions were proved true.

Iskhandar grabbed the railing for aid, for the winding bronze staircase that led around the temple and up to the sanctum was steep and narrow, and it swung slightly under his weight. He was breathless when he finally reached the golden chamber on the top, and as always in the rare times when he was allowed entrance, it surprised him just how big the sanctum in truth was. It provided enough room for the altar - a smooth, black slab of stone that had fallen from the skies thousands of years ago and had been guarded by the mages ever since - and as many as six persons who could stand comfortably around that stone. Upon the altar there was a cauldron of some strange black metal, and in that cauldron the Fire burned.

It was said that the Hallowed Fire had never perished, ever since the first mages had caught it when it floated into their temple in the shape of a dark, burning sphere. It had been divided among the many separate sanctums, but it was still the same. It was said that as long as the Fire still burned, the Hiung-nu would not perish, either.

Iskhandar bowed to the altar, barely daring to raise his eyes to something so horrible, ancient and holy. Nor would he dare to speak in the presence of the Fire. No-one but the virgin Seers were allowed to do so and live. But there was no need to do so. Both the mages and the Seer knew why he had come. They would provide what he needed - if the Fire God felt like speaking, that is.

Khaihusran and Raunghar, two lesser mages in the service of Ardvishura, entered the chamber, carrying bronze amphorae almost as big as themselves. The amphorae had long, narrow spouts that made it easier for them to pour the oil that fed the Fire into the cauldron. Tonight, they would feed the Fire until the heat lifted the Seer to the next level of existence, the world of visions, so that she could deliver the kha-kan the message of the Fire God.

Mayhap Iskhandar himself would be allowed to share the Sight. It was a rare thing, but it happened sometimes. Maybe he would be allowed to see the face of his enemy, so that he could find him on the battlefield.

Ardvishura gave his aides a small nod, then he sat down and began to curble the nyenyere, a small ceremonial instrument used only during such rituals. It gave a strange, almost growling sound that reminded very much of the crackling of fire and had an enchanting quality in it, lulling the participants into that particular mindset that opened their minds for the visions.

Khaihusran and Raunghar began pouring oil into the cauldron. The Fire breathed deeply, illuminating the chamber, colouring the golden walls with an angry read hue. The flame grew steadily and so did the heat.

Iskhandar felt sweat trickling down his chest and his back, under his clothes. It was difficult to breathe already, and the two mages kept pouring the oil ceaselessly. Ardvishura curbled his instrument frantically, the summing swell like a swarm of angry hornets. The young Seer stood still like a statue, the white gown plastered to the gentle curves of her body, the veil nearly suffocating her, outlining her face that had not been shown to anyone since her initiation at the age of six. She was beautiful, glowing from the inside with the power and heat of the Fire God, her whole body all but translucent.

The golden walls had become red-hot from the intensity of the Fire. The lungs of Iskhandar burned, and he could feel how all the burdens, all the sins and failures of his life had been cauterised from his very soul. For a fleeting moment he wondered if his flesh had been consumed by the cleansing flames as well.

His physical eyes were sightless, blinded by the sizzling heat and his own sweat. But his inner eyes had been opened, and as if from a great height - like a hilltop or the upper level of a tower - he could see the battlefield. The dark armies of the daiva and their foul allies, overflowing each rock and each green hill like rotten, black waters. The great, dread shape of the Shadow Lord, riding his winged beast. The troops of the various realms of Harad, each under its own kha-kan, ready to strike. All rolling together against the White City like a huge, black wave of death and destruction.

And at that drunken moment he heard the soft voice of Haôma above the dreadful noise of the ongoing battle.

"See the face of your enemy!"

He turned his inner eye to the White City, from where a blinding light seemed to sweep out, and saw the pehlevi of the Swan Lord riding out in closed lines of the Gate, their blank hauberks and breastplates glittering like mirrors. Tall and grim they were, dark-haired and grey-eyed, cold and cruel like the pairiki with whom they were said to mate.

They were abomination. They were the enemy. They had to perish. Every single one of them.

"If you are able to conquer your own blood, you shall be able to conquer the White city and to achieve overlordship over the whole of Harad," the strangely disembodied voice of Haôma floated around him.

Ere he had passed out from the incredible heat, he had just enough time to see the pehlevan next to the Swan Lord turn to him in grim determination to kill.

He could see that warrior's face for a mere moment.

To his absolute horror, the face he saw was his own.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Translations:

(Most of the actual words were taken from the mythology of Ancient Iran, but I modified them a little. Other expressions, like kha-kan, are taken from Ancient Turkish. Nyenyere is a really existing music instrument, used in Hungarian folk music, but the actual sound is different than described in this story.

Hiung-nu - the name of a nomadic people (originally Attila's Huns)

padisakh - a nomadic king or emperor, ruler of an independent realm

kha-kan or kapgan - nomadic warlord, the leader of a whole army

khan - the equivalent of a captain, serving under said warlord

kardash - brother (both by blood or by oath)

daiva - evil demon (here: Orc)

parda - harem

perí or pairiki - malevolent fairy-like creatures (here: Elves)

perímahall - actually Elf-fortress (here: Edhellond)

pehlevan (pl. pehlevi) - the equivalent of a knight

mage - originally the priests of the Persians, here priest of the fire-cult

Haôma - originally a special drink that worked like a hallucinogen; I named the Seer after it because of this specific meaning.

Note to the date:

I assumed that the Haradrim use a solar calendar, similar to the one that has been in use in the pre-islamic Persia. According to this, a solar year had 365 days. Every year consisted of 12 months with 30 days each, and five additional days. These additional days were being inserted between the 8th and the 9th month.

I adapted this system for the Haradric calendar, fixing New Year (called Naw Ruz in medieval Persia) to the vernal equinox. Thus the year of the Hiung-nu would begin with 1 Farvardin, which would be 21 March in the Gregorian calendar. Counting back 8 days to reach 13 March, on which day - according to "The Return of the King" the events of this chapter happen, we will get 22 Esfand still assuming that each Haradric month has 30 days and ignoring the additional days for the sake of easier calculation. I know this is a little crude, but more maths are way beyond my limited abilities.

Copyright: Soledad Cartwright, 2003-11-09

THE FACE OF THE ENEMY

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, dedication, etc. see Part 1.

Author's notes:

What will follow is basically the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, as seen through the eyes of the enemy. Originally it had been planned as one chapter, but I changed my mind during writing, for it was to become extremely long. Thus a few more short chapters and an even shorter epilogue can be expected.

Andrahar, too, is "played" by Márton Csókás, for obvious reasons. Imagine him as he appeared in the movie "Triple X".

The scene where Imrahil bandages Faramir's wound follows the lead Isabeau of Greenlea laid in her epic story "Captain, My Captain", with her generous consent. My thanks for that and for the beta reading.

PART 2

23 Esfand in the year 3019 of the Third Age

The Pelennor Fields, in the early hours of the day

The next morn dawned in complete darkness again, as the Dark Power of Mordor kept the world under His mighty shadow. Only the campfires and torches provided some light - red and dim it was, but enough for the vast armies to arrange themselves for the final attack. Today, the White City would fall and Harad would conquer its oldest enemy.

Iskhandar emerged from the sanctum with renewed strength but a troubled mind, wrapped in the shadow of dark foreboding. That last vision had made him uneasy and only the battle rage would break the cold and clammy grip of fear on his heart.

He rode before the long rows of his dshigits as always, his long, dark hair in a tight knot on the top of his head to keep it out of his eyes and wearing his strongest leather jerkin, the one covered with  scales of steel. He would not take any risks today. The fate of Bakshir, the fate of the whole Harad was at stake. He would not fail.

Thamuzaddad rode on his right, towering over him like a protective wall, ready and prepared to protect his kha-kan with his weapons, strength, and - if necessary - with his life. Nothing less would be acceptable. He had been born and raised to serve Iskhandar. He knew no other life, nor did he want one. And though his hair had turned grey already, not having the blood of Westernesse in his veins, age had not slowed his sword-arm yet, nor had it dimmed his wit or quenched the fire in his great heart.

On the other side of the kha-kan Erusha rode, the Bowman, the best archer of the Hiung-nu and one of the few mortal Men who ever entered the tower of Minas Morgul and been allowed to leave again - though not to tell the tale. Erusha had been selected by the Shadow Lord himself, brought to the tower while other allies were only allowed to camp inside the walls, and taught things no other Man had been taught for hundreds of years. The Shadow Lord had taken only his ability to speak in exchange.

Iskhandar considered that a bargain. Erusha had been a skilled archer - useful, but a mere slave, one of many useful slaves. Now he was a unique weapon in his kha-kan's hands. One that Iskhandar intended to use. With his ability to speak, Erusha had lost his ability to fear, too. He would face the pairiki themselves if ordered.

Four tumens of doughty Hiung-nu warriors followed, all clad in leather jerkins, carrying round shields - made of tough ox hide and strengthened by bronze ornaments - and strong, short bows and curved scimitars at their sides. Not a single one had remained to protect their camp. If they were victorious, there would be no need to do so. Should they by some evil fate lose the upcoming battle, no-one would be allowed to survive. In truth, they had no other choice than to win.

Iskhandar saw the yellow banners of Zipangu on his right, with the black wolf upon it. Aside from the defenders of the White City, there was his worst enemy.

"Keep an eye on the Mahol," he said to Thamuzaddad, and his blood-brother nodded. They both knew what a treacherous worm Dzhigitaj was. It was all too appropriate that he had chosen the black wolf as his symbol.

On their left, the daiva swarmed over every rock and every green hill like black ants. They had already won the passage of the Great River, forcing the defenders back towards the open, green fields that were called Pelennor by their inhabitants, the Fenced Lands. A fair and fertile land enclosed by the stone walls of the Rammas Echor.

Those walls would be breached today. The green fields would be drenched in blood and ash. And then the way to the White City would be free.

After the last defenders of the ruined western city fled beyond the Great River, the daiva brought forth floats and barges in great numbers that had been built amongst the ruins of the eastern city for days and followed them, swarming across the water like beetles. There was a long and brutal fight on the other river bank, for the Men of the White City knew what was at stake and did not give in easily. But they were ten times outnumbered, and finally their resistance broke under the sheer numbers and insane blood thirst of the daiva. The foul creatures were driven mad by their fear of the Shadow Lord and would not cease pursuing their prey, lest they be slain horribly by he who commanded them.

For just as the bells of day rang out in the White City - though to what end Iskhandar could only wonder, as there was no day to dawn any time soon - the twice four brethren of the Shadow Lord rose into the dark skies, riding their winged beasts. Fire sprang up across the dim spaces where the walls of the Pelennor stood. The daiva pulled their great war machines to the wall and started blasting breaches in it.

And still, the armies of Harad were told to wait. As they were mounted warriors mostly, they needed room to charge. So they waited, listening to the rumbling of the machines and the sounds of breaking and falling stone impatiently.

In the middle of the morning the walls and the Causeway Forts that had defended them were taken. The Men of the White City retreated, fleeing still in a close, remarkably ordered mass back to their main fortress.

To their last refuge. To their death trap.

Once they had closed the Gate behind themselves, there would be no escape for them.

And still the Shadow Lord had not yet allowed the armies of Harad to enter the fight. The dshigits murmured angrily, but Iskhandar understood the cunning plan that was about to unfold. There would be a great battle on the fields - they were needed for that. The Rammas had been breached far and wide, and soon they would enter in at many points.

"Get ready to cross the River," he said to Thamuzaddad. "As soon as the daiva have cleared the way before us, the order will come. And then I want us to be the first ones on that battlefield."

Thamuzaddad nodded and sent messengers to the lesser khans to keep the wooden bridges, erected across the Great River three days earlier, under surveillance. They needed to reach them before other Haradric armies if they wanted to be first in battle.

Sitting upon his great mount motionlessly, Iskhandar listened to the battle cries and the dull rumbles of the war machines with only half an ear. Like a predator, he was intent upon his prey, ready to strike.

Time passed. The battle noises were quieting. Finally the signal from above came, in the form of a long, bone-shattering screech of the wraiths. The well-trained Hiung-nu dshigits lunged forward at once, reaching the bridges in closed rows, ere any other army could make its move. By the time other ka-khans had finished swimming their horses across the River, Iskhandar's men were already entering the green fields of Pelennor through the southern breech in the wall. That was the widest entrance, and it provided the shortest way to the White City.

"Set the houses along the way on fire," said Iskhandar. "We need no-one behind our backs. Let no-one escape."

Thamuzaddad delivered the orders and soon the houses and barns scattered over the southwestern part of the Pelennor were burning, providing a dim, reddish light for the dark armies that crept slowly towards the besieged city. Yet it was still too dark, even for the keen eyes of the Hiung-nu, and thus Iskhandar allowed his dshigits to light some torches, so that they would not slay each other by accident. Like a river of blood, the long line of little fires poured along the broad road that led from the broken gate of the Rammas towards the White City.

The lines of fire grew in length and speed steadily as the armies of other Haradric realms poured through the wall breaches and towards their final goal. Less then a mile from the White City Iskhandar spotted a more ordered mass of men, marching not running, still holding together - the rest of the retreat from the Causeway Forts, apparently led by a strong khan who was able to resist the terror of the wraiths.

That could not be allowed. They needed to panic and scatter - or die, ere they could reach the City Gate and encourage the defenders inside by their deed.

"Thamuzaddad," the kha-kan said, "they must not reach the City. Let our dshigits move faster."

Thamuzaddad signalled the herald. One short, hoarse horn signal sounded. The dshigits leapt into attack, their well-fed, well-rested horses sweeping along the road after the weary defenders like a black wind.

The main retreat was now barely two furlongs from the City Gate, but the distance between them and the Hiung-nu diminished rapidly. Iskhandar could see clearly the small company of horsemen - all that was left of the enemy's rearguard - galloping behind. Some sign must have been given, for all of a sudden they turned at bay, facing their followers.

Iskhandar now could see the face of the young khan - it was pale and haggard, though it showed grim determination. The raven hair and the icy grey eyes reminded the kha-kan of those worshippers of the pairiki who dwelt with the Swan Lord in the southern haven. This one was not easily frightened, though his eyes revealed that he had come under the Shadow before. Mayhap he needed not much more to break after all.

Thamuzaddad's herald blew the horn again. With fierce cries, the Hiung-nu lunged. From the right side, the mounted dshigits of Zipangu swept up like a tidal wave under the yellow banner of Dzhigitaj, surging up, overtaking the retreat. From the other side, waves upon waves of the daiva surged, bearing flames. The lines of fire became flowing torrents. The wraiths upon their winged mounts stooped down from the dim sky with bone-shattering shrieks, ready to kill.

The horror of their coming finally broke the order of the retreat. Men fell to the ground, maddened by fear, all but begging to be slain, to be put out of their misery. The familiar heat of battle rage rose in Iskhandar's breast as he urged on his mount, eager to catch up with the khan of the enemy's horsemen - the only one who still could withstand the dread sent by the wraiths. If he managed to slay that one, this part of the battle would be won. The retreat would never make it back to the city.

But ere he could reach the enemy, the clear sound of a silver trumpet rang from the White City. From within the shadow of the Gate, under the looming walls, a host of mounted Men sprang forward, formed, quickened to a gallop, and charged, shouting in clear, ringing voices. And from the walls an answering shout went up, full of renewed hope.

"Amroth for Gondor!" they cried in their hateful tongue. "Amroth to Faramir!"

And Iskhandar's heart grew cold, for he recognized the pehlevi from the southern haven, just as he had seen them in his vision, in their glittering hauberks and blank breastplates and shining helms, with the Swan Lord himself before their rows and his blue banner at their head.

Like thunder they broke forth on either flank of the retreat, and before them all a lone rider galloped upon a great, silver horse, clad in shining white like the mages of the Hallowed Fire. A long spear of pure light shot from his upraised hand, slicing into the dim skies, and the vassals of the Shadow Lord tumbled in the foul air, screeched like wounded animals and swept away. Iskhandar could feel the abrupt change of their luck and his heart filled with dread.

"Pull our forces back!" he shouted hoarsely, and Thamuzaddad, the ever-vigilant, obeyed without delay. Now was not the time to be foolishly brave. There would be another attack, of that Iskhandar was sure, moreso for the Shadow Lord had not yet shown himself. Thus he needed to spare his dshigits for the true battle.

But there was one thing he needed to take care of first. Looking around, he waved Erusha closer.

"Kill the young khan of the retreat," he said. "We might be driven back for the moment, but I want him dead. At any cost."

The Bowman nodded simply. Being a former slave from Far-Harad, his dark face and almost white eyes had never shown much feeling. And since he had spent his time in Minas Morgul he had no feelings left to show, none at all.

He raised his black bow, notching one of the special arrows provided by the Shadow Lord himself, drenched with the foul magic of Minas Morgul. Only a handful of these arrows had ever been made, but Erusha was the best Southron archer and an assassin taught by the sorcerer-wraith. He never missed his target.

The daiva and the dshigits of Zipangu, taken at unawares - for they had been too intent on their prey to notice the peril in time - broke, scattering like sparks in a gale, and the half-bred pehlevi of the Swan Lord pursued them mercilessly. The onslaught was crueller than Iskhandar would have expected from any Western warrior. The field soon was strewn with the stricken corpses of the daiva and the Mahol dshigits. A reek arose of torches cast away, sputtering out in swirling smoke. And still they rode on, determined to bring back the young khan of the retreat safely.

Iskhandar was not going to allow that.

"Now!" he said in a low, cold voice, and Erusha released the arrow.

The young man, as he held at bay one of the huge lesser khans of Dzhigitaj's personal guard, was hit in the shoulder and fell to the earth. Dozens of Mahol warriors lunged forward to hew him to pieces as he lay, but the Swan Lord had seen him fall and urged his pehlevi to charge.

The grey eyes of the abomination were ice-cold and terrible in his wrath, and Iskhandar hurriedly murmured the oldest and strongest warding words he knew for his own protection.  He was close enough now to see the likeness between the Swan Lord and the fallen one, and he understood that in this moment he had made himself a dreadful enemy. One that would not tire until it had hunted him and all his progeny down until the seventh generation.

Fortunately for him, the great forces that were flowing in behind his men finally reached the battlefield. The trumpet high up in the White City rang again, sounding the retreat. The pehlevi of Westernesse halted. Behind their protecting shield-wall, the out-companies of the enemy re-formed and were marching back steadily towards the City Gate.

To Iskhandar's awe, the Swan Lord dismounted in the middle of the raging battle and knelt beside the lifeless body of his young kin. His pehlevi pressed up, surrounding him protectively like a living wall of blue and silver, yet, strangely, leaving a wide breech open in the front, as if not wanting to disturb his free view.

After a quick examination of the shoulder wound, the abomination glanced up and his gaze swept the battlefield briefly before it fell upon Iskhandar. Those bright and cruel eyes, glittering coldly even in the dim darkness, held the kha-kan's, and Iskhandar knew that he was marked for death, unless the mages found an even stronger spell to remove the curse. Hurriedly, he made the warding sign with his free hand again, and could feel more than see Thamuzaddad and the other guards move up to his side.

One of the pehlevi dismounted as well, handing some bandages to the abomination. Another soldier, wearing the green garb of the hunters from the deserted lands, held the hands of the fallen one down, and the Swan Lord broke the shaft of Erusha's arrow off. The white eyes of the Bowman widened in surprise, for those special arrows had been warded with the foul wizardry of Minas Morgul and were considered unbreakable by mere Men. But mayhap the blood of the pairiki that flowed in the veins of the abomination protected him against the Morgul-spell.

What ever the reason might have been, the arrow did not harm him. Calmly, as if he were not in the midst of a murderous battle, he pulled the mail shirt from the wounded shoulder, grasped the reminder of Erusha's arrow and tore it out with a single move that was as brutal as it was efficient. The fallen one groaned and his eyes went dark.

Removing the arrow was of little importance, of course. The evil spell of Minas Morgul worked in the wound already. They might get him back to the City, but the young khan would die nonetheless, and his passing would be prolonged and painful.

The Swan Lord finished bandaging the wound and swung back into his saddle. The dismounted pehlevan and the green-clad hunter lifted the fallen one with great care and handed him up to the abomination.

The silver trumpet from the City sounded the retreat again, waking Iskhandar from his stunned state. He realized all of a sudden that his prey was about to escape him.

He was not going to let that happen!

Yet ere he could give the order to attack, the Swan Lord, already turning to retreat himself, spoke one single word, his clear, hard voice slicing through the battle noise like a hot knife.

"Andrahar!"

One of the pehlevi moved on to his side. A bright-burnished vambrance glinted for a moment, as the man raised his arm with an almost invisible speed. In the next moment Erusha, the Bowman fell from his horse, the handle of a throwing knife protruding from his white eye.

Iskhandar was enraged by the quick and unavoidable death of his Bowman. Unlike common archers or dshigits or even khans, Erusha could not be easily replaced. The mute Bowman had been the kha-kan's deadliest weapon, used for very important tasks only - and now he was lost, forever.

And yet it was not the loss of Erusha alone that filled Iskhandar's heart with rage and hatred such as he had not known for a very long time.

'Twas the face of that pehlevan who had thrown that knife with a skill and strength known among the Hiung-nu warriors only.

A  face that was so very like his own and yet so very different.  A face that was not pale and fine-boned like the others around the abomination, but swarthy and strong-featured. With eyes that were dark like Iskhandar's, and like Iskhandar's, full of cold, unforgiving hatred.

A  name that he had not heard for more than fifty summers.

A  name that he had hoped never to hear again.

"Andrahar!" the abomination called again, and the bastard son of that Umbar whore, the spawn of foul Westernesse whom Iskhandar's older brothers had removed from their father's noble house, turned his horse to follow his new master back to the White City.

Blinded by rage, Iskhandar gave a hissing sound, and Thamuzaddad's big horse sprang forth at his side. They would not let the abomination or the foul bastard escape. This time they would slay them for good.

Thamuzaddad pushed forward to protect his kha-kan as was his duty. He directed his attack towards the Swan Lord, for according to custom, the slaying of the bastard was Iskhandar's right alone. Being the only remaining son of his great House, Iskhandar was entitled, and indeed compelled, to remove from it the shame of the bastard's continued existence. Thamuzaddad would kill the abomination for him, and thus the retreat would never reach the City.

But the abomination did not turn back to face Thamuzaddad, fleeing instead with great speed towards the Gate, carrying the one shot by Erusha's enchanted arrow in his arms before him on his horse. Apparently, bringing the fallen one to safety was more important to him than an honourable fight to the death. But he was an abomination. What could be expected of him?

The swarthy pehlevan avoided Iskhandar's attack with the skill and speed of a striking cobra, throwing himself between the Swan Lord and Thamuzaddad instead. His glittering armour made his quick moves seem like lightning. His broadsword was made in the fashion of Westernesse, but he fought like a Hiung-nu warrior: recklessly and not following any rules.

Thamuzaddad had the advantage of mass and brute strength, but the pehlevan more than made up for it with his unbelievable speed. Iskhandar saw with dread that his blood brother had no chance against the bastard. If he did not slay Andrahar at once, Thamuzaddad would be worn out and slaughtered in no time.

The kha-kan called out to two other large guards to cut off Andrahar's escape, for the bastard had fallen back to secure his master's retreat and was now all but surrounded by the Hiung-nu. Only one of the pehlevi was still with him, trying to keep his back free.

"Give me one more moment, Esteven," he said, calm indeed for a man who was surrounded and outnumbered.  His manner was that of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed, and Thamuzaddad shivered, for even his voice was eerily alike Iskhandar's.

The pehlevan named Esteven nodded. A cruel smile appeared on Andrahar's face as he looked over to Iskhandar (who was desperately trying to reach him in time) while easily avoiding Thamuzaddad's attacks.

"You took everything from me, you and the others, son of Isfhandijar," he said. "Now I can finally begin to pay my debt to you."

He urged his mount forward. The well-trained warhorse leapt like a sure-footed deer. Then the armour-clad right arm of Andrahar shot forth again. Steel glinted, and faithful Thamuzaddad, sworn shieldmate and blood brother of the kha-kan, fell heavily forward onto the neck of his mount, his life blood gushing out from his chest where the armour had been punctured by the bastard's blade.

There could be no doubt that the bastard had recognized Thamuzaddad. He knew who the faithful guard was and what he meant to Iskhandar. He had chosen to kill him for that very reason. With a last, cold look at Iskhandar's stricken face, he and Esteven turned their horses and raced after the retreat, the Hiung-nu too stunned from having seen their khan falling to even pursue.

He would pay. He would pay horribly, Iskhandar swore. By the Dark Fire of Udun, he would pay!

Now he understood why Haôma had told him in the vision that he would need to conquer his own blood ere he could conquer the White City. And he would. He would do what he and his brothers should have done fifty summers ago. He would remove the shame of their House, permanently.

But for now the bastard was beyond his reach, gone back to the White City with the abomination he had chosen to serve. That had been a proper choice indeed. And proper it was too that they now were sitting together beyond the closed Gate of the White City, like rats in a trap.

As soon as the Gate was broken, Iskhandar would deal with them. For the moment, though, he needed to regroup. He needed to witness Thamuzaddad's last moments, to send his friend's soul on the way of the warrior. The camp of the Hiung-nu needed to be moved onto the Pelennor, as close to the beleaguered city as possible, so that they would be able to launch the attack first, as soon as the Shadow Lord gave the order. It would come on this very day.

He turned to Basthvaray who would take Thamuzaddad's place as soon as he had sent his friend on his way and gave him some urgent instructions. Then he laid Thamuzaddad onto the blood-drenched grass. It saddened him that he would not be able to bury his blood brother as custom demanded, that he should have to free him here amidst the battle gore, but there was no time to do otherwise. The big man barely held on his life as it was, gathering all of his remaining strength in order to die properly.

"Kardash," he said with the horrible, gurgling noise of a blood-filled lung in his voice, "hurry up..."

Iskhandar kissed the clammy brow of the one who had been more than a brother to him for almost seventy summers, and throwing his head back, he called out to the gods and the spirits of their forefathers to witness. Then he drew the long, thin, ceremonial knife that never left the belt of a true Hiung-nu warrior, and rammed it with an unwavering hand into Thamuzaddad's heart, setting his friend's soul free to soar up to the seventh heaven where their ancestors dwelt in the halls of the Fire God.

TBC

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Translations:

dshigit - nomadic warrior

mahol - the nomadic people of Zipangu

a tumen - a troop, containing a thousand mounted warriors

Copyright: Soledad Cartwright, 2003-11-09

THE FACE OF THE ENEMY

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, dedication, etc. see Part 1.

Author's notes:

Now that the relation between Andrahar and Iskhandar has been revealed and Faramir has fallen according to canon, we can go on with the battle. Some descriptions, as before, are quoted from "The Return of the King", with subtle alterations.

PART 3

23 Esfand in the year 3019 of the Third Age

The Pelennor Fields, the middle of the day - late night

The armies of the Shadow Lord had been moving during the whole morning. The plain of Pelennor was dark with the marching companies of the daiva; the foul creatures sprouted from the mirk like some rotting fungus-growth. The tumens of the Haradrim moved closer to the beleaguered city as well, building up their great camps of tents and jurts in all the grim colours of death and blood and darkness.

Closest of all, of course, stood the wain-jurts of the Hiung-nu, as they could be moved the easiest. Even the seven-levelled sanctum of the Hallowed Fire had been moved in and stood now barely out of bowshot from the closed Gate. The remains of Thamuzaddad's pyre were still smouldering in the middle of the camp.

Iskhandar sat in his tent, grieving. He had given his blood-brother to the fire. It was a sacrilege, besmirching the pureness of living flame with dead flesh as the barbaric Mahol did, yet it was still better than leaving him among the corpses of the daiva or the enemy. The Fire God would be merciful - or so the kha-kan hoped.

Had the battle been closer to their homes, he would have taken Thamuzaddad to one of the dahmi, the stone towers outside Bashidra, on the verge of the deadliest desert. He would have placed his brother in the high chamber and leave his empty shell to the carrion birds, as it had been done with corpses for hundreds of years among the Hiung-nu, instead of sullying with them the soil, the water or the fire. But they were in the land of the enemy now, and all he could do was to keep Thamuzaddad's body from desecration - and hope that the Fire God would approve.

At home he would cut his face with the very knife that had freed Thamuzaddad's soul from the burden of his broken body, thus mixing their blood in the ritual mourning. But he had no time to mourn now, nor could he risk wounding himself. He would need all his strength to fulfil the grim task of destruction that lay before him. Now that he no longer had the support of Thamuzaddad and the skills of the mute assassin, he needed it more than ever.

He had to conquer the White City and free the earth of the abomination. And he had to tear that bastard who had sullied the blood of his House and murdered his blood brother to shreds.

After that, he would mourn.

He rose, tossing his frightened young wives aside (how could their feeble attempts to comfort help him?) and stepped before his tent to see how far the daiva had come with their labours. What he saw filled his heart with grim satisfaction.

The foul beasts had been busier than ants, it seemed, digging lines of deep trenches in a huge ring, just out of bowshot from the walls. And as the trenches were made, each was filled with fire. Iskhandar could feel a certain creeping evil and foulness emanating from that fire, as if it were a different element than the one he and his people worshipped. Nonetheless, the dance of dark flames gave him some comfort.

He watched the great wains approaching as each length of trench was completed. He saw more companies of the daiva and the other Southron realms setting up swiftly - each behind the cover of a trench - great engines for the casting of missiles. He recognized the limber, bronze-skinned warriors of Khambaluk, the people best with war engines in the whole of Harad, climbing onto the wains and directing the process. He calculated the distance and understood that there were no similar machines upon the City wall large enough to reach so far or to stay the work.

"Do you believe the machines will be able to breach the walls?" asked Basthvaray, standing dutifully at his side. "The main wall of the City is very high and marvellously thick. 'Tis said it was built ere the power and craft of the Men of Westernesse waned in the exile. Look at its outward face - 'tis hard and dark and smooth. They say the old fortresses of Westernesse are unconquerable by steel or fire, unbreakable except by some convulsion that would rend the very earth upon which they stand."

Iskhandar shot his new khan a disgusted look. Basthvaraj had served him for more than thirty summers by now, yet he still could not shed his foolish habits and thinking. One could see that he had been raised in Umbar, where people, despite their hatred towards the Men of Westernesse,  were still full of envious admiration for them.

"You are a fool, Basthvaray," the kha-kan replied, irritated. "Do you think 'tis some drugh or daiva-chieftain who leads this assault? Nay, 'tis the Shadow Lord himself, and I deem the means he has in mind are more those of malice and foul wizardry than those of mere strength. He will breach those walls wide. And then we will move in and take the City. Now be quiet and watch!"

And indeed, the engines did not waste any shots upon the indomitable walls. There were other means to cause great damage, means that the Shadow Lord knew all too well, and the secrets of which he guarded jealously. Iskhandar watched with awe as the daiva set the great catapults, yelling at each other while pulling on the thick ropes, and soon the missiles began to fly, marvellously high, so that they would pass above the battlement and fell with loud thuds within the first circle of the City. And once they hit the soil - or some even before that, still high in the air - they broke apart, bursting into the dark fire of Udun's flame.

Iskhandar had only witnessed these missiles once before, long ago, back in his youth, but he remembered them well and knew that the first circle would be burning in no time. Also, he could see that the daiva, as was their foul custom, had begun to fling into the City all the heads of those who had fallen defending the ruined western city, or the passage of the Great River, or even the walls or the fields. He felt repulsed. True, this was the enemy and they had to perish, yet the desecration of their corpses was an evil deed nonetheless.

The Hiung-nu made no war on those who were dead already. That could enrage the wandering souls of the dead and cause great havoc. Yet Iskhandar knew that he would never voice his repulsion before the daiva or the wraiths. For good or bad, he and his people were bound to the Dark Power of Mordor. Honour, once all-important to the peoples of Harad, had no significance in this war any longer. Only victory mattered.

And victory loomed upon the dark horizon, and he felt it closer than ever. For the wraiths had returned, their dreadful voices swelling with the growing strength of the Dark Power. They circled just beyond eyesight above the City upon their winged beasts. Only their long, piercing cries revealed their presence. That and the horror that went before them. But that was more than enough. Iskhandar had fought under their lead before and had thought that he had become used to their shrieks by now, but the evil voices filled even his heart with terror. He looked at Basthvaray and saw the big, strong man trembe.

Then he looked up to the City walls with narrowed eyes, for he could see the glittering of helmets and hauberks up there. It seemed that the abomination and his pehlevi were walking among the frightened defenders, trying to rekindle the valour in their hearts.

It mattered not. They would not last long. Today, they would die. All of them.

The forces and gear of war poured across the hastily-raised bridge all day long. The great catapults kept shooting the burning missiles over the outer wall. As the dim day finally passed into the darkness of what was going to be the final night for the White City, the first circle was burning already, the garrison upon the outer wall cut off from retreat in many places and most of the defenders had fled beyond the second gate.

Now the time had come and at last - in the middle of the night - the assault was loosed. Iskhandar, careful as was his wont, allowed the vanguard of the daiva to pass through the trenches of fire by the many cleverly-laid paths between them. Let the foul beasts lunge forth, he thought, let them horde within the range of bowmen on the wall! The daiva were driven by hatred for the Men of Westernesse as much as by the horror of their own Lord and cared not for their losses. Thus they served as an excellent screen for the Hiung-nu dshigits who were pressing up right behind them.

Amazingly enough - though the light of the fires showed many a mark for archers of such skill as the White City once had been famous for - few arrows had actually come to hit the easy targets. Iskhandar sat on his impatiently snorting mount, puzzled. Why would they not shoot the daiva? The beasts were practically begging to be shot!

Then he suddenly understood. The valour of the City was already beaten down. The road was open for them, unguarded.

That must have been the plan of the Shadow Lord all along. For at this very moment, the great siege-towers built in the ruined city began to roll forward through the dark. Far away, behind all the armies, the deep sound of the large war-drums started rolling like thunder. Company upon company pressed to the walls to the north and to the south, and Iskhandar, having achieved a southern position with his tumens, now pressed towards the main road.

He saw the mumakil of Khambaluk dragging the huge towers and engines trough the lanes amid the fires. The large beasts were like moving houses, their tusks dripping with black blood already - with the blood of careless daiva who forgot to get out of the beasts' way in their battle madness. For some reason, the mumakil could not stand the daiva (mayhap it was that hideous stench) and took every chance to trample them down or pierce them with their tusks.

"Stay out of their way," Iskhandar said to Basthvaray, "They will catch the attention of the defenders and keep them busy in many places. Yet our way lies in the middle, towards the Gate. That is where the Shadow Lord will throw his heaviest weight. Once the Gate is broken, we need to be right there. We shall be the first ones to enter the City. No other realm of the South must come before us."

"How could the Gate be broken?" asked Basthvaray in doubt. "'Tis very strong, wrought of steel and iron and guarded with towers and bastions of indomitable stone."

The cursed fool was still full of admiration for the work of long-gone Westernesse. Iskhandar gritted his teeth. He was not used to idly prattling with his khans, to have to explain every small detail to them. Thamuzaddad had read his thoughts from the mere glint of his eye, he barely needed to speak in battle at all.

Yet Thamuzaddad was no more, had gone to the Fire, and Iskhandar had to focus on the more pressing matters at hand.

"Strong it might be," he said with forced patience, regarding the Gate, "yet it is the key. The weakest point in all that high and impenetrable wall. And I believe the Shadow Lord has just brought forth the very weapon that will break it."

The drums rolled again, this time louder, like the roar of some huge, angry beasts. The fires leapt up again, without being fed. More great engines crawled across the field, but these were different from the mere catapults or siege towers. A huge ram they were carrying in their midst; a ram that was at least a hundred feet in length and swinging on mighty chains. Great beasts drew it, daiva surrounded it, and drughs of the Ash Mountains walked behind to wield it.

"What is that?" asked Basthvaray in terrified awe. "Surely something that has long been forging in the dark smithies of Mordor..."

"'Tis a ram," replied Iskhandar impatiently, getting bored by his new khan's constant prattle, "what else? A ram that will break the gate."

Basthvaray shivered when looking at the hideous head of the ram, founded of black steel and shaped in the likeness of a ravening wolf. Unlike Thamuzaddad, he was not so devoted to his kha-kan that he would forget the peril threatening his own life.

"More than the strength of steel lies in it, I deem," he murmured. "For I see ancient spells of ruin on it - spells of a strength and evil the likes of which I have not seen since I left the dark temples of my birthplace."

Iskhandar knew little about the dark rituals still celebrated in Umbar and cared even less. He was enthralled by that huge instrument of destruction, could not turn his eyes of it.

"'Tis named Grond, I heard," he said softly, remembering the whispers of the daiva chieftains he had overheard during the last war council, "in memory of the deadly mace of the great Anhramain, the Dark Lord of old. It will break the doors."

Basthvaray dared not to say aught else, for the kha-kan had been in a perilously foul mood since the death of his blood-brother, and it was better not to raise his ire. Still the new khan was worried, for he could see that about the Gate resistance was still stout. The pehlevi of the Swan Lord were there, and the green-clad hunters that had recently been driven out of the deserted lands, many good archers among them. Arrows fell like the spring rain, many of them burning, for they had been dipped into tar, and the siege towers crashed under the missiles of the catapults or blazed suddenly like torches. All before the walls on either side of the Gate the ground was choked with wreck and with corpses of the daiva slain; yet driven by the fear from their dark Master and by their own hatred, more and more still came up.

Iskhandar, for his part, had no doubts. He watched with burning eyes as the huge ram crawled on. No fire would catch upon its housing, as it was made of black iron, thrice-wrought, and the catapults of the City were not strong enough to harm it. Now and again, one of the mumakil that hauled it would go mad from the stench of blood and break free, trampling dozens of the daiva that guarded it to bloody mush. But every time the huge, scaled drughs lunged forward, forced the beast back under restraint, and other daiva took the place of those trampled to death.

On the great ram crawled. The war-drums roared in a thunderous sound like rockfall in the mountains during a violent storm. And finally, over the hills of slain, the Shadow Lord made his appearance.

He came in the hideous shape of a huge black horseman, the hood of his long, black cloak clouding his face - if he had one at all. Iskhandar knew not. The only man who could have known the answer had been Erusha, and he was dead. Mayhap he had seen what was hidden under the Shadow Lord's hood, and that was what had lamed his tongue forever.

Forth the Shadow Lord rode, slowly, trampling the fallen, not caring whose they had been. He knew no mercy, not for his enemies, nor for his servants. A long, pale sword was in his hand, as if an extension of his iron gauntlet; he raised it, and as he did so defenders and attackers alike froze in utter, mind-numbing fear, lowering their weapons helplessly. For a moment all was still, only the drums rolled and rattled.

Then the drughs grabbed the ram with their huge, scaled paws. With a vast rush, they hurled it forward, straight against the Gate, with a great swing. A deep boom sounded through the City like thunder running in the clouds, and Iskhandar's heart trembled with joyful vengeance. Now, the time for Harad had finally come.

To his enraged astonishment, though, the doors of iron and posts of steel withstood the stroke. What foul, forgotten wizardry of Westernesse guarded that cursed Gate?

Yet the Shadow Lord was not one to be beaten by wizardry. He wielded it himself, stronger than anyone who had ever walked upon the earth. Undismayed, he rose in his stirrups, and cried out in a dreadful voice, speaking in some forgotten tongue a horrible spell of power and terror to rend both heart and stone. Iskhandar felt himself sway in the saddle, barely able to remain mounted, and from the corner of his eye he could see Basthvaray's face turn ashen.

Thrice the Shadow Lord cried. Thrice the great ram thundered against the iron doors. And at the third stroke, the last Gate of Westernesse broke - not under the weight of the ram, but under the blasting spell written upon its ugly head and spoken by him who once had been the sorcerer-king of the North. There was a flash of searing lightning, and the doors burst asunder, tumbling in riven fragments to the ground.

That broke the spell of fear on Iskhandar's heart, too. He signalled the herald to call his tumens but did not wait for them to follow. He saw the Shadow Lord ride into the City and followed that great black shape, riding under the archway that no enemy ever yet had passed, leaving his own guard far behind. Why should he wait for them? What could harm him when he rode with the Shadow Lord himself? Even as they rode in, the defenders fled before them in horror.

One alone held his ground, waiting for them, silent and still like stone in the space before the Gate, sitting upon his great silver horse. An old man, clad in flawless white like the mages of the Hallowed Fire, his long beard floating all over his chest like a silver cloud. A gnarled staff he held in one hand and a long sword that gleamed in blue fire in the other one. And though Iskhandar recognized him as the same old man who had frightened the wraiths away on the previous day, he now also recognized him as the Ancient One, whose true name must never be spoken out loud. The one who could not only guard the Hallowed Fire but also hide it in his own body.

The legends reported that only one mage who had ever trod the earth possessed such might. Iskhandar, well-versed in the traditions of his own people, suddenly understood who this old man was and why he had the strength to face even the Shadow Lord.

Incánus he was called in the secret lore of the fire mages, though this was not his true name. He was the one who had helped the first mages to capture the Hallowed Fire when it floated into their first temple. The one whom the Order of Mages finally drove out of Harad for he strongly opposed their siding with the Dark Power of Mordor. It could be no-one else.

He had not been seen in the South for hundreds, nay, thousands of years. His return on the side of their enemies was the worst omen that Iskhandar could have ever imagined.

"You cannot enter here," Incánus said, and through his voice was quiet, the huge shadow halted. "Go back to the abyss that has been ready for you for two Ages. Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!"

There was so much hidden strength in that quiet voice that for a moment the dread feeling of inevitable defeat clutched Iskhandar's heart. Incánus was said to be as ancient as the very hills, after all. He was said to have been able to hold the Hallowed Fire in his bare hands. Who could ever resist him?

But now the Shadow Lord flung back his hood, and Iskhandar could see with renewed dread that he had a kingly crown, yet upon no head visible was it set. Only twin red fires shone between it and the mantled shoulders vast and dark where his eyes should have been. And though no mouth could be seen either, there came a dreadful laughter from it, deep and cold and full of malice.

"Old fool!" that hollow voice said. "Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!"

With that, he lifted that long and pale sword of his, ready to strike. Flames ran down the blade, as if controlled by his evil will.

To Iskhandar's amazement, Incánus did not move. It seemed as if he waited for something. As if he knew more than even the Shadow Lord might expect. The silence under the archway of the White City grew to new, deafening depths, as both terrible and powerful creatures held their ground, pondering their respective choices.

Then all of a sudden, somewhere back in the City, a cock crowed, shrill and clear, and Iskhandar realized that the night was over and, invisibly above the dim shadows of Mordor, the day had come. He cursed inwardly, knowing that even without real sunshine, the daiva would be weakened by the coming of day.

They were still going to win, of course. They vastly outnumbered the wearied defenders. The Shadow Lord had finally broken the Gate, and not even Incánus would be able to stop him. Mage or not, even he was but one man, and it had yet to be seen if his wizardry was any match for that of the Shadow lord.

Iskhandar looked back and saw his tumens approaching. He smiled ferally. No matter what, today the White City would be theirs. Who cared if the cost would be higher than expected? He gave the hand sign to his herald to blow the signal horn for the attack.

But another horn signal came before the herald could obey - the sound of great Northern horns, echoing dimly from the dark sides of the White Mountains. Iskhandar had never been further than where he was right now, but even he knew what the sounding of those horns meant.

The yellow-haired horse-lords of the Riddermark had come to the White City's aid.

TBC

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Translations:

dahma (pl: dahmi) - burial place, akin to the Towers of the Death in the old Persian religion

drugh - here: troll, from the name of the ancient Persian god of lies, Drug

Incánus - the name given to Gandalf in the South. No, seriously. He said it himself to Faramir once. "Many are my names in many countries. Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkun to the Dwarves; Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the South I go not." (The Two Towers, p. 347 in my 1981 Unwin Paperbacks edition)

Of course, there are no canon facts that would support my theory of Gandalf having any part in the foundation of this particular Haradric religion which I created out of thin air, based on ancient Persian beliefs. I do not even say he did lead the first mages into this direction. My only idea is that he had helped them to contain some dangerous, wandering fire phenomenon - the legends did the rest. ;)

Copyright: Soledad Cartwright, 2003-11-10

THE FACE OF THE ENEMY

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, dedication, etc. see Part 1.

Author's notes:

The battle still rages on, and Iskhandar has to witness the unbelievable... Some descriptions, as before, are quoted from "The Two Towers" and "The Return of the King", with subtle alterations.

PART 4

24 Esfand in the year 3019 of the Third Age

The Pelennor Fields, the early hours of the day

With a renewed feeling of dread, Iskhandar saw the Shadow Lord leave the Gate and vanish, only the dark Anhramain knew where to. The Northmen had overflooded well nigh all the northern half of the battlefield by now and were now less than a mile away from the City walls. Their vanguard had come even closer already, and for the first time of his life, Iskhandar could see them well.

Very tall they were and long-limbed, looking like the giants of Mázendheran upon their great steeds. Their hair, flaxen-pale, flowed under their light helms, and streamed in long braids behind them, braided in the same fashion as the manes of their proud horses. Their faces were pale too, and stern, and their fiery blue eyes cruel. In their hands were tall spears, painted shields were fastened on their shield-arms, long swords were at their belts, their burnished mail-shirts long enough to cover their knees and glistened like the grey coats of their mounts.

They thundered over the battlefield like a silver-crested wave, for the darkness was breaking and the pale light of the early morning glittered upon their armour; and Iskhandar felt victory slipping from his grasp, just as he stretched out his hand to seize it. The vanguard of the Northmen had nearly reached the walls already, attacking the siege-engines, hewing, slaying, driving the daiva to the fire pits. The miserable creatures fled towards the River, like herds before the hunters.

But the hosts of the Southron realms were no mindless beasts, and on the further half of the plain were many armies still unfought. Gathering his tumens close, Iskhandar decided to hold the Gate until the return of the Shadow Lord and leave the fight against the Northmen to the other hosts.

Southward beyond the road he saw the main force of Khambaluk; their horsemen were gathered about the standard of their radsha. The young, bronze-skinned Rávanashwar, limber and quick like the serpent that was the symbol of his caste, clad in scarlet and gold, rode before his men, glimmering upon his magnificent black steed in his scale armour like the golden statue of some heathen god. His golden helm was shaped in the likeness of a serpent's head and had an upper part that looked like the temple-towers of the Serpent God, tapering to a long, four-edged golden needle. Only his large eyes could be seen through the slit of that helmet, glittering like black pieces of obsidian.

There were legends all over the South about the ruling caste of the Naahajaran of Khambaluk; legends that stated that their radshi were neither male nor female, yet possessed great strength, despite their deceivingly fragile appearance; and that they mated with giant serpent demons and were born from the serpents' eggs and never aged during their unnaturally long lives. Their own people lived in deadly fear of them, and that very fear was which gave Khambaluk such a high position among the Southron realms. It was the largest of all Haradric lands, and - right after Bakshir - the most respected. Though Iskhandar did have the uncomfortable feeling that Rávanashwar could have easily beaten him in the struggle for the overlordship, had the young radsha wished so. To Iskhandar's luck, he did not. Unlike his predecessor, he was more interested in Far-Harad.

Yet he was one of the strongest vassals of the Dark Power of Mordor, providing the much-needed strength of the mumakil that could be found in Khambaluk only, and now his endless rows of horsemen were pressing towards where the green banner of the Northmen's King was flattering in the wind. Finding little resistance before the Gate (as Incánus had vanished right after the Shadow Lord) but unable to ride any further as the defenders had thrown piles of broken rock and stone into the archway to block it from the horses, Iskhandar left it to his guard to keep the enemy at bay and watched with great interest the fight further away.

As he looked out, he saw the banner of the Northern king, the white stallion in a green field, flattering in the wind, but he also saw that the old man - for indeed, the long, white beard of the Northman covered his knees - was far ahead of the battle with few of his men about him. It seemed that the battle rage the straw-haired Northern warriors were known for had carried him away.

Rávanashwar, shrewd as he was, had noticed the unprotected state of the enemy leader as well.  Rising in his stirrups, the young radsha let out a shrill cry, not unlike the screams of the wraiths, and his standard, black serpent upon scarlet, was brought to him; his warriors came pressing up against the white horse of the Northern King with their drawn scimitars glittering like the stars. Rávanashwar snatched the razor-sharp crescent knife that could cut through the tough hide of a mumak from his belt and sent it towards the white-haired King with outstretched arm and a barely visible jerk of his slender wrist.

Yet the old man seemed aware of him and his plan and did not falter for a heartbeat. He ducked from the flying crescent with surprising ease, then, crying to his great white stead in a strange, rolling tongue, the King of Northmen charged headlong to greet Rávanashwar; apparently, his high age had not weakened the sinews of his sword-arm.  And already more warriors of his cavalry came thundering up to his aid. Their numbers were not great, and yet they clove through the lines of the Naahajaran like a fire-bolt in the savannahs.

Right through their press drove the old King, with a ferocity that belied his age, a long spear in his hand. With a quick jerk of his shield-arm he shoved aside Rávanashwar's scimitar and rammed his long spear into the slim body of the radsha, with such strength that the spearhead cut through the golden armour and threw Rávanashwar off his horse. The momentum carried the white steed of the Northman away and it overrun the radsha's black horse that fell over and was trampled to the ground.

The Naahajaran warriors' charge halted in utter shock, seeing the slender, gold-adorned limbs of their radsha under the hooves. This was beyond belief. This was beyond their worst fear. The radsha was supposed to be invictible. The radsha was considered the personification of their Serpent God.

Ere they could awake from their shock, the Northern King turned around. Out his long sword swept, and he spurred to the standard bearer, standing in frozen horror above the broken body of his radsha. The old man charged again, hewing down both staff and bearer. The Black Serpent foundered. A long, keening wail ran through the battered rows of the remaining Naahajaran, and they turned and fled.

For a moment Iskhandar was completely stunned. That the battle fury could burn hot enough in an old man of the North to slay the demon spawn of the Black Serpent he would never have believed, had he not seen it with his very eyes. Basthvaray, becoming reckless in his fear (for touching the kha-kan without his consent was a crime that was punishable by instant death by beheading), tugged Iskhandar's sleeve urgently.

"We need to withdraw, o kha-kan! Or else the strawheads will cut us off from the other hosts."

"Nay," Iskhandar replied coldly, "'tis naught but a minor setback. They cannot beat us. Not today."

"They are already doing so, o kha-kan!"

"Nay," repeated Iskhandar with a dark smile. "They might have caught us unawares, but the advantage of surprise is wearing off already. We shall remain here. Keep our position before the Gate and be ready to enter the City."

Basthvaray tried to protest, but the kha-kan silenced him with a deadly glare. Thus they remained before the Gate, all four tumens of them, for they had not fought much in this battle yet and had not lost but a few men. Unfortunate that among those few had to be Thamuzaddad and Erusha, who had been worth a tumen each, but that could not be changed. Never had victory been this close, and Iskhandar was determined to embrace it, no matter the costs. He would mourn for his blood brother later.

He sat in the saddle, in the customary, slumped way of Hiung-nu warriors - a stance that made charging at once much easier, ready to strike when his moment was to come, and watched the other Southron hosts fight the Northmen.

For the moment, things looked less than promising. The Naahajaran, having lost their semi-godlike leader, were scattered across the battlefield, their mumakil running amok headlessly and trampling down everything and everyone in their way. The strawheads were hot on their heels, the old King before all.

But at this very moment a great shadow was cast over the battlefield. The golden shield of the Northern King was dimmed, the new morning blotted from the sky. Horses screamed and reared. Foe and ally alike fell from their saddles, groveling on the ground, trying to burrow into the blood-stained soil in horror.

The Shadow Lord had finally returned to change the luck of the battle forever.

He descended on his winged beast like a falling cloud, and Iskhandar, who had never seen the foul creature from this close before, gazed at it with dreadful fascination. It looked a little like some mocking, twisted kindred of Símurgh, the great Fire-Bird from the legends of old, that hatched the Hallowed Fire from her egg at the dawn of every new eon - a creature between bird and beast, bearing the ugliest traits of both. And it had a stench that even the daiva would find hideous.

Amazingly enough, the old King seemed unafraid. He called out to his men in that strange tongue of his, urging them forward to face any darkness that might come up against them. But his horse could not bear the dread coming from the Shadow Lord. The poor beast reared in terror - then, hit by a black dart, fell upon his side, crushing his rider beneath him.

Sitting upon the beast the Shadow Lord had discarded any attempt to hide his unearthly nature. His steel crown seemed to float in empty air, save for the deadly gleam of his eyes. This time he wielded a great black mace, heavy enough to crush the skull of a mumak.

Iskhandar could see that the old King was still alive, though badly wounded. The warriors who had protected him earlier lay slain about him, or else were borne far away by their steeds, maddened by fear. One alone was still standing protectively above him - a very young man, by the slimness of his frame and the smoothness of his hairless face - thrown from his mount yet unshattered in courage. And a strange little figure, mayhap a page, was crawling on all fours behind him.

The young warrior called out fearlessly to the Shadow Lord in his own tongue, and the icy cold voice of the wraith answered in the same. Iskhandar felt his own heart freeze at the sound of that deadly voice, yet the Northman did not move away from his fallen King but drew his sword against the wraith instead. And then - Iskhandar barely trusted his ears - that young fool laughed, in a clear voice that was like the ring of steel, throwing an answer at the Shadow Lord that Iskhandar could not understand. But it was undoubtedly a challenge. The boy had to be insane.

There was a great silence, for no-one dared to speak, and even the fighting ceased for a moment. The young warrior shook his head defiantly, and his helm fell from it, revealing long hair as bright as pale gold, flowing down his back to the hem of his mail shirt.

His mail shirt? Iskhandar took another good, hard look - nay, he had been mistaken. This was no young man of the North, smaller and more slender than the others. This was a woman, and one who knew how to wield a weapon.

One of the wild, berserk shield-maidens of the strawheads, who sought death in battle as the greatest form of honour. Now, if that was what she sought, she would get her wish soon enough, the kha-kan thought grimly.

The winged beast now leaped into the air, shrieking, with outstretched beak and claw, ready to snatch the shield-maiden up like a rabbit. Yet she did not blench, nor did she try to avoid the strike - there was no need for her to do thusly, for she was faster than the winged monster. With a swift stroke of her sword she clove asunder the long, snake-like neck; the huge head fell with a heavy thud, like a stone. And the creature fell itself, its vast wings outspread, crumpled and helpless to the earth.

The shield-maiden, her shield still raised against the eyes of the Shadow Lord, sprang backward, so that the falling corpse of the dead beast would not crush her to death. Iskhandar could not help but admire her, though he knew that she was doomed to die, no matter what. Amazingly brave as it might be to challenge the wraith, yet it was also utterly hopeless.

For lo! the Shadow Lord rose from the dead body of his winged beast, towering above her like a thundercloud. Out he cried with a venom that could pierce the heart of any living creature, and he let his mace fall down like a boulder loosed from storm-drenched mountains. It shattered her shield like an eggshell, and with the shield also the bones of her shield-arm. Strong and brave she might be, but she was still no match for the Shadow Lord. That one stroke had been strong enough to force her to her knees.

The wraith's eyes glittered like cold fire. Once again, he raised his mace, bending over his prey to deal her the death blow. And yet his stroke went wide, and now the cry he released was filled with pain and wrath; and he stumbled forward. Behind him, the small page stood, his hand still on the hilt of a dagger that had pierced the black mantle of the wraith, his round face strangely surprised, as if he had done something unexpected.

Now the shield-maiden struggled to her feet again, and with a last, desperate effort she dove her sword between crown and mantle, straight into those glowing eyes. The sword splittered into shards, but the steel crown fell and hit some stone below with a hollow clang. Hollow and empty too were the hauberk and mantle of the Shadow Lord, now laying shapeless upon the ground, and while a shrill wail died away in the shuddering air, the shield-maiden too fell upon the torn and tumbled clothes and moved no more.

Yet the unexpected fall of the Shadow Lord stopped the battle but for a moment. Iskhandar saw new forces of Khambaluk and Zipangu hastening up the road from the River; and from under the walls came legions of daiva from Minas Morgul; and from the southward fields came footmen of Li-ao, small but doughty warriors with round-bladed double axes; and behind them rose the huge backs of the mumakil with war-towers upon them. The Naahajaran, it seemed, were not all shattered by the death of their radsha - or they had simply not heard of it yet. Iskhandar saw with grim satisfaction that they would unite their forces with the hosts already on the battlefield - and then the City would fall.

But 'til then they still had a tough fight before them. For northward a great front of the strawheads was gathering again, led by a particularly tall, young warrior who wore a white crest upon his helm; and out of the City came all the strength of men that was still in it, to drive the enemy from the Gate. This battle - and mayhap the whole war - would be decided here and now.

Seeing the silver swan upon blue banner of Dol Amroth borne in the van, Iskhandar knew that his time too had come.

"Be ready," he said to Basthvaray. "We shall go against the abomination with everything we have. And this time we shall free the earth from his foulness."

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Translations:

radsha (pl. radshi) - the supreme leader of Khambaluk

Naahajaran - the people of Khambaluk

Mázendheran - mythical land of giants

Copyright: Soledad Cartwright, 2003-11-10

THE FACE OF THE ENEMY

by Soledad

 For disclaimer, rating, dedication, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s notes:

The all-deciding moment for Iskhandar has come. Some descriptions, as before, are quoted from “The Return of the King”, with subtle alterations.

My heartfelt thanks go to Isabeau of Greenlea once again, for cleaning out my grammar and deleting my continuity errors. :)

PART 5

24 Esfand in the year 3019 of the Third Age

The Pelennor Fields – late morning to sunset

Having seen their King fall and grown reckless with the perishing of the Shadow Lord, the Men of the Riddermark gathered around their new, young King, crying out with one voice, loud and terrible as the rolling thunder, and gathering speed like a great tide their host swept about, roaring away southwards. The fighting flared up on both sides with new fury, fuelled by the battle cries of men and daiva, the neighing of horses, the deep sounds of horns and the ringing of trumpets, and the bellow of the mûmakil, maddened by the stench of blood.

Under the south walls of the City the footmen of Gondor drove steadily against the daiva from Minas Morgul that were still gathering there in strength though severely shaken by the fall of the wraith. But the horsemen of the City rode eastward to the aid of the strawheads; and with them rode the Swan Lord and all his pehlevi.

“There,” Iskhandar pointed out to Basthvaray, and the four tumens of Hiung-nu finally launched into the battle, eager to show their strength and skills.

For Iskhandar had realized that the fury of the young Northern leader could decide the fate of the whole battle. In his wrath, the young man had led his riders too deep into the rows of Jarkend’s cowardly dshigits, driving great wedges into their ranks. But behind the useless mob of Jarkend, the fresh hosts of Khambaluk stood, calling the Southern troops about their mûmakil as if they were towers of defense; and the horses of the strawheads were frightened by the great beasts and would not go near them.

Not only were the Northmen thrice outnumbered from their onset on, but now Gothmog, the khan of Minas Morgul, who had taken over the leading of the hosts after the Shadow Lord’s fall, sent into battle all the hand-picked forces mustered for the sack of the City in advance. Stocky Easterlings there were from Rhûn, clad in animal hides and bronze hauberks, armed with heavy battle-axes. Variags of Khand followed them, with their long spears and narrow, lozenge-shaped shields. The elite forces of Khambaluk, wearing scarlet and gold and bent scimitars followed, riding well-trained war-horses. And there were landsmen of Erusha out of Far-Harad, too, dark-skinned archers with white eyes and shaved heads.

Some of those new troops now pressed up behind the strawheads, while others held westward to hold off the forces of the City and prevent their joining with the Northmen. Iskhandar and his tumens pressed towards the blue banner of Dol Amroth with grim determination.

On the battle raged, neither side expecting mercy from the other – or granting it. The Men of the Mark and those of Westernesse proved tougher than Iskhandar had expected. But they were also outnumbered hopelessly, the strawheads now cut off from the forces of the abomination and pressed towards the haven that the men of the City called the Harlond, ‘til they were scarcely a mile from it and from being driven into the River. Once that was accomplished, they had no chance to survive.

Basthvaray, who fought alongside Iskhandar against the armour-clad warriors of the abomination, suddenly reigned his horse and pointed with his outstretched arm towards the bend of a Great River, crying out joyously.

“See, o kha-kan! My people have come!”

Iskhandar followed his arm and lo! black against the glittering stream he beheld the most beauteous sight he could have imagined at this very moment. A fleet he saw, as he had often seen it while travelling in his father’s errand to the seaside. A fleet of dromunds and ships of great draught, with many oars and with black sails bellying in the recently-upcome wind.

The Corsairs of Umbar had come. And as much as Iskhandar hated the treacherous, mixed-up peoples of Umbar or their twisted worshipping of Westernesse, he was now overjoyed to see the approach of the black ships. For their coming could mean but one thing: that the havens on the southwest had been taken, and the lands south from the City were fallen, and the last stronghold of Westernesse lay now open for them. Soon, the plundering would begin. Soon, Iskhandar would return to Bashidra, loaded heavily with bounty, and long rows of chained slaves would follow him to make up for all his losses.

But first he needed to honour the ancient law of blood fealty. To remove the shame from his House. To slay that bastard, avenge the death of faithful Thamuzaddad and free the earth from the abomination.

Determined to fulfill his destiny, Iskhandar pressed eastwards, where the pehlevi of the Swan Lord fought the Variags and Erusha’s people. His tumens – or what was left of them, for they had suffered severe losses in the battle already – raced after him, filled with the intoxicating foretaste of victory.

Yet at the same moment as they finally reached the vanguard of Dol Amroth, the ships of Umbar turned towards the Harlond, and upon the foremost ship a great standard was enrolled. And though black it was, it bore not the sign of Umbar but the White Tree of Gondor, with a high crown above it and seven stars about it, glittering in the sunlight like gemstones.

Having some traces of the blood of Westernesse in his veins, Iskhandar had heard of those symbols, of course. He also knew that a banner like this had not been borne for years beyond count. Not since the two realms of Westernesse had been broken apart. He knew not what was portended by the standard being raised again, but he felt that it was not good for him and his allies.

The other hosts of Mordor were seized with great fear, seeing that their own ships were now filled with their foes; and dread overcame them, feeling that the tides of fate had turned against them and that their doom was near. Already, the daiva were fleeing in mindless terror from the brightening sunlight and the pehlevi of Dol Amroth who drove them mercilessly. And now men leaped from the ships to the quays of the Harlond and swept north like a storm. And Iskhandar’s heart, too, filled with dread, seeing two tall, dark-haired figures among them, clad in white and in blank armour, with pale, identical faces and with stars on their brows.

The pairiki had come to the White City’s aid, turning ally into foe with their foul wizardry.

But not all the men of Dol Amroth rode forth after the daiva. The abomination himself remained back, surrounded by his most faithful pehlevi, and now they turned against Iskhandar’s forces. Ere the battle could rear up between them again, though, the shield-wall of the pehlevi parted for a heartbeat’s time, and forth rode Andrahar, the living shame of Iskhandar’s House. A shield and a sword he wore, but no spear, unlike the others, and his sword was not the broad kind the Men of Westernesse preferred but much thinner, its blade slightly been and wider at the end than at the hilt.

It was a Hiung-nu scimitar. One made by the hands of an excellent swordsmith, by the look of it.

Andrahar held his steed – a great, silver-coated war-horse from Dol Amroth – and looked straight into Iskhandar’s eyes.

“The time has come to settle our old quarrel…brother,” he said, his voice oddly amused. “Just you and me. An honest fight to the death, between two warriors.”

Iskhandar scowled. How dared the bastard call him ‘brother’?

“You are not my brother,” he answered in heavily accented Westron. “You are but a handful of grime that has soiled the proud name of my House for too long. I shall be glad to remove that shame. But how can you speak of an honest fight? Your armour is far better than mine.”

Andrahar did not even wince at the insult. The bastard had no shame, no pride. Never had. He simply nodded.

“That can be helped,” he said, calling out to his fellow pehlevi. “Liahan!”

One on the left end of the shield-wall stepped forth. “Aye, Master Andrahar?”

Master? They called that bastard Master?

“Remove my breastplate and vambrances,” ordered Andrahar, never turning his eyes from Iskhandar, “and take my helm, too, That will even our chances out, as no mail shirt can resist a Hiung-nu scimitar.

That was very true, and Iskhandar had no further objections. The man named Liahan removed Andrahar’s breastplate, carefully to remain behind him all the time, as for not to block his view; then the vambrances, and finally the helm. Iskhandar noticed with dismay that the bastard had the cheek to braid his hair in Hiung-nu fashion – and that though he was greying, there was still much dark hair in that mane, though they were of roughly the same age. But Andrahar had the blood of Westernesse from both his mother and from Iskhandar’s father who had sired him.

“Now we are even,” the bastard said. “Let us settle this once and for all.”

And without wasting any more words, he charged headlong to meet Iskhandar. Iskhandar gave his mount the spurs too, and the big horses raced towards each other as if each wanted to ram the other and trample him to the ground. Yet it was Iskhandar’s horse that broke first and swerved away; and Andrahar, galloping by, dealt a swift stroke with his scimitar, severing Iskhandar’s bridle. Then he turned by, prepared for the next charge.

Iskhandar was seething with anger. That bastard dared to make fun of him! But he would not feel like laughing much longer! The kha-kan turned his horse around as well, and now it was he who charged first. This time he would not allow his horse to break out.

Andrahar rose to the challenge without hesitation, and once again, the great mounts were thundering towards each other. They were of the same size, more or less, so it was of little surprise that when they actually collided – for this time Iskhandar managed to keep his steed under control, despite the loss of his bridle – they both were able to keep their balance. Of course, both riders were thrown to the ground by the force of the impact.

Iskhandar sprang to his feet, but so did Andrahar, too, and now they began circling each other carefully like big hunting cats. Iskhandar was stronger, mayhap – he was certainly heavier – but Andrahar was as quick as lightning and dangerously fast on his feet.

And yet it was Iskhandar who managed to draw first blood. His long arm sneaked out like a striking cobra, his razor-sharp scimitar cutting trough Andrahar’s mail shirt as if it were mere silk. He had tried to gut the bastard, but Andrahar moved his shield into the way of the stroke, so that the scimitar slid off and he was only hit on his side. Then the bastard whirled around with the same move and his scimitar hit Iskhandar clean on the shoulder of his shield arm. But then Andrahar had to spring backward again; Iskhandar was fast, too, and his arm was longer.

The kha-kan discarded his shield; with his wounded shoulder, he could not use it properly anyway. To his surprise, Andrahar threw away his shield as well. Did he want to even their chances out again? That was fine with Iskhandar – it made his task easier.

They began their slow dance around each other once more. Weapons sneaked out, blood was drawn, again and again. They both fought in Hiung-nu fashion, and their strength was almost equal. Yet after a time Iskhandar felt himself wearying. He no longer had the endurance of his youth, and time was working against him.

With an unexpected leap, he sprang forward to end this fight ere he lost it. But Andrahar did not move away when the kha-kan’s weapon cut a deep slash on the left side of his face. Why had he let himself be wounded without defending himself?

Something pierced the middle of Iskhandar’s body. He felt almost no pain, so sharp Andrahar’s blade had been, so quick his stroke, skilled and deadly. The kha-kan felt a strange weariness overcoming him. He looked up into those dark, unforgiving eyes, cold and hard like pieces of obsidian, and shivered.

“Finish it,” he murmured.

And as the knights of Dol Amroth and what was left of the warriors of Bakshir watched in stunned fascination, Andrahar, Armsmaster of the Prince, took the face of the Haradric chieftain in his bloody hands, and throwing back his head he let out a long, keening wail. Calling the gods he no longer believed in and the forefathers he had denied decades ago, to witness the departure of his brother’s soul – the brother who had never accepted him.

Then he loosened the ceremonial knife from the kha-kan’s belt and rammed it into Iskhandar’s heart with a steady hand.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The battle raged on for many hours yet, and the fight was hard. For the dshigits of Bakshir and the warriors of Khambaluk were bred for war, vengeful of the deaths of their leaders and fierce in their despair. And the Easterlings of Rhûn were strong and war-hardened and full of hatred for the Men of the West. And so here and there, upon hillock or mound, under wall or on field, they gathered around the one or other khan or chieftain and fought until the day wore away.

Then the Sun finally sank behind the mountain-peaks and dyed the sky and the hills, the mountainsides and the Great River blood red. And in that hour at last the horrible battle was over; and not one living foe was left within the circuit of the Rammas. All were slain, save those who fled to die, or to drown in the red foam of the River.

Basthvaray, though, miraculously escaped, with only a handful of dshigits, and under the protection of the night they headed home. Long and arduous was their way back to Bakshir, and bitter the tale they had to tell – a tale of the wrath and terror of the Men of Westernesse.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Li-ao – another realm of Harad. Has a vague similarity to Medieval China.

THE FACE OF THE ENEMY

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, dedication, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s notes:

The aftermath of battle. Andrahar has to make peace with his past. The opening paragraph is quoted from “The Return of the King”, with subtle alterations.

This is an edited version compared with the one posted on ff.net. I changed a sentence as not to violate the site rules.

Beta read by Isabeau of Greenlea, my sincerest thanks.

EPILOGUE

25 Esfand in the year 3019 of the Third Age

The Pelennor Fields – early morning

The morning dawned brightly after the day of the great battle; it was fair with light clouds and the wind turning westward. From the Tower of Ecthelion, the banner of Dol Amroth, a white ship like a swan upon blue water, floated in the breeze.  Because of Denethor’s death and Faramir’s incapacity in the Houses of Healing, Imrahil was the highest-ranking member of Gondorian nobility, and thus he had command of the White City.

The Prince had early been called to the war council that took place in Aragorn’s tent, with Éomer of Rohan and Gandalf and the sons of Elrond; and Liahan stood before the tent with some guards, protecting him. Thus Andrahar could afford to use the short break in the fighting that would, no doubt, continue soon enough, and took his time to look around in the abandoned camp of his people.

The jurts of the Hiung-nu, that had stood in tight circles southwards from the road that led straight to the Gate, were in battered ruins. In the middle of the camp a seven-levelled, great wain lay upon its side, broken into countless pieces, the small golden house on the top bent and soiled with blood and gore, the black slab of stone sullied, the cauldron of the Hallowed Fire burnt out, cold and empty.

He saw the broken bodies of white-robed mages, lying scattered among slithered wooden planks and shards of pottery. He saw the sacred dishes of the sanctum smirched with blood and gore. ‘Twas as if part of his childhood – the only part of which he sometimes did remember with a certain amount of melancholy – had been shattered beyond repair.

“One of the mûmakil must have thrown the wain over, driven by battle madness or panic,” a soft voice said behind him, and as he turned, his weary gaze fell upon Mánion, the chief healer of the Swan Knights. His long-time friend and probably the only person in Dol Amroth who could understand his status.

Due to his unique status as Imrahil’s sworn brother, Andrahar had very few friends in the court. He had taught and trained practically every Swan Knight, and they all respected him greatly; mayhap even feared him, for he was considered one of the best bladesmen in Gondor, and that was with both sword and knife. But at the same time, thy came from old, respected noble families of Dúnedain Blood, as being a Swan Knight was a privilege granted to the best and brightest only, and thus were thought to stand high above a barbarian from Harad.

Mánion, although some fourteen years his junior, had much in common with Andrahar, at least as far as their status at court was concerned.  Brín, his mother, was a handmaid of Princess Olwen and came with her from Fortir – they both belonged to the ancient peoples of Dor-en-Ernil, a nobility older than even that of the Princes, though of little influence in these days. When Imrahil had brought Andrahar home from one of his adventurous journeys to Umbar, Mánion had barely been born. No-one had ever discovered who his father was (well, no-one save Lady Olwen and mayhap Prince Adrahil) but his sharp features indicated that an errant son of some noble Dúnadan family must have sired him. Only his dark brown eyes had he inherited from his mother.

Being fatherless and legally not even a Dúnadan, the way of a Swan Knight was closed before Mánion, but that bothered him little. He never felt the wish to wield a weapon or to go to war – on the contrary. Nor had he much interest in lore or wanted to become a scribe on Master Melpomaen’s side in the vast library of Dol Amroth Castle. Thus he had become a healer – such a good one, that after a while Imrahil had selected him to serve with the Swan Knights in this capacity. The recently fought battle was just one of many where he had served his Lord.

Andrahar acknowledged his presence with a short nod.

“Have you found any survivors here?” he asked.

“Just a woman,” replied Mánion with a shrug, “but it is very unlikely she will survive. She has been trampled over by the horses; every bone in her body is broken, and she is bleeding within badly. That she struggled against treatment with what little strength she still possessed did not help, of course.”

Andrahar’s head jerked up. “She would not allow you to touch her?”

Mánion nodded, clearly confused. “She was frantic; alas, she speaks no Westron, and we do not understand her tongue.”

Andrahar’s eyes darkened, the old taboos hammered into his heart in early childhood reawakening with a vengeance. “Bring me to her.”

“You cannot do aught for her, Andra!” Mánion tried to persuade him. “’Tis no use.”

“Aye, I can. Bring me to her and be grateful that you are my friend, or I would slay you for violating her.”

“Violating her?” Mánion stared at him in shock. “Are you insane? All I did was try to help her.”

Andrahar clenched his fist. “What do you know about the customs of my people? About our beliefs? Naught, it seems, despite all that I have told you. Now, bring me to her!”

Mánion shook his head in exasperation but did as he was told. The young woman lay in one of the healing tents, her once-white robe drenched in her own blood, her slim body horribly disfigured and clearly beyond all help. But even in this damaged state she kept her dignity, hiding her face under the last shreds of her bloodied veil.

“Have you not seen the veil? The robe?” asked Andrahar angrily. “She is a seer, in the service of the sanctum. Have I not told you about this? She is sacrosanct.   Any man who would dare to touch her, or even to look at her unveiled face, would be put to death at once.”

“I cannot keep all of your barbaric customs in my mind,” replied Mánion, a little irritated. “Besides, she needed help.”

“That matters not. For a Seer, death is preferable to desecration. But you never truly think about what may or may not be proper for one of us, do you? We are just a horde of savage barbarians in your eyes. You Dúnedain do not even think of us as people!”

“Would that include the Prince, too?” asked Mánion quietly, neglecting to mention the fact that he was not considered a Dúnadan, either. Andrahar sighed.

“You of all people should know what is between me and Imrahil. I have sworn fealty to him and according to the customs of my own people I belong to him, blood, body and soul. He is also my friend, for which I am grateful. But not even he will ever truly understand who I am, even though he honestly tries. For my heart and my soul have been shaped in Harad, and my roots shall be there always, even should I never return to the land of my birth.”

“If that is so,” said Mánion, “to whom do you owe your true allegiance?”

“For my people, the oath of featly is stronger than anything, even blood,” answered Andrahar. “I shall fight with Imrahil, protect him, even die for him if I have to… for he is all I have. Never would I turn my back on him. But naught can ever change what I truly am either. For what I am makes me useful to him in the first place.”

He knelt down next to the mortally wounded woman and spoke to her in his mother tongue, which he had not used for countless years.

“Greetings, maiden of the Fire. I regret to find you in such sorry shape. Is there aught I can do for you?”

Her face, half-hidden under the torn veil, was pale but beautiful and oddly calm. She opened her large, dark eyes – they were clear and awake, though shadowed by pain, and recognition glimmered in them.

“Give me… to the Fire…” she answered in a weak but surprisingly steady voice.

Andrahar nodded in understanding. She was the Seer of his father’s House; and though he was no legitimate son, he still was of Isfhandijar’s blood. He alone was allowed to lay hand on her broken shell and reunite it with the Fire she had served all her life. He alone had the right and the duty to free her soul so that it could soar up to the seventh sky to the Fire God.

“I shall do as you wish, Haôma.”

He needed no-one to tell him her name. ‘Twas a sacral name, worn by all Seers of their House. She smiled weakly, seeing that he still knew his roots and laid a slim but now swollen and misshapen hand, the bones of which had been shattered under the hooves, upon his forearm.

“The Fire… is quenched…” she breathed, barely audible. “Your House… gone. You are… the last… The kha-kan… has no… brothers… no living sons… left. My death… will set you… free…”

Her hand slid from his arm. Her eyes became vacant, the light in them broken. With a barely breathed sigh, her soul left its battered shell.

Andrahar took a deep breath. With the death of the Seer of his House, with the quenching of the Fire that she had kept, his roots to Bakshir had been severed. His heart would not pull him into opposite directions any longer. When he had given her body to the Fire, his last obligation towards his own people, a debt he had carried with him all those years, will be paid.

Isfhandijar had not had the opportunity to give him the status of a son. He could never raise his House again, not even if he had sons of his own. Once the Seer was reunited with the Fire, he would belong to Dol Amroth alone.

In spite of his grief over the Seer’s passing, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his heart. Neither hatred, nor tortured love for his own blood would burden him any longer. The years that still remained to him, he would spend in peace.

The hand of Mánion touched his shoulder in a light gesture of comfort and friendship.

“What should we do with her body?” the healer asked.

“We shall give her to the Fire,” said Andrahar, “and scatter her ashes into the wind.  Mayhap they will carry her home.”

Mánion nodded, his soft, brown eyes still on Andrahar’s face. “What about you? How do you feel?”

Andrahar looked up to him and smiled. ‘Twas a rare sight that lit up his grim features and made him look younger than he truly was. Much younger.

“Free,” he answered slowly. “I feel free.”

 ~ Here endeth this tale  ~

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Notes:

To Lady Olwen (Imrahil’s mother) and Master Melpomaen see “Pawns and Symbols”, posted under The Dúnadan Project (link on my bio page).

Mánion is an original character and belongs to me. His name has no actual meaning – I just wanted it to sound differently than regular Tolkien names.

Copyright: Soledad Cartwright, 2004-02-12