A/N:  Set T.A. 2980, after the events of my story, “Ransom.”  It’s not necessary to read that tale first.  Big thanks to Cairistiona for her help as beta.  This story contains depictions of slavery, non-graphic violence (in large quantities), and dark themes.

“What do you owe these strangers?”  -Hakim, to Aragorn the night before he turned south

Come in, come in, make yourselves at home.  Is that the lot?  Ah, good.  Close the door now, my boy, and make sure to stuff the rags beneath it—this sandstorm threatens to bury us all.  There’s a good little man.

No, no, my friends!  ‘Tis no trouble!  We’ve rooms enough for those that can pay, and you seem like folk of means and taste both.  You can no more travel in this storm than fly over it, so you might as well rest your feet awhile.  No, have no fear!  Your camel will be snug in our stables—I am no brigand!  You are going north, yes?  Indeed, the storm will likely blow over by morning and you can be on your way.  ‘Tis a wonder you made it so far in such conditions, especially with such lovely ladies and those little ones.

Oh, no, my good ladies, I take no offense!  We respect the old ways in these parts, and there are plenty of upstanding ladies who choose not to doff their veils in the company of men, even men as respectable as myself.  I’ll just set up a private parlor for your comfort, perhaps send up a few drinks?  We’ve fruit juice for the children, but you’ll have something a touch stronger?  Of course, not a problem at all!  You’ll be spending the night, then?  Ah, yes, that will suffice, you are most generous.  You’ve my thanks, good sir; may the Eye look on you with favor!

Now, then, will you gentlemen join me for a pint or two?  We’ve a good ale and better prices!

Six tankards, then, my boy, and be quick about it!  Don’t forget to send those drinks up to the good ladies either!

Now, then, good fellows, have you any news from the southern cities?  No?  No tales, not a one?  More’s the pity.  But, I suppose that’s how it goes in these cruel days—there are not many that will share a good story with a stranger, too many are distrustful or untrustworthy.  Not me, though.  Treat strangers like friends, I say, and you’ll never run dry of neighbors!

Oh, but you haven’t come to listen to me hold forth, my apologies, gentlemen.  Still, if you’ve no tale to weave of your own, perhaps you wouldn’t mind hearing one!  We get all types coming through here and some tell tales stranger than any child’s fancy.  No, it’s no trouble, you’ve been the only guests all night.  See, we’ve fine tankards and strong walls to keep out the wind—‘tis a lovely night for a tale!  So, listen if you’re stout of heart, for the one I’ve in mind is no tale for children.

No, not even you, my boy!  Haven’t you some washing to do?  Go on, then, help your mother, there’s a good son.

But, where was I?  Oh, yes telling you a tale of fortunes lost most violently.  Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving fellow, though, Eye strike me down if I lie.

You see, there was this fellow named Imran who used to pass through these parts.  Quite the unpleasant man.  He was stingy—never tipped, haggled over every price.  Old Imran, he hated to see a copper get away, which I suppose is how he’d hung onto so many silvers.  It wasn’t by charm, that’s the truth!  Now, Imran was a slave trader.  It’s important work, I know, gathering miners for the Eye and rowers for the galleys and all sorts of laborers for those who can afford them.  Important, but unpleasant, if you’ll forgive my saying so.  Yes, I can see by your faces that you agree.  There aren’t many around here who would do it.  Imran, though, he was made for that kind of work—has a cruel streak if you get my meaning.  He would hire two dozen rogues as drivers and minders and they would gather up great strings of slaves—perhaps two hundred at a time—and march them from the northern villages down, down to Umbar to be sold in the markets there.  Oh, he made a fortune, that Imran!  Wasn’t afraid to lord it over us common folk, either.  Like I said, it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving sort.

Anyway, it was a few months back, and Imran was in one of the northernmost villages, just rounding off his next shipment, when a simple farmer from the outlying lands walked into the market leading a Tark from the north like none any of them had seen.  He was tall, this Tark, so very tall, but he kept his head bowed and spoke not a word in Haradric or Westron or any other tongue.  So, the farmer walks up to Imran and he says “There’s no use for it.  You must buy this Gondorian from me.  And I’d be grateful if you’d give me a fair price for this as well.”  And he whips out a great long sword, like the Gondorim always wear in battle.

This Tark, you see, had been a warrior, until he wandered onto the farmer’s land out of his mind with sun-sickness.  To this day, no one knows how he traveled so far, for the farmer’s land was a forsaken ranch right in the middle of the Haradwaith.  No one thought to wonder why he came so far just to collapse among the farmer’s goats.

Now, Imran was no stranger to transporting fighters against their will—half the slaves in the market these days are captured from Gondor, and they all start out not knowing a whip from a turnip plant.  This fellow, though, he had a fierce look about him.  He was tall, like I’ve told you already, and hard-looking, with eyes like chips of granite.  Have you ever seen those Tarks with their eyes?  It’s right unsettling.  Come to think of it, they look a good deal like your eyes, young sir.  I warrant you’ve some Gondorian blood in you.  Peace, my friend!  I meant no offense!  That’s just me letting my mouth talk away from myself.  And, it’s no shame having a bit of foreign blood.  Why, I myself have a grandmother from Khand.  Khand!  It’s a wonder I’m not eating chicken entrails and wearing the dish towels as clothes. 

Where was I, though?  Oh, yes!  The Gondorian.  He was an unsettling sight for the slavers.  He just had this air about him, like he was watching the world from a great height.  It was none of Imran’s unwarranted haughtiness—rather, the Gondorian seemed to have deeper concerns.  It was like the people around him were just minor characters flitting in and out on the edges of some larger story.  He just seemed so sure of himself, even in rags with his hands bound.  It wasn’t the sort of demeanor Imran saw often, and he saw plenty of Tark slaves.  This one was strong, though, and sound, and Imran knew he could make a hefty profit, so he paid the farmer nary a quarter of what he was worth, and clapped the Tark in irons with the others.  Just on a whim, he bought the sword too, and Imran closed up shop and he thanked his lucky stars for such a windfall.

They were due to start south the next morning, so that night Imran decided to take his ease in the local tavern.  He strode in wearing his finest robes, pockets jingling, dreaming of all the profits he was about to make, but who should he meet there but the poor farmer?  The man was well into his cups, and he had a desperate look about him.  It’s the look of a man who’s seen hard times and expects to see more, but there was something guilty about it, too, like there was some crime he was trying so hard to forget.  Seeing Imran, he all but attacked him, grabbing the front of his robes and crying.  “I had to do it, don’t you see?  I’d have been ruined otherwise, ruined!  I have a wife and children and I couldn’t . . .”  He trailed off and seemed to remember himself.  He let go of Imran’s robes, but before the trader could escape, he gave him a strange, solemn look.  “You treat that Gondorian well, you understand me?” he said, “He’s a proud sort and strange, but right useful.  Treat him well and he’ll be the best thing that’s ever happened to your business.  Otherwise, the Eye Itself won’t save you.”

Now Imran, as you might have realized, is a rough sort under all that fine silk, and he doesn’t scare easily.  He laughed the farmer off and in the morning he drove the tall Tark on with a whip and a cuff like all the rest.  And at first, it all seemed to go fine.  They set out from the village with twenty men, near two hundred Tark slaves, and a string of camels to carry supplies.  Fine beasts, those camels, but Imran always had to have the best of everything.  That was a fine beast you yourselves brought into my stable.  Like I said before:  men of good taste.  Oh, but here I am getting distracted with talk of camels and losing the train of the tale.  Where was I?  Oh, yes, the slaves, for they are the crux of Imran’s troubles.  Mostly, they were captured fighters like the tall one, but there were some more ordinary folk too—maids and little ones and the like.  Imran expected the trip to take about three weeks.  He had to go slow, you see, because he could get a good price for the children, but only if some of them survived the journey.  And, like I said, it was all going according to plan at first.  The tall one, he kept his head down and was just perfectly quiet and polite.  He even calmed down some of the other warriors who were none too happy about being sold to the Umbari.  It was all very routine, at first, and they made good time.

Then, about a week in, the first child died.  It happens, you see, on any trading circuit.  Some of the youngest ones are just not strong enough to survive in the Haradwaith.  When the little girl collapsed, the tall Tark tried to pick her up and carry her, chains and all.  Well, Imran, he was having none of that.  Little half-grown slaves don’t draw near enough profit for him to risk delaying his precious shipment.  They left the girl for the buzzards, of course—there’s no human decency left in those slave drivers anymore.  It’s the work, if you catch my meaning.  It changes a man.

I wasn’t lying when I said the tall Tark was a hard one, though.  It took four of Imran’s men with whips and cudgels to drive him away.  If Imran hadn’t known that the Tark wandered into Harad all alone, he would have sworn the child was his own daughter.  Once they were well away, they beat him senseless as a warning to the others.  You see, Imran always lived in fear of a revolt, and he’d seen how the other Tarks looked to the tall one.  He’d sooner risk losing one strong slave than let the rest think they could defy him.  Everyone expected the tall Tark to die that night, but the next morning he somehow got up, though he was half-flayed.  All day, he staggered along at the very back of the column, and when they made camp, he collapsed where he stood and was unconscious before he hit the sand.  But somehow, the next day he was stronger, and the next day stronger still and no one else died, and the other Tarks looked to him with the reverence they save for great lords.

But then, when the sun rose on the fourth day, they looked to him not at all, for he was gone.  Imran could not understand it; the night watchman had seen nothing and heard nothing, but while the sun had gone down on one hundred and ninety-six chained slaves, it rose on one hundred and ninety-five and the empty, open shackles of the tall Tark.  There were no tracks, no trail to follow.  It was as if he had simply vanished.

Well, Imran still had a deadline to meet, so he simply cursed his lost profit and moved the other slaves out, taking comfort in the thought that a Tark alone and friendless in a foreign desert would never live out the day.

How wrong he was.

The second morning, the sun came up on one hundred and ninety slaves, five abandoned shackles, and the body of the night watchman.  The fellow’s neck had been broken, though he’d never made a sound, and his weapons were gone.  The missing slaves were all doughty fighters, like the tall one.  And, that was the last night Imran slept sound.

The next night, Imran placed a half-dozen watch fires and bid the watchman patrol around them unceasingly.  His throat was cut some time before dawn, and the others awoke to find ten more men missing along with one camel.

That night, Imran placed four watchmen, one at each corner of camp.  Each held a horn in his hand and was instructed to check in with his fellows four times each hour.  They must have been killed almost simultaneously; no one ever raised the alarm.  This time, the raiders took three camels and fifteen slaves—not just the men this time, but two women and some of the smaller children.

Imran and his men spent that morning beating the remaining slaves.  They knew the thieves could not possibly have stolen into camp and unchained fifteen slaves without the others realizing it.  Not a one would speak, though; not the strong men nor the old women nor even the children, though some were as young as my boy, there.  In desperation, Imran threatened to leave the remaining children to the desert’s mercies, but the stone-eyed mothers simply held their little ones out to him, and he quailed under their resolve.  Soon, he had no choice but to pack up the remaining slaves and move on.  He had a deadline to keep, after all.

That night, the men cast lots to see who would have to stand watch.  Two men lost and paid for it with their lives.  A dozen more Gondorim went free.

In the morning, Imran decided to leave the children behind after all, rationalizing that he could move faster without them and if the raiders picked them up, they would at least slow them down instead.  The Tarks offered neither resistance nor response.  To the last man, woman, and child, they were steely-eyed and resolute, like soldiers on the march.

None of Imran’s men slept that night.  It made no difference.  The raiders killed two men along the perimeter, crept into camp, and loosed fourteen more slaves from their shackles.

And so it continued.  Every night, Imran’s forces shrank, and every morning more slaves were gone.  Imran knew, by now, that he was being hunted, though he knew not how nor why.  He grew paranoid and terrified of everything, but especially of the flinty-eyed slaves who still followed his camels in a silent, ever-dwindling column.  He drove them ever faster and faster until, at last, they made camp nearly within sight of Umbar’s walls.

By that final night, Imran had only a half-dozen men left and perhaps twenty slaves.  His foes vastly outnumbered him, but he did not take the time to wonder why they had not simply overwhelmed him long ago.  Taking the extra chains that the raiders had so thoughtfully left him, he chained each of his own men to one of the slaves, determined to at least protect what little profit was left to him, for his greed overrode even his good sense.

Late that night, Imran was awakened from his restless sleep by a loud horn.  He scarce had time to draw a sword before his foes were upon him.  It seemed every man who escaped along the way had somehow followed him, and though they were armed poorly, with cudgels and only a few swords stolen from the guards, the freed slaves vastly outnumbered their former captors.  In that moment, Imran realized his own folly and the Tarks’ cleverness.  You see, a large company of foreign men would have little chance to navigate a desert as trackless as the Haradwaith.  If they had simply killed Imran as soon as they outnumbered him, the Gondorim would have been lost and perished in the desert, no matter how many supplies they stole.  But, by taking back their own a few at a time, they pressed Imran to flee faster, and he led them right to Umbar.  With the city just a few leagues away, they could easily slip inside, disguised as messengers and day laborers, and stow away one by one on ships bound back to their homeland.

But, with the city so near, they didn’t need the slaver anymore.

I imagine by now you’re wondering how I came to hear this tale in such detail.  It should have been an enigma, after all—the simple mystery of a caravan vanishing in the desert without a trace, and no one ever the wiser.  But, no.  There was one more part that had to play out, and it was this final act that renders the whole story a riddle rather than merely a curiosity.  I’m sure it came as quite the shock to old Imran when he slowly came to hours later.  The three other men who awoke were likewise shocked to be alive.  For reasons none of them understood, the Tarks had simply knocked some of them senseless with clubs rather than running them through.  But that wasn’t the strangest part.  When they finally rose and looked down on the enclosure where the chained slaves had once been, do you know what they found?

Empty chains?  That’s what you would expect, isn’t it?  And indeed, the shackles were empty.  All except for one.  At the edge of the camp, sleeping soundly in chains as though nothing had happened, lay a single Tark.  When Imran got nearer, he realized it wasn’t just any northerner.  No, this was the tall, steel-eyed Tark who had started all this mess by vanishing into the night a fortnight prior.

They kicked him awake and questioned him for hours, but he would speak not a word, even after they beat him nearly as hard as the first time.  Imran’s slave drivers were furious.  Being mercenaries, they didn’t care about their fallen comrades overmuch, but they knew that with all the slaves gone, Imran could never pay them.  They wanted to kill the Tark, but their master stopped them.  Imran dared not kill this man nor even maim him; he had no other slaves.  He owed money to a dozen creditors in three cities, and without this shipment to pay down his debts, he would be utterly ruined.  His only chance was to sell this last Tark and use the money to slip away in the night, in poverty and disgrace.  He argued with the men all through the afternoon, until they were ready to kill him instead.  The raiders, though, had taken their weapons but left Imran with the Gondorian sword that he had bought from the farmer as an afterthought all those weeks ago.  He brandished it, and they threw up their hands in disgust, cursing his name and all slave merchants and the raiders and all of Gondor for producing such brigands.  They left him there in the evening, striking out for the city and leaving Imran to face the night with only the tall Tark for company.

Though he was exhausted from both his wounds and the many sleepless nights, Imran did not sleep that night.  He sat by his fire with the Tark’s naked sword held across his knees, watching its former owner across the flickering flames.  For his part, the tall Tark gazed back with the perfect calmness that he’d showed since the very beginning.  It was terribly disturbing; Imran searched the other man’s face for some sign of hatred or bitterness or fear, but saw only peace and a clarity of purpose that chilled the slaver to his bones.  It came as a great relief when the Tark finally pillowed his head on his manacled hands.  He was less unnerving when he slept, although even this seemed to come too easily and too peacefully for a man in his position.  Still, Imran gathered his nerve and his meager wits.  He began to think that maybe the other Tarks had turned on this one, and left him behind as some sort of punishment.  Yes, that must be it, he reassured himself.  For, what sane man would willingly place himself back in chains, having once been free of them?  All night, they were not disturbed, and Imran convinced himself.

When morning came, there was nothing to do but take the slave’s chains in his own hand and set out toward Umbar.  The Tark followed quietly, offering no resistance.  Idly, Imran wondered what the other slaves had done to him, and hoped it pained him.  That was how they entered Umbar, with Imran sweating and thirsting and cursing and the tall Tark following silently with a bowed head exactly, if Imran had bothered to think of it, the way he’d followed the poor farmer into his tiny village market so many weeks ago.  Imran wasted no time in pawning the Gondorian off as a galley slave for five times what he’d paid the farmer, but his victory brought him nothing but bitterness.  He had only the clothes on his back and that small amount of coin, and he knew he would have to flee from his creditors.

And that, my friends, is how the once mighty Imran showed up on my doorstep where once he’d boasted of his riches, dressed in rags and begging for a crust of bread.  The strangest thing, he told me as he wept into a cup of ale that I’d so generously given him, stranger than anything else was the look of the Gondorian at the end.  Just for an instant, as the northerner was being led away to his doom, he lifted his head and pierced Imran with a look.  Sharp as a sword, his eyes were—still fierce and bright as the dawn.

He did not look like a beaten man.

Oh, but I’ve gone and worked myself into a sweat with these dark tales and completely neglected your cups.  Don’t look so stricken, my dear man; these were strange and terrible happenings, but no honest folk were harmed—only the likes of Imran and some rogue from the north.  We’ve heard naught since from any of those who escaped, so it’s likely they fled back to their own land.

What happened to the tall Tark?  Oh, you needn’t worry yourself about him, good sir.  Galley slaves never last longer than three months, and it’s been at least five.  That pale-eyed demon won’t be bothering us again.

Son, didn’t I tell you to go help your mother?  Don’t you know better than to interrupt your elders?  Alright, alright, if you must speak at least slow down a bit.  Mutiny on the Sea Shrike did you say?  Yes, it’s a galley from Umbar, I know that as well as you, but it means nothing.  It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the man in this story that I told you not to listen to.  Come now, my friends, off to bed and don’t look so frightened.  You can sleep well tonight; a good honest businessman like me is far too sharp to let a Gondorian through his doors.  And, please, my little son thinks himself knowledgeable, but pay no attention to his childish fancies.

TBC

A/N:  Reviews and concrit are much appreciated.

Tark—a pejorative for a Man of Gondor or Rohan, it is orcish in origin, but Men who served Sauron may have picked it up from long contact with orcs.  I don’t fully address it here, but if you want a thoughtful discussion of the word and its implications for Haradric culture, you should read Canafinwe’s excellent two-shot “Pale-Faced Tark.”

A few words on the rest of this fic:  There are two more parts.  Each part will take place after a time jump and will have a new original narrator.  My intent was not to detail every moment of Aragorn’s time in Harad, but to offer a few snapshots of the various ways he was seen during his time there.  Thus, I’ll leave the liberation of the Sea Shrike to your imagination for the time being, though I may come back and describe the whole of his adventures with an Aragorn-POV fic some time in the future.  I will try to post again next week, but finals still aren’t over, so you may have to be patient with me.

A/N:  Big, biiig thanks to Cairistiona for her beta work.  This chapter, in particular, needed a lot of tweaks and nudges.

Dakheel—a Haradric name meaning “foreigner.”  It was given to Aragorn in my previous story, “Ransom,” and has followed him south.

You, there, halt in the name of the Eye!  State your name and your business on these roads.  Quickly, I haven’t all day!  Merchants, you say?  And your business here?

Oh, cease your disingenuous bowing and scraping.  Do you think it will do you any good?  Do you not know what this badge of mine means?  I am on urgent business from the Commander General of the Grand Army—yes, from Murtaza himself, who takes his orders directly from the Dark Lord, long may he reign.  So, have done with your prevaricating and take care not to delay me further!

Yes, I can see that you’ve camped for the night.  I have eyes in my skull the same as yourself.  In these empty plains, your cook fires can be seen from a mile off.  What I meant, my good Master Merchant, is what is your business here on the West Imperial Road?  What is your cargo?  Where are you bound?

Umbar?  Of course.  It seems every caravan in these lands is on their way to trade with those ship lords.  You’ve permits to travel and to carry cargo?  Show me.  Very well, this all seems in order.  You carry lumber?  Then, I thank you for your service in helping to rebuild our Lord’s navies.  It will not be forgotten.

There is no need to tremble so, Master Merchant.  These are standard questions.  Appearances must be maintained, after all.  In truth, though, I could care less about whatever petty indiscretion sparks such fear in you.  If you haven’t acquired all the necessary seals from the Under-Vizier of Western Commerce or failed to have your cargo evaluated by the Assistant Inspector of Timber Supply, I really don’t want to hear about it.  I am on a mission of far more import.

And perhaps you can assist me, Master Merchant, in some undoubtedly limited capacity.  Have a look—a good, long look—at this parchment and then tell me:  Have you seen this man?

Look a little longer.  I know, ‘tis only a charcoal sketch, but it was made by one who had prolonged interaction with the brigand.  Note his features—Gondorian, wouldn’t you agree?  His skin is darkened and bronzed from long months under our sun, but the astute can still tell that he is fair of face.

You do not recognize him?  You’re certain?  Take a good look, but know that, accurate though that sketch is, it could not capture his two most distinctive traits.  The first is his height.  This is a giant of a man, a hand’s width taller even than I.  Yes, I see that you begin to understand why it is so crucial that I find this man and protect the hapless people of Harad from his predations.  Also, every man who has come face to face with this one has commented on his eyes.  They are unsettling.  You would remember had you seen them:  gray as storm clouds without a trace of color, but fey and glinting like polished glass.

You’ve not seen him on these roads?  Yes, I’m sure you would remember a man like that.  It seems I am once more wasting my time.  Now, do not be alarmed.  I think, now, that it is unlikely that he ever passed this way.  Still, you should know of the man I track:  the traitor who calls himself Dakheel.

You’ve not heard of him?  By all that’s holy, man, have you been walking about with sand in your ears?  Have you spent all your days among the barbarian nomads?  I thought by now that word of his treachery would have spread from here to the Sea of Rhûn!

No matter, no matter.  I often forget that we cannot expect the common folk to stay abreast of matters of import.  The hour grows late.  I can go no further tonight.  I place this caravan under my protection until daybreak.  Fetch one of your young men to tend my horse and provide it with feed.  Yes, the camels’ grain will suffice if you have naught else.

Well, don’t just stand there!  Do Men not also need to eat?  Have you no sense of basic hospitality?

So, this is your camp.  I admit, from the smoke of your fires I expected something a bit more impressive.  No matter.  Place a watch, at least, to protect these wagons.  There is no knowing what sort of brigands may roam in the dark.

Yes, these rations will do.  I can hardly expect to eat to my usual standards in a place such as this!  You’ve my thanks for the meal, such as it is.  Now, Master Merchant, you must forgive me for saying so, but your company seems woefully unprepared to defend itself in these dangerous times.  You travel with no guards.  You place no watch.  You’ve not even heard of the most infamous outlaw known to travel these lands.  I fear you do not take the threats to your own safety very seriously.  I speak only out of concern, you understand.  The army does what it can, but we cannot be everywhere nor can we spend our strength defending every hapless caravan of ignorant folk.

Nay, do not apologize.  Clearly, it is we who have failed you by failing to properly explain the risk.  That is a mistake I must now strive to remedy.  Gather every man of wits, save those on watch.  Once I explain what I’m about—once you hear the full tale of the man I seek—you will not be so cavalier about your own lives and the Dark Lord’s shipments.

Is this all?  Very well, gather round all that can, and I will tell you of how I met the traitor Dakheel.

Now, General Murtaza in his cunning has established many secret places for the training of young men and the building of our Lord’s armies.  The conscripted, in particular, are often in need of such instruction.  They come to us—boys and young men from all walks of life, often delinquent and directionless.  Their captains and training masters give them discipline, purpose, and a way to, at last, be of use to their nation.  Such places supply an endless need; even peasants such as yourselves must realize the high attrition rates of soldiers in our armies.

I, myself, was stationed at one such place built about a secluded oasis not three months ago.  No, I am no common arms instructor—I leave that to men of more patience and less wit.  Nor was it my task to oversee the fort and its captains—that sort of tedious administration fell to a Vice-General named Khadeem.  Then, as now, I answered only to Commander General Murtaza, who, of course, answers only to the Dark Lord.  I served as their eyes and ears and, at need, as the arbiter of their will.  I might hold that comfortable position still had Dakheel not brought ruin upon us.

He came to us at sunset, riding alone out of the West.

Ah, I see I have your attention.  It sounds like the beginning of a grand tale, does it not?  Like the start of one of the legends or superstitious myths you people still tell?  Well, much as I hate to disabuse you of romantic notions, in truth, it was nothing of the kind.  Rather, Dakheel arrived by a well-worn road, astride a horse bearing the brand of an Umbari garrison.  He was garbed as a humble captain and bore a sealed missive from Murtaza for myself and Vice-General Khadeem.  We read it in Khadeem’s study while Dakheel stood by, not drawing attention to himself while he awaited orders as any mid-ranking officer should.  It was all quite routine.  We gave no thought to the messenger until we reached the last line of the Commander General’s letter and found a post-script.  “I have sent you another captain to aid in your mission.  The man who bears this missive is called Dakheel, and is a skilled tactician and commander of men.  It is my will that he be given reasonable latitude to train a battalion as he sees fit.”  It was clearly written in Murtaza’s hand, which, of course, is quite familiar to me.

Seeing that, we turned our attention, at last, to the man.  I admit, my first thought was not that this was an imposter.  He had Murtaza’s blessing, after all.  When he spoke Haradric his tongue was clumsy, but that is not so strange.  He’d come to us out of Umbar, after all, and the Corsairs speak mostly Westron.  Nor did his Tarkish features condemn him.  There are still many in Umbar who have the pale skin and eerie eyes of our foes.  The Corsairs swear such features mark their lineage to the King’s Men of Númenor, but everyone knows the true Lords of Umbar are long extinct.  If the Umbari today are born with pale eyes, it is likely from intermarriage with their own slaves.

I tell you all this because some will say that Dakheel was uncanny in concealing his own lineage.  Some will even whisper that he changed his features by magic, as the wicked Elf-sorcerers of legend are said to do.  Banish such thoughts from your parochial minds.  He is but a Man; he has no unnatural power save what fools may grant him through superstitious fear.

That first night, Khadeem simply took little notice of him save to direct him to the officers’ housing and order him to report in the morning.  I was a touch more suspicious, but not nearly enough, I am ashamed to say.  “So, you’ve garnered Murtaza’s favor,” I said to him, “Strange that he has not mentioned you to me before now.”

The stranger bowed deeply.  “I am honored that you would think one so lowly as I to be worthy of such a mention,” he replied.  I dismissed him without further inquisition, assured that he knew his place.

How wrong I was.

In the weeks that followed, I kept a close eye on Captain Dakheel.  As the letter had ordered, Khadeem quickly cobbled together a battalion for him to train—though “battalion” seems too grand a word for the four hundred raw recruits in his charge.  I must acknowledge that, as an arms instructor, he was competent enough.  Under his leadership, peasant boys who’d never swung more than a threshing scythe quickly turned into swordsmen.  City-born street urchins who’d never touched a horse that wasn’t skinned and cooked were soon thundering across the desert in orderly cavalry charges.  It was well-known that Dakheel’s battalion trained harder than any other in the encampment.

I could not argue with his results, but I remained troubled by the methods he used.  Or rather, those he didn’t use.

You see, Dakheel eschewed all the traditions put in place specifically to help him maintain order.  How he ever gained his men’s respect is beyond me.  We’d generously provided him with quarters suiting his station, but as soon as his trainees’ camp was established, he abandoned our fine lodgings.  He pitched a ragged tent of his own among the recruits!  He was shamefully familiar with the men and seemed to prefer their company to that of respectable men.  At times, he even took his meals among them.  His idea of discipline, meanwhile, was more like a wet nurse’s coddling.  Nearly every young recruit needs the touch of the lash at one point or another to convince him that training is not a game and respect is not optional.  Yet, Dakheel never used the whip, nor did he allow his sergeants and instructors to do so. If another officer ordered a beating for a man in his battalion—as happens from time to time for off-duty offenses—Dakheel would actually become angry with the offended captain!

There was no reasoning with him on the matter.  Tradition, of course, dictates that a captain—however inept he might prove—is owed the obedience of the men under his command, and therefore may control how they are disciplined.  Dakheel brazenly abused that latitude.  At the time, there were a half dozen other captains at that same site and perhaps three thousand trainees, all told.  The other officers soon learned that it was far easier to overlook minor infractions from Dakheel’s men—it simply wasn’t worth dealing with his haranguing.  They would drag his recruits to the whipping post only for major lapses like failing to bow, but even these punishments were contested.  It seemed to me that Dakheel was an idealistic fool.  Sadly, such men are all too common among inexperienced warriors.  I tried, in good faith, to counsel him.  I warned him that he courted disaster with his blatant disregard for discipline, but he always responded the same way—with a polite smile and a question.  “Do you find the discipline my men display to be substandard?”

And the infuriating thing was, I did not.  As I said, one could not argue with his results.  Though he often roused them before dawn to begin morning drills, his recruits were almost never tardy.  At camp, they rarely instigated conflict with other units, though such brawls are commonplace among trainees.  To a man, they were efficient in their work and dedicated in their training, though many were so green they still smelled of goat dung and more had been declared hopelessly intractable by other commanders.

As you might imagine, his men loved him the way a willful toddler loves a permissive nursemaid.  And, it wasn’t long before he began to pick out his favorites from among them.

This was not so strange; as training progresses, it is commonplace for captains to select their most promising men for further instruction.  When the battalion is deployed, these men form the captain’s personal guard and remain his most trusted subordinates.  That Dakheel played favorites was not unusual, but the men he chose for such honors were.

We called it “the Grand Company of the Unwanted.”  Dakheel filled it with men who, before his coming, had been either hopelessly inept or endlessly belligerent.  These were men who’d been disciplined so many times that their backs were just masses of scar tissue, who’d been labeled so incompetent that they should have been either relegated to manual labor far behind the front lines or grouped in a company of the equally hopeless and sent on some suicide charge.  Since Dakheel’s battalion had been thrown together so suddenly, he began with more than the usual number of misfits.  Yet, he did not simply accept these, he actively sought out more.  If he happened to notice a particular man from another battalion who was repeatedly brought to discipline, he would approach that man’s captain and seek to bring him into his own battalion—often in trade for one of his less troublesome recruits.  I believe this practice actually endeared him to his fellow captains somewhat, since it saved them the trouble of whipping their own delinquents into shape.  Even a stray pig can serve a purpose, after all, if it swallows the trash that would otherwise clutter our streets.

A month passed in this manner, with Dakheel forever pushing the boundaries of acceptable decorum while somehow maintaining enough good will that he was allowed the latitude—often, over my objections.  I found it all incredibly tiresome.  When, at last, Khadeem declared the ragtag battalion fit for combat, I thought I had the perfect first mission for them.  Alas, I now see my folly!  His command had so disrupted the natural order, that I should have been far more suspicious.  He and his men should have been sent north at once and thrown against the armies of Gondor to prove their loyalty or die in the attempt.  But, I was still operating in good faith, despite all the vexations Dakheel had caused me.  l saw him only as a fool, and not as a traitor.  I sought to burn that idealism out of him, expecting he would one day thank me for it.

There was a village two days’ march to the east that could not have been more inconsequential had it tried.  It was built in the heart of the desert, fed by a handful of runoff farms, and watered by a few shallow wells.  It had been an outpost for trading caravans once, but as the wells dried up, the trading routes did as well.  The village had reached a point where it produced nothing but children, which it then could not feed.  The worthless peasants born there fled one by one to seek better fortunes in the city.

The village might have escaped our notice entirely, had one of those refugees not brought it to our attention.  A young man native to that barren stretch of wilderness had recently been arrested in Umbar for killing a vizier.  The youth died under torment before his interrogators could determine whether the murder of one of the Dark Lord’s instruments was the foolish mistake of a drunkard or an act of treason.  To be safe, Murtaza had commanded that the penalty for treason would fall on the guilty man’s home village.

That particular stretch of desert was too unimportant to warrant much of an armed presence.  Aside from a handful of villages—all equally dirt-poor—and the rare nomadic tribe, it was uninhabited.  The nomads were a source of concern, as they are too ignorant to bow to the Dark Lord or any other, but their occasional predations on the peasants caused little harm.  Our training encampment was the closest the region had to a military presence, so it was fortunate that when Murtaza’s order came, we had a newly commissioned battalion perfectly suited to the task of razing the traitor’s village.

I stood by Khadeem’s side as he summoned Captain Dakheel and laid out his orders.  The Vice-General explained in detail how the village was to be destroyed—how every thatched hut was to be burned along with the surrounding farms, the fields sown with salt, the chickens slaughtered and thrown down the wells.  He spent time, in particular, specifying that every villager was to be killed, from the able-bodied men right down to the babes in arms.  Too many captains, in the past, have claimed to have misunderstood such orders.  Too often an officer whose heart is not true will use such “misunderstanding” as a shield to enact a lighter sentence—by allowing some of the women to escape, for instance, or by taking the children in thrall rather than slaying them.  We gave Dakheel no such avenue.

He stood before us, motionless at parade rest, and listened silently.  His face remained expressionless throughout.  Only when Khadeem asked the standard query—“Have you any questions?”—did he speak.

“What have they done,” he asked, “The villagers?”

Khadeem and I exchanged a look.  That particular question ran dangerously close to questioning Murtaza’s will—and therefore the Dark Lord’s will.  Perhaps Dakheel saw our doubts, because he continued, his voice utterly neutral.  “It affects my tactical plan, you see.  A village in open revolt may expect an attack and provide undue resistance.  I would not see the men I’ve trained lost so soon if it can be avoided.”

We considered that.  It was a reasonable enough concern, given his tendency to coddle his recruits.  “You can expect little resistance,” Khadeem said at last.  He explained about the vizier’s murder and the charge of treason.  Isolated as that village was, they likely had not even heard of the misdeeds of one of their sons.

When the Vice-General had finished his tale, the captain nodded, still without so much as a trace of emotion marring his face.  “My men stand ready, but they have not yet been trained on assaulting structures.  I request a week’s time to drill them on the proper tactics before we set out.”

I raised an eyebrow sharply.  “A week for a simple mission to wipe out a few dust rats?”

“It will not be their only such encounter, and not all will be so simple,” he replied, “I would not have them learn bad habits if it can be avoided.”

“Yet, every day you tarry, you risk the village learning of their doom and taking precautions.”

“Then let them!” he cried.  “Is the dread of death not part of the sentence laid on them?  Their precautions will avail them little, in the end.”  A fey gleam had entered his eyes.  For the first time, he seemed dangerous to me.  I thought that perhaps we would yet make a captain out of Dakheel the Nursemaid.

As his answers were not openly treasonous, I deferred to Khadeem.  He was frowning.  “You have three days,” he said at last.

Dakheel bowed.  “Thank you, General.  My lord.”

That night, Dakheel saddled his horse and rode out alone into the desert.  I should have stopped him, but the man I’d set to watch the stables did not have the wits to have him followed.  My spy did not even think it worth a mention until he gave his daily report the next morning.  By then, Dakheel was already back, having returned with the dawn.

I rode out to confront him in the barren place where he’d chosen to drill his soldiers.  In an empty stretch of plains where the ground was firm, he’d fashioned a “town” for them to level out of ropes and tent pegs.  His men sat ahorse in neat rows.  At some unseen command, orderly squads would gallop in to cast their flaming brands into the marked-off squares that represented houses.  Just as quickly, they would fall back and cavalry archers would rain arrows on the empty “streets.”

I could easily see how his plan would be applied—how the first wave would set fire to the structures, driving the panicked villagers out into the open, where they would be easy prey for our archers. 

I forced myself not to admire the simple elegance of those tactics. 

As I rode up beside Dakheel, he acknowledged me with a half-bow—the best he could manage while mounted.  In low tones—for I would not undermine even the most foolhardy commander in the presence of his men—I demanded an explanation for his nighttime disappearance.  He calmly explained that it was an old custom of his to seek solitude before a battle, to plan and to pray.

I pursed my lips.  “So you give honor to the Great Eye.”

He smiled mildly.  “All the honor He deserves,” he assured me.

Well, I had nothing to say to that.

His battalion set out at dawn two days later—four hundred horsemen armed with spear and bow and torch.  It had taken me weeks of maneuvering to position one of my spies in Dakheel’s command, so I was less than pleased when that particular man limped back to camp not three hours later, leading a horse that had thrown a shoe.  I fear I spent too much time berating the failed spy and too little time considering the turn of events.  I see, now, that it was too great a coincidence.  I should have known then that something was amiss.

But, before evening fell that night, the watchman on our easterly wall spotted a column of smoke in the distance, just where the treasonous village ought to have been.  I could sleep easy, then, confident that the traitors’ execution had gone off without a hitch.  There is no harm in taking satisfaction in a job well done.

Then morning came, and Dakheel’s battalion did not return.  We thought nothing of it, at first.  They would have had to ride hard to reach the village as quickly as they apparently did.  It was only natural that they should give their horses a rest on the return journey.  And perhaps dealing with the traitors had taken longer than expected.  Perhaps a few had held out in some fortified place.  Perhaps when it was done, they’d taken the time to bury the bodies, since we’d not forbidden them from doing so.  Dakheel, I thought, was soft.  It was no strain to think he might be sentimental as well.

But, three days passed, and still they did not return.

Loath though I was to involve myself in the humble matter of a village’s destruction, I knew I could not let this pass.  I rode out with one of the other nearly-trained battalions.

We reached the village.

At first, all seemed as it should be.  The peasants’ hovels had been reduced to burnt-out shells.  Such structures are built out of adobe in even the poorest places, but the thatched roofs had been burned away, the shutters and doors smashed off their hinges, all the fabric and flammable furniture piled and burned.  Ash still drifted on the air. 

For a few moments, we were all impressed with Dakheel’s efficiency.  I even began to wonder if some great calamity had befallen him on his return journey.  For a moment, I actually worried for the traitor.

Then, we noticed that there were no bodies—not in the streets and not in the houses.  Blackened bones should have remained, even if the peasants had burned to death in their beds.  We could find no disturbed earth where Dakheel’s men might have buried their victims and no scorched pyre where they might have burned them.  They’d not thrown them down the wells—in fact, they’d not poisoned the wells at all, nor had they salted the fields.  The villagers, it appeared, had simply vanished.

The dead, as a rule, are not difficult to find.  It is far easier for men and women to vanish while they are still alive.

We combed the village for hours, but could find no explanation save the most horrifying one.

Dakheel and his entire battalion had abandoned honor and embraced treason.  They had warned the villagers of their coming sentence, spirited them away, and set fire to the humble dwellings to throw off pursuit.

Four hundred traitors rebelled as one in a single day.  Such a thing was unheard of.  I rode back to camp in a cold fury and snapped at Khadeem to ready the other battalions for pursuit.  Letting him handle the niceties of supply and logistics, I stormed into our archives, determined to find the names and home villages of every traitor under Dakheel’s command.

I found only cinders.  At some point while we debated whether to pursue, someone had crept into the very archives, gathered all the records of the Seventh Battalion, and burned them right there on the flagstones. 

A rebel captain who could operate with impunity within our ranks.  Four hundred traitors fanatically loyal to him.  And now, we had no record of who any of them were.

Oughtn’t I to know who they were?  Pah!  Tell me, Master Merchant, when was the last time you tried to keep track of three thousand flea-bitten peasant boys?  You think you could recall names and home villages for each one?  I thought not.  As for me, I dealt little with the riff-raff; my concern was with Khadeem’s loyalty and that of the other officers.  I suppose if we’d gathered all the remaining captains together, then by careful recollection they might have been able to recall the names of perhaps a dozen of the traitors.  More likely, though, we’d have wasted hours debating and had little to show for it.  I can hear it now:  “What about that fellow from the Second Battalion . . .Tamir, wasn’t it?  Wasn’t he from that village to the south?”  “No, it was Tahir, not Tamir, and he came from the west.”  “You’re both wrong, his name was Tahmid and he was from the city . . .”  And on and on.  Truth be told, few captains remember the names and personal details of the common soldiers.

Officers who take too much interest in the riff-raff have been known to end up like Dakheel.

So, I was thwarted—temporarily, it seemed.  I pushed my rage aside.  We would simply have to capture them, that was all.  The traitors would reveal their names and home villages and gods-knew what else during their interrogations.

Khadeem had nearly three thousand recruits ready to march within the hour.  Every man was applied to the task of finding the traitors, from those about to be deployed to those who’d arrived not three days before.  Khadeem knew, as surely as I did, that when word of this treachery broke, our very survival would depend on how quickly we quashed this rebellion.

We marched on the burned-out village in a grand legion.  By then, the place had been abandoned for nearly a week, but four hundred men and horses will inevitably leave signs of their passage.  Soon, our trackers picked up signs of a large company on foot, moving northeast.  The horses, it seemed, had scattered in all directions.  We took no further note of them, but followed the trail of the marching men as it wound steadily up into a series of hills.  It was clear and easy to follow—almost too clear.  I wonder now if they intentionally drew pursuit after them, though to what end I cannot say.

We marched for a full day and night.  I expected a weeks-long pursuit, given that the traitor’s battalion had had three days already to lengthen their lead, yet somehow weovertook them at dawn on the second day.  The trail ended at a natural fastness—a rock formation that rose up sharply from the surrounding hills.  Only a single trail rose up into those rocks.  Not a soul was visible, but high up on the sheltered heights, we could see the faint smoke of campfires.

Khadeem halted the ranks.  Without a word, he signaled for the archers to string their bows and make ready.  We would greet the traitors with a hail of arrows sent right over their makeshift fortress.

The General dropped his hand and a thousand arrows flew.  If you have never seen such a thing, know it is a beautiful sight, when all the armies of our Lord act in unison, falling with the weight of one mighty fist.

Alas, that it was in vain.

We expected our assault to be met with cries of alarm and the screams of the dying, but when the bows stilled, only silence reigned for a moment.  Then came the stuttering twang of hundreds of opposing archers shooting out of a dozen high places.  Arrows swarmed out at us like hornets, striking armor and flesh.  Within moments, dozens of men were falling and screaming.  The traitors loosed one more volley and then went still once more.  Up on the heights, we could see a line of spearmen holding the trail, awaiting our assault.

Khadeem decided to oblige them.  Swiftly, he detailed a battalion of our strongest and most experienced fighters to charge the hill.  Arrows rained down on them.  Boulders, too, fell upon the trail, cracking skulls and felling men.  They pressed on, but Dakheel had chosen his refuge well.  In the narrow confines of the trail, our greater numbers meant little, and our foes held the high ground.  Time after time, the attackers were thrown back, and time after time, they advanced again.  Our casualties climbed from the dozens to the hundreds, and still our progress was scant.  We managed to slay a few of them, of course, but only at great cost.  Our arrows could not reach up the winding pathways to strike the few men we could see.  In each wave, a few of their spearmen and swordsmen were dragged down, but they still fought as fiercely as trapped animals.  None were captured alive.

And before we could reach the bulk of their forces, we had to deal with him.  Dakheel stood planted at the front lines.  He had abandoned the curved scimitar he’d worn about camp.  In its place, he held a long, straight sword like the Gondorians bear.  As our men were driven back in wave after wave, they babbled in fear of him.  Over and over, I heard how that long sword in his long arm gave him a reach nigh equal to that of a spearman, how his reflexes were sharper than any duelist, how his eyes gleamed like some demon of lore.  They were terrified of him.

What frightened me was the look I began to glimpse in some of my men’s eyes.  It wasn’t simply that they were afraid.  No, it is child’s play to command frightened men; you need only make certain they are more afraid of you than they are of the enemy.  Nor could I put down their poor performance to inexperience; any peasant boy with a day’s training can be driven into battle if his commander knows how to handle him.  But, no, these men were troubled.  I came to realize that they did not see Dakheel’s men for what they were—traitors, leeches, apostates against Sauron.  No, these men still saw our foes as comrades.  They were loath to slay them and more loath, it seemed, to capture them alive as they had been ordered.  I began to suspect that the men on the front lines were giving the mercy stroke to fallen enemies rather than dragging them back to face a traitor’s death as is fitting.

Evening fell, and we had made little progress.  The only thing that gave me hope was that the bows of our enemy had fallen silent long before; they must have run out of arrows, and we had not fired on them, so as not to give them more.  I was astounded at the simple waste of the endeavor.  Counting Dakheel’s mad battalion, nearly a third of our garrison was lost.  A thousand men—the product of many thousands of hours of training—would never march under the Great Eye’s banner and bring glory to their land.  As a lull fell in the battle, I took it upon myself to do what I could to salvage what remained.

Khadeem called back the final wave and allowed the men to regroup.  I fixed a white rag to the end of a spear and proceeded up the trail alone.

Yes, of course it was dangerous!  Everyone knows that traitors have no honor.  But, a flag of parley is still respected among all but the most craven.  I stand before you now, do I not?  So, obviously, they did not slay me on sight.

When I was halfway up the slope, I stopped and drove the point of the spear into the rocky ground.

“Dakheel!” I called out, “Do you yet live?  Have you the honor to come out and treat with me?”

And he appeared.  I’ve warned you against a superstitious fear of the man because it is so easy to fall prey to.  Even now, I know not how he approached.  I merely know that one minute I faced an empty slope littered with boulders and bodies and the next he was there, not ten paces from me, as if he’d simply sprung up out of the stones.  He bore that Gondorian sword at his belt as if he’d been born with it there.  Up until that moment, I had truly not thought him a Tark, but, seeing that, it became impossible to deny.  And he seemed larger, somehow, than he had in the civilized confines of Khadeem’s study.  He had always been tall, of course, but I had long ascribed a stork-like gangliness to those long limbs, such as a youth might have before he truly grows into his arms and legs.  Now, though, there was nothing young or awkward in his bearing, and he seemed to exude power.  I scarcely recognized him.

Then I glanced at his shoulder and realized that while he still wore the scarlet tunic of a captain, he had torn off the proud badge of the Great Eye.  Anger drove out my growing sense of awe.

But, I buried my rage at his insolence.  I presented a genial face.  “We grow weary of slaying our own,” I told him, “Can we not put an end to this?  Will you not surrender?”

His eyes were hard.  “You do not seem to be in a position to make such demands,” he said.

“You cannot hope to escape,” I pointed out, “You are trapped and surrounded, and we have more than five times your numbers.”

He arched an eyebrow as if to say Do you, still?  To his credit, though, he did not dishonor the fallen by making such a quip aloud.  Instead, he replied, “My men know well the fates of those you accuse of treason.  You will not find them easy to subdue, and we may cost you more than you thought to pay.”

“Treason,” I murmured, “It’s a strange thing.  You, perhaps, are the last I would have expected it of.  Whence comes this madness, Dakheel?  Have you family in that village?”

He shook his head.  “I simply would not see the innocent die for acts they had no part in.”

One of the corpses nearest me wore a tunic that was torn at the shoulder just as Dakheel’s was.  I turned it over with a toe and one of Dakheel’s men stared up at us with sightless eyes.  “So, you would see your own men die in their stead.”

His eyes flickered—troubled, nursemaid to the very end.  I saw, at last, the chink in his armor.

I gentled my voice to press my advantage.  “This need go no further, Dakheel.  Order them to lay down arms.  Yes, you are a traitor—it is too late for you—but they were only following your misguided orders.  Some may yet be spared for lives as chattel.  At the least, if they surrender now we can make their deaths quick.”

I was ready to do it, too.  As much as I longed to see every filthy traitor torn apart on the racks as their home villages went up in smoke, I would have abided by the terms I offered Dakheel.  I’d have given every one of them the mercy stroke right there if it would have put Captain Dakheel in chains, for I knew that only by his capture could I secure my own future.  But it was not to be.

His eyes flashed and his voice grew hard.  “Go back to your thralls, slave of Sauron,” he spat, “We may not have the arms to defeat you, but neither must we submit to you.”

Had I brought a blade, I would have killed him for that, parley or no parley.  As it was, though, I could only meet his glare with one of my own.  “Then go back to your hole to hide and to pray,” I hissed, “For on the morn, all of your men will die the most painful deaths we can devise.”

And I returned to camp.

Our men were awake and afoot by the first light of dawn, but we were fewer than the day before.  Not only had we taken honorable losses in battle, but a few cowards had fled in the night, wanting nothing more to do with our just mission.  But, enough remained.  They assembled at the base of the slope with weapons in hand.  At a signal from Khadeem, they pressed forward with a roar, charging up the slope.

No cries rang out on the heights.  No arrows flew at our faces. 

No boulders dropped in our path.

No swordsmen sprang out to meet us.

The men reached the summit and, to a man, they halted.  It was almost comical.  They had reached the traitors’ camp, but there was no sign of Dakheel or his men.  Only burnt out cook fires and broken arrows remained.

It took hours to sort out what had happened.  One common soldier earned himself the only commendation of the engagement when he thrust aside a heavy boulder and revealed a crevice reaching down into the rock.  A few scouts followed it down and reported that it opened onto a labyrinth of natural tunnels and cave systems.  We explored the underground warren for as long as our torches lasted, but found countless openings to the surface where the traitors might have slipped away like rats.

One mystery remained:  someone must have stayed aboveground to thrust that boulder over the opening, but we found no living man, and none of the corpses that lay about seemed to have died of self-inflicted wounds.  This last man, whoever he was, might as well have evaporated or sprouted wings and flown away.

At final tally, we lost nearly half our strength to wounds or to desertion.  A handful of those that fled in the night were captured, but none of Dakheel’s men were ever seen again.  The villagers, for whom this whole mess began, were likewise lost.  While we were occupied with facing down Dakheel’s battalion, they slipped far beyond our reach.  Some have speculated that they slipped into distant cities and took new identities.  Others suspect that a band of nomads took them in.  There is some support for the latter theory; for some time afterwards, we had trouble with a nomadic tribe that before had been small and poor but suddenly grew and was supported by many strong horses.

When we, at last, thought to search Dakheel’s abandoned tent, we found confirmation of how fully we’d been deceived.  Lying right there on his pillow, as if it was waiting for us, was a false seal bearing the Commander General’s insignia, along with sheaths of documents that a clever man could use to forge Murtaza’s handwriting.

Only then did it occur to us that we’d never actually seen Dakheel take his vows to Sauron and to the Grand Army; we’d simply assumed that he spoke them back in Umbar in Murtaza’s presence.

Do you not see?  That letter that he bore to us all those weeks ago—the one that labeled him favored of Commander General Murtaza and commanded us to provide him with recruits to mold—it was all a lie.

Our traitor had been an imposter all along.

Khadeem was executed, of course.  Not only did he overlook Dakheel’s insolence for so long, but when he seemingly had him cornered, his command proved inept enough that nine of every ten traitors escaped.  I expected the same fate, but the Dark Lord, in his wisdom, chose to spare me for a little while.  Yet, a death under torment may yet be mine if I cannot soon find this brigand, Dakheel, and bring him to justice.

And as for Dakheel, who can say?  All I can promise is that you will not see him among civilized folk any time soon.  There are few options available to traitors.  I expected that by now I’d have heard of him taking up highway robbery or some equally distasteful lifestyle.  It bodes ill that I have not; if I cannot soon bring him to his just rewards, I suspect I will go to the rack in his stead.

You see, now, why you must post a watch and forever be wary in these open lands?  Who knows what sort of demons might be hiding in the dark?  If even the Grand Army is not safe from the predations of a man such as this, what hope is there for simple people like yourselves?

Yes, it is fortunate for you that men like me exist.  Merciless, some might call me, but mercy is merely aid to vile treachery.

So, sleep sound, tonight, my simple friends.

I will keep you safe.

TBC

A/N:  I hope you enjoyed!  Reviews make my day (and sometimes my week) and concrit is always appreciated.  The third and final installment of this tale will be posted by early next week at the latest after I finalize a few edits.

Author’s Note:  Huge thanks, as always, to Cairistiona who has been my wonderful sounding-board and beta extraordinaire. 

Come in.  Come in, quickly, close the door.  Were you followed?  Are you certain?

Draw the curtains.  No, not all at once, what if they’re watching the house?  There have been three raids already this month.  Draw that set of curtains and stay out of sight of the other windows.

No, I don’t think I’m being paranoid.  This is not a gentlemen’s gambling club, after all; this is a conspiracy to resist the Great Eye.

Yes, I said it aloud.  Now, if you are spies of his, you may as well arrest me and waste no more of my time with lies and deception.  I find I have little patience for such games.  No?  Then, if you be allies, set your packs aside and take your ease.  I’ve little enough food, but what’s mine is yours, as the old customs demand.

I see you are surprised at my boldness.  Do not mistake it for courage.  It’s merely that we have been playing this shadow game with the authorities for so long that I weary of it.  I could spend half the night mincing words and prevaricating while I try to evaluate your true allegiance, but I think it would avail me little in the end.  So, here is the truth:  I am a loyal son of Harad who would see his country free of the false god Sauron.  Now, if you do not see fit to drag me off to torment, I can comfort myself with the notion that you are a friend and we will dwell no more on it.

Shocked you into silence, have I?  Come, friends, let us speak no more of torment.  They say, after all, that to speak of evil is to invite it to your table.  You bring news from our comrades along the coastline?  I will take those missives, and with thanks; it raises my spirit to hear of others who still stand strong.

For myself?  I’ve little enough to tell.  I have managed this simple dwelling as a safe house for our cause for more than a year now.  The Shadow does not just hang over this city; it settles.  It has built a house here, and now it rests before its hearth like a comfortable old grandfather.  The governor in his palace and the viziers in their mansions content themselves with spending the taxes they collect and with undermining each other for the favor of other lords.  The army poses more of a risk, but they fix their gaze outward, for the most part, concerned with foreign invasions and lawless nomads.  Simple Men of Harad like you and I are largely beneath their notice, and by all the gods, may we stay that way.

But, you were not truly asking about me, were you?  No, I thought as much.  You’ve not been in the movement long, have you?  No, sooner later all the young recruits seek me out to ask how I came to the cause.  But, really, they’re asking about him.  About Dakheel.

Yes, I can see that you’ve heard of him.  From the gleam in your eye, I can tell you’ve heard a great deal, much of it evil.  And yet, you ask me.  Can it be you’re not sure what to believe?  You’re not the first, you know, to question what you’ve been told about him.  It’s been more than three years since his departure, but his legacy is still felt.

And what a contradictory legacy it must seem!  Even the most bitter of his enemies cannot deny that he helped found this resistance movement.  Yet, in the next breath, they would tell you that he was a traitor—a foreign spy sent to undermine us.  Is it any wonder young people like yourselves keep asking about him?

Perhaps it’s finally time to set the record straight.  Yes, that would lighten my mind, at least, and there is no one left that it can harm.  This is the full story—not the one you’ve heard, the one we agreed upon, but the true one.  This is how I met Dakheel.

I’ll admit, the first time I saw him, I gave him little thought.  You’ll have to forgive me; I was beset by concerns that seemed much more pressing.  You see, I glimpsed him for the first time while I stood bound and gagged in the courtyard of the justice building.  Yes, the same monstrous edifice of stone that you passed not two streets from here.  Then, as now, it was the seat of power for the Lord’s magistrate.  All accused of wrongdoing were brought there to face what the lords mockingly call “justice.”  For myself, I expected little mercy.  I was young—still a year short of my majority—but everyone knew that boys half my age have been maimed for less than I was accused of.  Officially, the charge was simple theft—pickpocketing.  I had been caught with my hand in a camel’s saddlebag.  But, the camel belonged to one of the under-viziers, so everyone knew the punishment would be steep.

Oh, but didn’t I promise you the whole truth?  Very well, I’ll spare you from picturing me as some hapless victim.  I knew full well to whom the camel belonged; that was why I chose it.  Robbing an under-vizier while he takes his evening meal may seem petty and pointless to wiser men, but to a boy angry at the world, it felt like the very height of righteous vengeance.  But, I was a poor thief and constables, I’ve found, are not half as blind as our humorous tales would have us believe.  So, I was brought before the magistrate.

This magistrate was not the one who now holds this city in a grip of iron.  No, this was a man named Tariq, a recent appointee of the local lords who had been in the city but a week and now walks here no more.  As is usual for such situations, he sat on his dais in his fine robe with a handful of clerks and advisors around him while we, the accused, stood before him in packs of a dozen or more, watched over by a few bored guards.

I was frightened.  Let no one tell you otherwise.  But, I was also young and full of fervor.  I was making a statement, after all, though I was less clear on what that statement was.  So, naturally, when the clerk called my name, instead of stepping forward to face my punishment, I turned and darted for the courtyard’s gate like a hare before the hounds.  The guards were so startled that for a moment, it seemed I might evade them.  The magistrate was utterly speechless.

But, then I ran straight into him.

No, not Magistrate Tariq, of course.  Even then, I was not that much of a fool.  I mean Dakheel.  He’d been standing in a slight shadow under the eaves, unnoticed by most, which was how he preferred it.  In my mad dash for the gate, I bowled right into him.  It was like running into a mountain.  He moved not an inch.  As I bounced off his chest, though, his arms came up to catch my wrists and keep me from falling.  His eyes locked on mine and seemed to be searching them for something.  I could tell that he was a Tark, but when he spoke it was in perfect Haradric, though at a bare whisper.

“That is not the way out,” he told me.

But, I had no time to ponder what he meant.  Not two heartbeats later, the guards caught up and wrenched me away.  They punished me for my defiance with a few heavy blows and dragged me once again before Tariq, whose duty it was to sentence me.

When I dared to look up again, I happened to notice him—the Tark who had, perhaps unintentionally, impeded my escape.  No one else seemed to take note of him as he circled the courtyard with that long stride of his.  He was dressed in the livery of Tariq’s house, which at least explained his presence there in the courtyard.  The badge on his shoulder proclaimed him to be a bondsman, not a mere slave, but in this city there is often little practical difference, especially for Tarks.*  Still, no one stopped him as he approached the bench, and when he leaned down to whisper something in the magistrate’s ear, Tariq turned to listen.

I shifted from foot to foot while they exchanged quiet words.  Blood trickled down my face from where a guard had split one of my eyebrows.  At last, Magistrate Tariq shook his head and said something that seemed to displease the bondsman.  The Tark’s face clouded and he opened his mouth as if to argue but then quickly got ahold of himself.  It would, of course, be quite the disgrace if one of the magistrate’s servants were seen questioning his decisions in public.

Well, by that point, I couldn’t take much more suspense; I was very near to breaking down and utterly shaming myself.  Fortunately, that particular misery was quickly brought to an end.  The magistrate dispassionately proclaimed my sentence:  twenty lashes for the theft plus two more for resisting the guards and an afternoon in the stocks to “make the lesson stick” as they say.

I breathed again.  It was indeed a severe punishment, but as I’d been fully expecting to lose a hand or worse, it came as a great relief to me.

The sentence was carried out not an hour later.  I will not dwell on that.  Surely, you’ve seen such punishments with your own eyes—how the victim is stretched against a pillar in the town square and lashed with a whip deemed too cruel for use on oxen.  Stocks, too, are now ubiquitous in our public places and much feared by those who have been whipped on account of the insects that swarm there.  Still, people hardly ever die from a simple whipping, and it was better than being maimed.  I resolved to suffer through my punishment and then limp off to some deserted alleyway where I might catch a bit of sleep; at that time I had nowhere else to go in this city.

Alas, I overestimated my own strength!  When the guards released me at sundown, they had to haul me bodily off the platform, and then I simply collapsed where they dropped me.  My bones might rest there still had a Man not met me there.  I was aware of little, but I recall a man lifting my head and bringing a cup of water to my lips.  “I am called ‘Dakheel,’” he told me.  I scarcely knew my own name at that moment, but I suppose I nodded.  “That was ill done,” he said.  That statement I could not have interpreted, even had I had full use of my faculties at the time.  I thought he meant my crime or perhaps my behavior at sentencing.  Only later as I came to know him did I realize he meant the sentence itself.

He rescued me that night.  He all but carried me the three blocks to the magistrate’s own house.  Fortunately, I was insensate enough that I let him.  Like most nobles, Tariq had a well-appointed three story dwelling for himself and behind it, a smaller building of cramped apartments where his servants slept.  Dakheel took me to the smaller building, to a room that I soon realized was his.  It was a tiny garret, but had a narrow bed, a table and chairs, and even its own hearth.  For a half-starved street boy like me, it could have been the guest room of a palace.

Asking for nothing in return, Dakheel fed me, treated my wounds—people have forgotten what a skilled healer he was—and bade me rest in his own bed.

But, now we reach a part of the story that has never come to light before.  Some will see my long silence as evidence of treason.  If you find yourselves in that camp, just remember that at the time, Dakheel was in the process of saving my life.  He never gave me cause to doubt his loyalty—only his origins.  I’ve told many of how Dakheel took me in when my need was most desperate.  But, I’ve never mentioned that I was not his only visitor that night.

After he deposited me in his bed, the northerner banked the hearth and settled himself before the table, poring over some sort of ledger by the light of a single candle.  He showed no sign of planning to sleep himself, but I suppose I did after a while—lightly and fitfully like the vagabond I was.  I’m sure I slept only because I remember waking at the creak of the door.  Though Dakheel had latched it firmly, it suddenly swung open of its own accord.  I froze and my host sprang to his feet.

An old man walked through the doorway, bending his head so as not to hit it on the low frame.  He was dressed in simple robes—ragged and quite dusty—and carried a long staff which he leaned on as he walked.  He had the face of a Tark—bright blue eyes and skin that was fair, though much creased with age.  After closing the door behind him, he folded his arms and glared at Dakheel.  Behind his bushy beard, his lined face wore the sort of stern expression that a schoolmaster might use on a truant child.

Dakheel relaxed.  “What in Eru’s name are you doing here?”

Neither man took notice of me, so I quickly shut my eyes and feigned sleep.  I just listened.  It’s strange.  I was exhausted and weak, still recovering from the ordeal of my sentencing, yet I can remember nearly every word of the conversation that followed, though they spoke of places and happenings far beyond my knowledge.  It is almost like a dream that one somehow remembers in vivid detail or like the childhood experiences that rise to mind years later, devoid of context.  The newcomer’s voice scratched slightly with age, yet was far more lively than I’d expected.

“That,” he told the man, “Is exactly the question I’ve traveled uncounted leagues to ask of you, Dakheel.”  There was a strange inflection to his voice as he said the name—it fell somewhere between amused and accusatory.

After a moment, Dakheel sighed.  I heard the scrape of furniture as he offered the old man a chair.  “I am sorry, Gandalf,” he said, “Events have swept away all my plans of late.  How long have you been searching for me?”

“It’s a rather long story,” the one called ‘Gandalf’ responded, “And perhaps best repeated away from prying ears.  Who is your guest?”  I felt their eyes on me and focused on lying very still.

“Don’t worry about him,” the younger man responded, “He’s just a boy with more spirit than sense.  He will not wake to overhear.” 

Well, he was half right.

Gandalf grunted skeptically, but after a moment he spoke again.  “Very well.  Then you should know that I began my hunt for you before summer’s end.  When you missed your annual rendezvous with your cousin, your relatives became quite concerned, a fear that did not lighten when they traveled to Minas Tirith and discovered you’d left Ecthelion’s service months before.  And when they learned of the manner in which you left Gondor . . . well, your uncle and your adar were a hairsbreadth from reforging the Last Alliance to come and fetch you.”

Dakheel muttered something that I didn’t quite catch, but which definitely included the word “overreaction.”

The old man harrumphed.  “Yes, a fine thanks I get—I who have combed the interior of the Black Land in search of you.  It was only desperation that drove me to try Harad, and by luck alone I stumbled upon a certain First Age bauble tucked away on a run-down ranch and so picked up your trail.”

I heard the pop of a cork.  “Have some wine, Gandalf,” Dakheel said, “It seems you could use it.”  As he poured two glasses, I wondered how a Tark bondsman had gotten his hands on something as valuable as wine.  This Gandalf apparently did not find it odd, but you can hardly expect a foreigner to understand our social hierarchy at a glance.  “So, they haven’t sold it,” Dakheel murmured.  “I don’t suppose you managed to recover it?  My ring?”

“It’s your trinket, fetch it yourself!”  Gandalf snapped.  “I merely drew the tale of your stay there out of a little girl in exchange for a firecracker and some magic tricks.  I’ve come to recover Heirs, not jewelry.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone about that ring,” Dakheel muttered, but his tone was lightly bantering.  I suspected this was an old point of contention.**  “Should I be touched by your concern or insulted by your lack of faith in me?”

“Welp.  These are treacherous lands to walk, even for one who takes undue pride in dangerous journeys.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Númenorean upstart!  When you’ve a tenth of my hard-won experience, then you may go where you wish.  Until then, your family is worried.”

“My uncle should know that I have responsibilities beyond my duty to Eriador,” Dakheel growled, “And perhaps Adar would do well to remember that also.”

“Tell him that to his face, then, but be sure to do it when I am safely leagues away.”

Dakheel had nothing to say to that.

After a moment, the old man sighed and his voice softened considerably.  “They’re not fools, you know,” he told Dakheel, “They know more than most about your duty.  For decades now, they’ve loaned you to the lands outside their borders and they’ve done it without complaint.  But, Harad?  I’ve heard a little of your exploits:  slave revolts and defections and now this conspiracy.  You’re stirring up a hornet’s nest here, and it won’t go unnoticed.”

“The Haradrim deserve the chance to be free of Sauron.”  My heart leapt into my throat.  Perhaps I should have seen it much sooner, but that was the moment I realized he was plotting a rebellion against the Great Eye.  “There are good people here.”

“But they are not your people,” Gandalf said sadly, “Do not seek to save them from themselves.  That is arrogance.”

“I seek only to oppose the Enemy.  As I always have with whatever allies will stand with me.”

“But will they stand?” Gandalf asked, “And if they do, will they suffer you to stand with them?”

For a long while, Dakheel did not respond to that.  Tired as I was, I was nearly dragged back into sleep before his voice roused me once more.  “I cannot leave yet.  Not yet.”  He took another moment to collect himself.  “You should return.  Tell Uncle and Adar that I have matters under control for the time being.”  I heard a touch of that slow humor of his.  “I would appreciate it if you’d at least create the illusion that you believe me.  The last thing Harad needs is an invasion from the Last Alliance of Concerned Relatives.”

It must have been some attempt at a joke, but the elder remained quite somber.  “I always believed you, Estel,” he said, “Like I always believed in you.”

There’s little more to tell.  Dakheel had nothing to say to that, and the old man departed soon after.  Neither ever realized that I had woken.  Perhaps you think me a fool for not recounting this visit sooner, but remember that I was not truly a member of our movement yet.  Only a confused boy, I did not quite know what to make of the strange encounter.  All I had really learned was that Dakheel hailed from some faraway land—which was obvious enough; few Tarks are born here—and that he was called by other names—again not a surprise; what new mother would name her babe “foreigner”?  I’d heard the old man use that other name—“Estel”—but that meant nothing to me, and it is not the name we came, in time, to know him by.

I woke the next morning, still very weak.  Dakheel tended my wounds and fed me again and we talked for hours.  He spoke little of himself, but drew the story of my life from me in painful increments.  No, I will not bore you with those details now.  In light of the greater cause we now serve, that child’s sufferings seem trivial.  Mine was hardly the only family torn apart by rampant poverty and the petty whims of mercurial lords.  Other brothers besides mine have been hauled away to die as unwilling conscripts.  Other sisters have been used and tossed aside by powerful men who see us all as little better than slaves.  All you really need to know is that by the time Dakheel found me, I was alone, powerless, and very angry.

By nightfall, I was a bit stronger, and the day of rest was over.  Dakheel brought me supper and we ate together.  He was strangely silent for a long time.  I felt those keen eyes of his searching me.  Evaluating.  At last, when the meal was gone, he looked me straight in the eye and asked “Do you want to know the way out?”

He gave no explanation for the strange question, but it tugged at my heart.  I found myself nodding, almost without realizing it.  Words were beyond me.

Without another word, he rose and gestured for me to follow.  He led me through darkening streets to this very building, which was a safe house even then.  He handed me over to the master of the house, saying only “he wishes to be one of us.”  No, I’ll not tell you that man’s name; he is in the movement still and is among the most skilled of our spies.  But it was he who told me of the conspiracy to resist Sauron and the role I could play in it.  After Dakheel departed, I took my vows—not to any lord or even to the old gods, but to the movement, to the promise of a free Harad.  To those vows, I still hold true, though I have been sorely tested.

They found a position for me as a servant in the household of a hostile lordling.  My new master was like most of the governor’s advisors—puffed-up and petty, sycophantically loyal to the Dark Lord’s messengers—but he was an enemy of the under-vizier I’d tried to rob, so he took me on.  It was a sore test of my self-control, but as a spy in his house, I garnered much information about the governor’s scheming and the Dark Lord’s devices—enough that I was eventually called to report to the secret council that provided our local leadership.

I’m sure you can imagine my nervousness as I waited in an underground room while a half-dozen leaders of the movement gathered.  I recognized none of the first six who arrived.  They wore the fine robes of merchants or the simple livery of servants and guardsmen or even the rags of beggars, yet they all greeted each other as equals as they gathered around the long table.

The seventh man who entered wore clothes finer than any of theirs with a headdress drawn partially across his face.  Only when he removed it did I recognize the man.

Magistrate Tariq.

For the second time in his presence, I bolted for the door.  I was certain we were betrayed and that the city guard would be soon behind.  This time, there was no one to catch me, but I tripped over a table leg and landed in an undignified heap on the flagstones.

The other men laughed.  None of them seemed alarmed by the sudden arrival of one of the governor’s trusted officials. 

“Relax, lad,” the magistrate said to me, “I’m not on duty.”

I climbed to my feet, shamefaced as no cries of “Raid!” rang out and no angry guardsmen burst through the door.  It had never occurred to me that those in power would ever choose to oppose Sauron.

Once I had my bearings, I expected Tariq to take the place at the head of the table and call the meeting to order.  Again, I was surprised.  He took the next seat down, and caught my questioning look.  “We’ll begin as soon as the foreign lord arrives,” he explained.

Perhaps ten minutes had passed before the door creaked open one more time and Dakheel entered, moving with his usual silent grace.  I had not seen the man in the weeks since my sentencing, but he was little changed.  He still wore the black and maroon livery of the magistrate’s household.  He nodded to Magistrate Tariq.  “My apologies for delaying us,” he said, “I could not easily depart without raising the chamberlain’s suspicions.”  But, his tone was light, and I could tell this was a simple courtesy, not the fearful apology of a servant who has inconvenienced his master.

Tariq smiled and clasped Dakheel’s forearm as if he were an equal.  “Think nothing of it, friend.”

Yes, they were great friends in those days—Dakheel and Tariq.  You wouldn’t know it by the tales told now, but I think there were few the rebel magistrate trusted more than Dakheel, and few the foreigner respected more than Tariq.  Dakheel seated himself at the head of the table and the other men fell silent until he spoke.  As he called the meeting to order, I realized that the “foreign lord” Tariq had mentioned could be none other than this unassuming Tark bondsman.  And after I had given my report, he thanked me graciously as if I were his equal.

But, you haven’t come to hear my fond reminiscences, have you?  No, you want the whole, dark tale of Dakheel’s fall from grace.  Very well.  Lend me your ears, but be patient with me.  This is still a difficult tale to tell, despite the passing of years, and I have never before told it all in full.

If you are to understand just how wrong it all went, it is first necessary to tell you a little about Dakheel and Tariq.  Though our movement had no official head in those days, in this city, those two were the most respected.  At first I did not understand why Dakheel—who Tariq called “the foreign lord” and who in private had a gravitas greater than any of our petty nobles—would suffer such a humble position as that of a bondsman in Tariq’s household.  In time, though, I came to understand.  As a body servant, he was little noticed by the elite of the city.  A bondsman who appears to be doing his master’s work can go places where a free Tark—always a source of suspicion—cannot.  It was clear, though, that Tariq did not see Dakheel as his servant, despite the display they put on in public.  They respected each other.  In many ways, they complemented each other.  Dakheel had at his disposal a wealth of knowledge about the size and readiness of the Grand Army, the political nuances of our conflicts with Gondor and Rohan, and even the dark devices of Sauron himself.  Tariq, meanwhile, had served in other cities throughout Harad and was intimately familiar with the character and stratagems of countless lords.  Dakheel had good instincts for whether a particular mission could be safely accomplished; Tariq had the judgment to determine if it would advance our cause.  Dakheel had the eloquence to inspire us to greater acts of rebellion; Tariq had the canniness to leverage the local officials and keep our activities secret.

As for our activities, they were not so different from our strategies now.  We positioned a network of spies to work out the machinations of the local lords and plot how we might foil them.  We quietly spread a call to arms for all who would see us free of Sauron and felt out which of the local officials might be sympathetic to our cause.  We created safe houses and weapons caches—not imagining that we could defeat the Grand Army by strength of arms, but simply to defend ourselves and give ourselves time to escape if it came to that.

Dakheel was forever advocating for stronger ties with the network of Tark sympathizers in our city—those who oppose slavery so strongly that they help Tarks escape and flee back to their native lands.  Dakheel argued—quite forcefully at times—that shared opposition to Sauron made the Gondorim and the Rohirrim our natural allies.  I think many agreed, in principle, but the rest of the leadership council resisted him out of fear.  Whispers of sedition are difficult to prove and easy to deny, whereas concrete actions like the liberation of slaves are far easier to investigate, and therefore more dangerous to us.  Still, Dakheel’s personal involvement with the slave-stealers was, perhaps, our movement’s worst-kept secret. 

Today, they will tell you that his frequent aid for the abolitionists is a sign that Dakheel only ever had Gondor’s interests at heart—that we were simply a means to an end to him.  It might shock you to learn how little how little these activities troubled his comrades while he was still among us.  It was common knowledge that Dakheel himself had escaped slavery quite recently, and most took his sympathies as simply a matter of course.  If he disappeared for a few days now and again, others made excuses for him.  And when he suddenly reappeared not long after a slave caravan had been liberated or a galley had overthrown its captain, we would behave as if he’d never been gone.  I can tell you with certainty that he risked no life but his own.  In light of the wisdom and leadership he brought to the movement, his other dealings were easily overlooked.

At least at first.

Our message was spreading.  The movement growing like fire on the windswept plains.  We fostered ties with rebel groups in a half dozen other cities, and in time, those relationships began to bear fruit.  Converts to our cause began flocking to this city to aid us.

And that is how Yakub first darkened our doors.

Yes, I know that he is a hero to young converts like you.  How could he not be, after the courage and defiance he showed at his execution last year?  Perhaps it was for his sake that you took up the cause.  I must ask you again for patience.  I hope that by the time this tale is done, you will understand why I am less reverent of his memory than most.

Yakub, you see, was a firebrand.  He hailed from the deep south where resistance to Sauron still runs deep.  He would tell anyone who would listen of how his father had been cut down trying to defend King Jabari from the agents of Sauron—how he would not abandon Harad’s last king even when Jabari himself pleaded with him to desist.  He spoke also about his grandfather—a priest of the old gods—who was flayed alive for refusing to acknowledge Sauron as the Great Eye.  Yakub was a staunch believer in old gods and older ways.

Which was all well enough; all of us would have respected his fervently-held beliefs, but Yakub did not seek respect.  He sought purity.  He began to argue—and more and more came to agree—that forging alliances and gathering support from beyond Harad would only lead to our destruction.  In his view, ours was a holy mission.  We were to show the world the might of the old gods by overthrowing Sauron the Supplanter completely by our own strength.  He was suspicious of outside help and even outside sympathy, believing that the Gondorim and the Rohirrim simply sought to replace the overlord in Mordor with an overlord in Minas Tirith.

Needless to say, he and Dakheel tended to disagree.

I was witness to quite a few of their confrontations.  Dakheel often requested my presence at leadership meetings, even when I had no report to give.  He would talk to me afterwards—drawing out my opinion on this idea or that stratagem.  I think that, having once saved my life, he felt a certain responsibility towards me.  But, it was difficult for me to watch his growing struggles with those who should have been his allies.  One meeting in particular stands out in my mind.

We had discovered through our spies in the army that the generals planned to send a large raiding party into Rohan to raid some of the outlying villages.  Dakheel was arguing that we ought to send a messenger to the Rohirrim with a warning.  Then, he explained, the horse lords would crush our enemy for us and they would be indebted to our movement.  It was a sound enough plan—it required only one rider and perhaps two weeks’ time.  I saw a few of the other council members nodding along.

Yakub, of course, was not.

“Tell me, Dakheel,” he growled, “Which Haradric life would you sacrifice for the sake of a few horse masters?”

Dakheel met his gaze evenly.  “Which Haradric lives would you see lost the next time that battalion is ordered to raze a village or burn a caravan?” he countered.

Yakub’s scowl deepened.  “Yet, you would risk the precious life of one of our comrades, and for what?  What do we care for a few Tarks who cannot defend their own borders?”

Dakheel’s face darkened, and who can blame him?  The word ‘Tark’ has become so commonplace that we use it without thinking, but on Yakub’s tongue it was always a slur.  It could not have been laced with more hatred and contempt if an orc had spat it.

Tariq cleared his throat.  “Watch yourself, Yakub,” he said in his most forbidding tone of voice, “Dakheel has opposed the Shadow far longer than you.  His tactics have not led us astray.”

“I’m not questioning his tactics, I’m questioning his allegiance!”  Yakub sprang to his feet, but given how much taller Dakheel was, the gesture did not have the dramatic effect he’d intended.  Still, he met the northerner’s gaze and held onto his defiance, which is no mean feat.  “Why do we allow this Gondorian to dictate our strategy?”  He asked.  Many of the leaders—Tariq included—were now scowling at him.  But, a few simply watched with neutral expressions.  “He speaks our tongue, he takes a name from our land, but you can all see that he is not one of us!  We have only his word that he came here against his will.”

“You can count the scars, if you wish,” Dakheel snapped.  As I’ve said before, he did not keep secret the fact that he’d been a slave.

“Nevertheless, you are not of Harad.”

“And does that mean I have less reason to oppose the Dark Lord?” Dakheel said, “Or less reason to wish to see the lords of this land overturned?”

“Overturned, certainly.  And what would you put in their place?  This White Tree your people worship?  Does the Steward wish so badly to be king that he covets the crown of the Sixteen Tribes?”  He looked around and saw conflict on more than one face.  “Say we overthrow the Dark Lord.  What will it gain us if Ecthelion’s beastly captains invade?  Will you feel particularly free when the demon Thorongil is razing our cities?”  Many of the men flinched and a few reached up to tap their left shoulders—a superstitious sign against evil.  Much as we dreaded Mordor, fear of Gondor ran almost as deep.  Many of the leaders had done their compulsory service in the army as youths.  In theory, they might agree that Gondor could aid us against Sauron.  In practice, though, the thought of Gondorim battalions sent them into a cold sweat, and they reserved a particular sense of horror for the thought of Thorongil, Ecthelion’s dread captain.  He was untouchable on the battlefield, the soldiers said.  What should have been routine engagements quickly became routs when Thorongil was involved.  Just the rumor of him entering the field was enough to make some men break ranks and flee. 

Yakub looked around once more, apparently quite pleased with the anxiety he’d awoken.  “How does it end?” he all but bellowed.

Silence fell.  Dakheel let his comrades stew in their discomfort for a moment, then spoke in a voice that was cold and brittle.  “I know how one thing ends.”  He pushed away from the table and reached for his cloak.  “I will go to Rohan myself.  That way, no important lives will be risked.”  He gave Yakub a look that would have sent a wiser man running.  “Only some Tark.”

The meeting dispersed somewhat awkwardly not long afterwards.  In the wake of Dakheel’s departure, several of the leaders who had leant Yakub their silent support seemed almost ashamed.  Tariq tried to turn their attention to other matters, but he seemed distracted and even trailed off in mid-sentence once or twice.

When I returned to my master’s house, the chamberlain sent me right back out—carrying a message for the magistrate, ironically enough.  The night watchman at Tariq’s house was a member of our movement and was well-used to my frequent comings and goings.  He admitted me without question or announcement, so I did not bother to mention that I was there on official business.

The door to Tariq’s study was open and I could hear the scratching of a quill from within.  Nevertheless, I paused in the shadows and peeked carefully around the doorjamb.  Dakheel had taught me the importance of “scouting”—of gathering information before I announced my presence. 

To my surprise, Dakheel himself was in the study.  He stood behind Tariq’s desk with his arms loosely folded, waiting while the magistrate scribbled something on a scrap of parchment.  It took a moment before I understood.  Of course.  Dakheel’s dramatic exit from the council meeting was all well and good, but, as Tariq’s servant, he still needed his master’s written permission before he could travel alone.

I should have entered right then, but for some reason I hesitated.  There was a strange sort of tension in Tariq’s shoulders—a stiffness in the way he kept his face turned away from Dakheel as he wrote the pass.  After a moment, the magistrate spoke.  “I don’t like this, Dakheel.”

“So, order me to stay.”  Dakheel’s voice was mild and almost amused.

Tariq snorted.  “As if you’d be stopped by the likes of me.”

Dakheel did not respond except to glance significantly at the badge on his shoulder.

“Yakub’s not all wrong, you know,” Tariq continued after a moment’s pause, “This is a risk to take.”

“A necessary risk.”

“Are you so sure?  No—don’t answer that.  You’re always so sure.”

“It is a chance to disrupt enemy movements,” Dakheel pointed out, sounding slightly bewildered, “Since when must I convince you of the value in that?”

Tariq frowned as he folded the pass and handed it to Dakheel.  “Just promise me you’ll be careful?  That you’ll do nothing to draw our enemies’ eyes?”

Dakheel took the parchment with a light smile.  “I’ll not forget what you taught me on the westerly road.  And I will see you soon.”

It was time to announce my presence or be discovered.  I retreated a half-dozen paces and then returned, rounding the doorway with stomping steps.  Tariq looked up, and his startled expression quickly faded to annoyance.  “You make quite a lot of noise for a spy,” he told me sharply.

I bowed to indicate that I was there on official business.  “Apologies, Magistrate.  My lord master sends a missive.”

Tariq accepted the sealed letter with a grunt that suggested he’d already forgotten about me.  He locked eyes with Dakheel and gave him a brief nod.

Dakheel copied my bow as he retreated towards the door.  The warmth in his voice belied the formality of the gesture.  “I will see you in two weeks’ time, Tariq.  We’ll work on the young one’s stealth then.”  But he gave me a wink as he slipped past me, and I suspected that he’d been aware of my presence all along.

Dakheel set out for Rohan that very night and was gone for several weeks.  It was dangerous—doubly so for him, as a Tark on the road is always the target of suspicion.  Tariq’s pass granted him some protection, but Dakheel was still at risk of being seized by the army or even forced back into slavery.

But, it was the changes at home that posed a greater threat in the end.  For Yakubwas not idle while his adversary was away.  The man’s speeches grew more fiery, and there was no one there to act as the voice of reason.  More and more council members began to see as he did.  In time, even Tariq was heard to echo Yakub’s rhetorical question—How does it end?

When Dakheel returned, he found he was not afforded the same honor as before.  More and more, the votes of the council began to swing against him.  More and more, his stratagems and warnings began to fall on deaf ears.  In theory, the council still respected him as one of its founding members.

In practice, they began to treat him like a Tark.

It didn’t end like you would expect.  Dakheel did not suddenly snap and vent his anger on Yakub.  Instead, the foreign lord sealed his own doom with a single act of mercy. 

I was delivering a message to this very safe house when there came a sudden, single knock on the door.  The master of the house peeked out cautiously, fearing a soldier.

He got what he’d been looking for, but not in the way he’d expected.  By the light of a guttering torch, he saw a crumpled form lying on the doorstep, having collapsed after one knock.  We opened the door and found a young man in armor standard for common soldiers in the Grand Army.  His weapons were gone.  His face was battered and bruised and blood was dripping to the cobblestones in sticky puddles.  Though his eyes were bare slits, when he heard the door open, he began to whisper the password for the house—whispered it over and over again as if it were the only word he knew.

We hauled him inside.  My comrade sent me for a healer.  We did not know whether this was a spy, a messenger, or a simple deserter, but something had clearly gone wrong.  I ran for the best healer I knew.

I ran for Dakheel.

He was in the midst of writing a letter when I burst into his quarters.  When I explained what was awry, he immediately set the missive aside, tossed the cipher he was using into the fireplace, and hurried to follow me.  We arrived back here scant minutes later—me out of breath, him as collected and focused as always.  The master of the house met us—no, I still will not tell you his name.  I thought I made myself clear earlier, so please stop haranguing me.

“How does he fare?”  Dakheel asked this man with no further ceremony.

“His wounds are serious,” he responded, “He was one of our spies within the army, and from what little he said, he was attacked even as he fled Umbar and then waylaid again just before he reached us.  How he made it so far, I’m not sure, but he must have an urgent message to take such a risk.”

“Gather the council,” Dakheel ordered him, “I will do what I can.”

So, the other man departed while Dakheel and I turned our attention to the wounded soldier.  He was lying right there before the hearth where your packs now sit.  If you look closely, you can still see the stain his blood left on the floorboards.  He was covered in grime and bruises, both old and new, but his most serious wound was a deep sword cut to the thigh which had been crudely staunched with a rag, but bled still.  He was awake, but seemed barely aware.

I helped Dakheel strip him of his armor and we moved him to a pallet in the back room.  Dakheel set to work cleaning his cuts and applying salve as calmly and methodically as he had with my shredded back months before.  I aided him where I could.  Mostly, I stayed out of his way.  Dakheel sent me to boil some water, but when I heard the soldier cry out suddenly, I paused in the shadow of the doorway.

Turning, it was easy to see what had roused the man:  Dakheel had pulled away the rag from his leg, and with it some half-dried blood.  The foreigner was leaning over the wounded man now, and lifting a hand to his forehead.

“Peace, friend,” I heard him murmur gently, “You are safe now.”

But the man flinched away from his touch.  Candlelight flickered off of a bruised face that had suddenly drained to the color of curdled milk.  “Thorongil . . .” he whispered.

Still concealed by the darkness of the doorway, I froze at the name.  For a moment, I thought this must be the message he’d been so desperate to bring us—that Captain Thorongil had been seen again and had caused some trouble on the coastline.  But, then he whispered it again and there was no mistaking the accusation in his voice or in the trembling finger that he pointed at Dakheel.  “Thorongil.   Thorongil.”

My next thought was that the man must be delirious.  Or perhaps he simply had not seen enough Tarks to be able to tell one from another.  But, then I looked at Dakheel’s face.  It had frozen.  I saw disquiet there, and a dawning sense of recognition.  And I knew, instantly, that the wounded man was not mistaken.

Dakheel was Thorongil.

The foreigner had a fresh rag in his other hand.  I saw him lift it slowly.  In an instant, I saw the choice before him.  The soldier, after all, was very weak.  Dakheel could silence him and his accusation and simply tell the others that he had died of his wounds.  He could safeguard his place in our cause.  He could save his own life.

Instead, he slowly lowered the rag to press down hard against the man’s leg.  “Let me treat your wounds, friend,” he whispered, “All else can wait.”

Dakheel seemed to sense me lingering.  He looked up and met my gaze and knew at once that I’d overheard it all.  But all he said was “Where is that water?”

Still silent from shock, I shuffled off to get it.

Didn’t I tell you at the very beginning that I have no courage?  At no point was this clearer to me than that night.  I walked to and fro, fetching water and bandages and whatever else he required, and the whole time, I did not speak to Dakheel.  The soldier soon passed out from pain and blood loss.  It took Dakheel nearly an hour to stop the bleeding, and by the time it was done we could hear the other leaders gathering in the next room.

At last, he tied off the last bandage and stood slowly, staring down at the unconscious man.

I shuffled my feet.  He didn’t turn to look at me, but after a moment, he spoke.

“He will live.  Most likely he will wake within the hour, I judge.”  Dakheel’s voice was strangely detached.  “And then . . .”  He trailed off.

I swallowed.  There were a thousand questions racing through my mind like frightened animals, but only one that I could put to words.  “What are you going to do?”

He turned his head and met my gaze.  His eyes . . . they always had such a depth to them—Dakheel’s eyes.  It’s hard to explain unless you’ve seen it for yourself.  I never saw the like, even among Gondorians.  They held you, you see.  But, at that moment, his eyes were full of sorrow and regret.  After a moment, he looked down at the blood on his hands.

Then I saw him straighten—saw his shoulders square and his head come up as he turned towards the door.  It was a different man who stepped out into this common room to face the other leaders; a man tall and hard as a granite pillar with eyes that burned forbiddingly.

They were all there—Tariq, Yakub, and all the ruling council.  They fell silent when they saw him.

Slowly and deliberately, he stepped out into their midst.  The silence was palpable.  Dakheel did not break it.

After an anxious moment, Tariq spoke up.  “Well, Dakheel?  Will he live?  Has he said anything?”  Dakheel’s eyes suddenly snapped to those of his old friend.  The magistrate fell silent, though I suspect he knew not why.

I expected the eight leaders to crowd around him and demand a report, but they didn’t.  It was as if time itself had frozen.  Dakheel was the only moving thing.

He ghosted to the back door on silent feet, opened it, and left without a word.

The rest of the council knew not what to make of this—and who can blame them?  They seemed to return to themselves slowly, blinking and shaking their heads as if awakening from some spell.

Somehow, I was unaffected.  For reasons I cannot explain and rue even to this day, I chose to follow him.  By the time I stumbled out the door, Dakheel was across the enclosed courtyard and halfway to the stables.  When he heard my footsteps, though, he stopped but did not turn.  “Have you come to stop me?” he asked.

As if I could.  I shook my head slowly as I approached.  “You’re leaving, then?”

He looked at me and sighed.  “What else can I do?  That man will be awake and giving his report within the hour.”

I swallowed.  “So, it’s true, then?”

“True?”  He smiled sadly and ruefully.  “True that as a soldier of Gondor, I served Ecthelion as loyally and effectively as I was able?  True that I blunted the invasion into Ithilien, drove settlers out of Harondor, and burned Umbar nearly to the ground?  That much is true.  That in the process, my name became a watchword for the terror of Gondor, even here among Sauron’s enemies?  That, too, seems true.”

He turned to me and clasped my shoulder.  “But true that I came to care for Harad?  That I served the cause of your independence as loyally as I once served the Steward?  That, also, is true.”  His hand fell away.  “But, my time here is up.  Yakub is correct in one thing:  if this movement is to succeed, your people must find the strength to stand on your own.  And you are finding that strength already.  The cause has grown without me.”

“You don’t have to flee,” I pleaded, “You can make them understand . . .”

“No,” he said gently, “Perhaps someday, but not today.  Their hate still runs too deep.”

“You are our foreign lord,” I argued stubbornly, “What does it matter if you were ‘Thorongil’ before?  You are Dakheel now.”

“It matters,” he replied, “I have other duties—other loyalties that are equally as dear to me.  I could go back into that room and swear that I have put the name of Thorongil behind me and that I serve only a free Harad now and forever more.  Perhaps I could even convince them.  But it would be a lie, and in time they would not forgive me.”

“But, you started this movement!”

“And it will continue without me.  If I stay, I will only be a cause of schism and division.  If I go, they will soon turn their eyes back to the Enemy.”  He held his hand out.  I clasped his forearm after the manner of his people.  “This is not how I wanted to leave . . . but I knew this day was coming.  The movement will be alright.  You will be alright.”

There was a lump in my throat, but as he turned towards the stables, I found my voice.  “Safe travels . . . Thorongil.”

His hand was on the stable door when it happened.

A rough arm suddenly seized me from behind.  I cried out in surprise.  I saw Dakheel turn.  Saw his eyes widen.  Felt the cold steel of a knife edge pressed against my throat.  Heard a voice harsh with anger.

“Not one more step, Dakheel—not one!  Or I kill your little pet.”  I didn’t think I could be more surprised, but when I recognized my assailant’s voice, my heart skipped a few beats.  I would have expected this sort of behavior from a spy of Sauron—might have expected it even from a zealot like Yakub.  But, the man who was suddenly my captor was neither.

It was Magistrate Tariq.

His breath was hot against my neck and his whole body seemed to tremble with half-suppressed anger.  I knew at once that he had heard some—or all—of our conversation. 

Dakheel’s face was frozen as he turned to face his master.  His friend.  He eyes were bright and sharp, but he held his hands loosely at his sides.  “You heard.”

“From your own mouth, Thorongil,” Tariq spat.

Dakheel extended a placating hand.  “Then you heard me say that my loyalty to our cause has never wavered . . .”

Tariq dug his knife more sharply into my neck.  “Silence!”  I winced as a small trickle of blood worked its way down my throat.

Dakheel fell silent.

For a moment, Tariq said nothing.  He seemed almost like a dog that catches a rat and then is unsure of what to do with it.  “I trusted you!”  He growled at last.  “I brought you into my own household.”

“And I have not betrayed that . . .”

“Silence!” he cried again, “No more of your lies, now, Dakheel.  That’s all you’ve done, isn’t it?  Lied to us.”  Dakheel waited, not moving one muscle.  “I defended you,” Tariq continued, “For weeks, now, Yakub has warned us of foreign spies come to seize our independence before it’s even born.  ‘Not Dakheel,’ I told him, ‘He isn’t like the other Tarks.  He’s loyal to a free Harad.’  And all the while you kept this from me.”

“Tariq . . .”

“No!  No more.  For the crime of betraying the movement by spying for Gondor, you will answer to the council or I will see to it that your accomplice—” he gave me a shake, “—is tried in your place.  Drop your weapons right now!  All of them!”

For the first time, I saw Dakheel’s face spasm, expressing just for an instant the betrayal he was feeling.  Slowly, he drew his belt knife and dropped it to the cobblestones.  The magistrate’s grip on me did not loosen.  “Is this really how you want to do this, Tariq?” Dakheel asked quietly as he pulled a second knife from a wrist sleeve and dropped that as well.  “After everything we’ve been through together on the westerly road?” a third knife joined the first two, “. . . at that outpost in the south?” he knelt and drew a very small knife from his boot, “At the justice building?”

He met my gaze, and I saw in an instant what he intended.

I let my knees buckle.

Tariq’s knife scraped against my chin, drawing blood, but he was unprepared for my sudden weight.  I dropped out of his grip.  I felt the wind as something flew past over my shoulder.  Something warm and wet splattered against the side of my face and Tariq cried out.  The magistrate reached up to clutch at the blood suddenly spurting from his eye and he let out another horrified cry.

And then I was out of his arms and sprawling gracelessly to the cobblestones even as Dakheel closed the distance between us in two long bounds.  As I rolled clear, I caught only shuttered glimpses of the brief struggle.  I heard Tariq cry out again . . . saw two hands wrestling for control of Tariq’s long knife . . . and then heard a muffled grunt that was somehow so much quieter than I expected.

Rolling onto my back, I looked up to see the hilt of Tariq’s dagger sticking out of the magistrate’s own belly.  Dakheel was gripping the knife with one hand and the man’s shoulder with the other as he slowly lowered him to the ground. 

“Is this how it ends, Tariq?”  I expected to hear anger and betrayal in Dakheel’s voice.  I heard only regret.

Tariq’s lips were bright with blood.  They moved soundlessly as Dakheel eased him to the cobblestones.  The magistrate reached one trembling hand towards Dakheel’s face, and the northerner let go of the dagger to catch it.  Tariq’s eyes—before they clouded over—were shining with tears.

So were Dakheel’s.

After only a few heartbeats, the magistrate went still.  Dakheel stood slowly, staring at his blood-streaked hands—they were trembling.  He clenched them into fists.  They stilled.

When he turned to face me, that mask of rigid control was back in place.  Blood was trickling down my neck.  He tipped my chin up to examine the cuts, speaking in a low, urgent voice as he did so.  “Listen, there is little time.”  The cuts seemed shallow enough.  Reassured that I was not dying, he released my face, but clasped my shoulders.  “You came out here to stop me, you understand?  You heard the soldier name me ‘Thorongil,’ so when I attempted to leave, you tried to force me to stay.  Tariq came to your rescue and I killed him as he sought to defend you.  Do you understand?”

“But . . . it’s not true . . .”

“That doesn’t matter, now.  Tell them, or at the least they would cast you out.”

“Dakheel . . .”

“You need the movement.  And the movement needs you.”  He withdrew his hands.  “Close your eyes.”

“What . . .”  But then his fist collided with the side of my face and sent me careening to the cobblestones.  He had to make it look convincing, after all. 

As my head cleared, I saw him back away.  He stooped to recover his knives, and then paused.  He lifted his hand to cover his heart and bowed his head—a Gondorian salute.  Was that for me?  For Tariq’s memory?  For the movement itself?  I suppose I’ll never know.  He disappeared into the stable and scarcely a minute later, I heard the clatter of hooves as he made his escape.

The rest of the story, you no doubt already know.  I obeyed Dakheel’s last command.  I repeated the story that painted him a traitor and a murderer.  Tariq became something of a martyr for our cause—Yakub saw to that.  We had no more dealings with the abolitionists, and for a long time, any Tark we came across was an object of suspicion.  But, as Dakheel had predicted, our collective eye soon turned back towards Sauron and we redoubled our efforts to undermine his reign.

Of Dakheel, we heard nothing, though word of his ‘betrayal’ was sent to our allies in every city we could reach.  Could a single Tark on a stolen horse ever hope to reach Gondor while avoiding both Harad’s tyrants and its would-be liberators?  I do not know.  But, if anyone could manage it, it would be Dakheel.

No—don’t get up.  I’m only a weary vagabond, and I need to stretch my legs.

I have kept this secret for so long.  I thought I would feel relief when I was finally free of it.  Instead . . .

“Will they suffer you to stand with them?”  That’s what the old man asked that first night when it all began for me.  Dakheel clearly thought we would.  How I wish we had lived up to his expectations . . .

What will become of us now?  I do not know.  The movement has spread, but so has the Shadow.  I don’t need to tell you what a fine thread we find ourselves now hanging by.  Perhaps we will stand and live to see Harad liberated.  Perhaps Sauron will crush us as he has crushed so many before us.  Perhaps we will destroy ourselves from within.  The one thing I can tell you with certainty is that Dakheel is gone.

We will not see his like again.

Fin

Author’s Note:  I hope you enjoyed this conclusion!  Huge thanks to everyone who has reviewed and otherwise supported me along the way.  For now, I’m closing this chapter on Aragorn’s travels, though I’m sure I will revisit Harad and its characters at a later date.  If you enjoyed this (or even if you didn’t), please leave a review.  All forms of feedback, including concrit, are welcome.

*The bondsmen of Harad bear some similarities to the indentured servants of Colonial America.  They are technically free people, but sign a contract of unpaid service in exchange for room and board.  The primary difference is that while indentured servitude existed to pay off debts, Tark bondsmen usually enter into that agreement as a matter of survival since it is difficult for non-Haradric people to find paid work or to travel safely within Harad.  I may expand on this in an Aragorn-POV fic.

**For the full tale of Aragorn and Gandalf’s disagreements over the Ring of Barahir, see my fic “Treasures in Old Socks.”