literature

Story of Khamul

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Khamul pulled the flap of tent and went inside. Interior was spacious, canvas walls were decorated with expensive, woven materials, and lightweight fabrics separated one individual room. At the entrance stand cabinet with weapon and armor stand. 

He unbuckled wide belt, with curved yataghan with gilded handle. From under the shirt he pulled two small daggers and put them with dull clatter, getting rid of the pads and shin guards, pulling out from the shoe next blade and iron shooting star.

He was tired after long day in saddle and few hours of hard training, but it was pleasant, even desirable- it dismissed intrusive thoughts. Weary body and muscle pain kept his mind in check better than wine or arak… Yet, in recent times he often felt a strange anxiety that grows with each passing year.

He knew, at any moment he can by reached by treacherous blade or poison added to food. A long time ago he entered in mature age, but still had no successor; yet had many enemies and the burden of years slowly started to leave a mark on his body. While still fit and strong, not having  none equal among swordsman, he felt weaker and weaker. His soul was rotten by melancholy and sadness, which could comfort nothing but fight. In that he lost completely; so much, that he lost any purpose.

When everyday life has become a burden he couldn’t take any longer, he began to study magic books and manuscripts, in the hope of finding source of inner pain… Yet, slowly he came to understand, that’s impossible; he was only a mortal. Exuberant ambition was killing him from inside.

Abandoning these gloomy thoughts, he raised arms and began to unbutton a shirt. Suddenly, his hands stopped when he sensed someone's careful look.
He turned slowly; his eyes scanned dark interior of the tent, finally resting at the table standing in corner, with wooden chair beside… It wasn’t  empty.

He blinked rapidly, and then dense shadow materialized in vibrating air and formed in shape of human form. The man was dressed in black cloak, long to the ground, with a deep hood that shadowed his face. Hands clothed in leather gloves he rested on the table.

Khamul reached for the dagger with one fluid motion. Slowly, in soft steps he came to the dark form, ready to attack at any moment. The men however, didn’t even flinch.

- How nervous… And unsure of himself, as the ruler of half Eastern Lands… - there was a deep, husky voice.

Stranger raised his hands and threw the hood. He had solemn face with sharp cheekbones and prominent  jaw. His forehead was crowned with iron crown with short, sharp thorns, without any decorations and ornaments.  

Khamul met gray eyes, which seemed to instantly crush his will. In one flash he realized that stranger could kill him before, not even getting up from the table. He had to be a powerful wizard; dark force emanated from his body, even though he seemed to be quite accommodating. 
Lord of Rhun not sensed in his voice taunt or threat; the man simply said to him like to equal. He relaxed a bit and took few steps forward, lowering the blade, but still not reducing vigilance.

- Who are you? - he asked coldly - And how you came here? Outside is a number of soldiers who have orders not to let anyone in without my permission… -

Stranger smiled, barely noticeably.

- I do not need anyone's permission to get where I want. - he said - I'm here because I want to talk with you. Sit down. -

Khamul felt his body move against his will, obediently following the stranger’s command. He sank into a chair in front of the magician who gentle, yet firm motion pulled the dagger out of his hand.

- That won’t be necessary… -

For a moment looked at him in silence, which seemed to be almost unbearable.  The air seemed thick as before the storm. Khamul couldn’t look away from the mesmerizing eyes. It seems, their color faded, replaced by a sinister, red gleam… In the end, breaking strange paralysis, he raised hand and firmly rubbed his temples.

I need to rally ... - he thought furiously - He cast a spell on me… -

- I have come from afar… - Khamul heard deep voice again - From the West ... You can call me a necromancer. I bring a message from the Lord of Mordor. -

Khamul shuddered violently. Mordor was heavily fortified country that extended behind the jagged peaks of mountains and his terror has lied a shadow on the surrounding lands. Eastern tribes fear his growing power… And about the reigning inhuman king were spoken terrifying legends.

- You're… Sauron Gorthaur…? - he asked, feeling dryness in his throat.

Stranger laughed.

- You flatter me… No, I'm not him. I am his apprentice and servant. -

- If he have such powerful minions, his power indeed must be immeasurable. - said Khamul honestly. His anxiety eased; also felt that spell was removed - What, however, might he want from me? -

- My Lord… - began necromancer, leaning back on his chair - Wants to make an alliance with people of the East… With you, Lord of Rhun. You will be his vassal, and in return he will provide you security and protection against invasions of western enemies… Elves allied with humans, a war is upon us… -

Khamul frowned. All heard alarming tumors from behind the mountains, but no one expected anything worse than invasion of northern tribes.

- Is he then in so great necessity, that need each sword? -

- You wield large tracts of land, easterling. Though your people are not numerous, they’re brave and honorable. You’ve gained fame as warriors… Soon and so you'd have to tell after one side… And heed that Mordor lies at your borders… We are powerful, and our army is huge… -

In this statement it was a subtle note of threat. Stranger didn’t throw words to the wind. Khamul mused, though he knew he had no choice. Anyway, something deep in him wanted to succumb… He felt a strange bond with that sinister man; it seems that guided by hand of destiny, he had to lead him a new path and finally fill up a fate.

As if to confirm these thoughts, necromancer nodded, stood up and walked unhurriedly to the tent, scanning  books lying on second table and dresser. He flipped one of them, reviewing briefly the content.  He was tall, proud, of imperious attitude and stiff gait, characteristic for soldiers.  Khamul thought, he looks numenorean; exactly as the old chronicles describe their kings. Although of course it was unlikely… The Lord of old West lived far, by great seas, reached further than any maps. 

Necromancer turned and looked with mild amusement.

- Manuscript handled about alchemy… Forbidden knowledge, practice contrary to nature. Does your power and artistry of war couldn’t give you everything you desire…? -

  Khamul didn’t know what to say. At his mouth crowded all unspoken desires and fears, but he remained silent. Strange confidence he felt towards this man couldn’t overcome his innate secretiveness.

Necromancer put off the manuscript.

- I see… It’s hard to talk about, if you even don’t know words, that could express your thoughts… You want something, and it's not coming, right…? True greatness and freedom… And you are afraid of death. Throw yourself into fight, only to dismiss thoughts about fragility of your own life. - he said  lightly, as if stated something obvious.

Khamul froze. Nobody knew about his secret weakness. He was famous as a fearless warrior with a cold mind and an iron hand; always calm and disciplined… And the wizard looked through him in a few moments, as if read like in open book… He was completely stripped and torn. A part of him wanted to immediately kill the stranger and save honor and the rest of pride, while the other felt overwhelming relief that dark secret was revealed…

The man approached and again took his place at the table.

- To be honest, it's not just about alliance… On my Lord’s command, I’m looking for someone suitable to his service… I chose you. I have a proposal… - he took out something from between the folds of garments, and held out his hand.

On his palm rested a silver ring. Simple, without gloss, with a small black stone in the middle. Khamul immediately felt a powerful magic emanating from the object. And couldn’t turn his gaze. Instinctively he reached out, but then withdrew.

- What is it? - he asked, unable to master the voice, trembling slightly.

- The Ring of Mortals… It will give you great power and eternal life. -

Khamul finally looked at the speaker's face and not seen on it even hint of a smile, or mockery. Necromancer was serious.  He realized that he believes, although in principle he didn’t trust anyone, especially magicans.

- What… is the price…? - he whispered.

- You’ll belong to Him… Forever. -

- Why me? -

- Because of your skills… And tormented spirit. Is that not what you wanted…? -

Khamul hesitated for a moment.

- If I accept… Death indeed do not reach me? -

The stranger nodded. Then suddenly took off leather glove from his right hand. On the middle finger he wore a similar ring. Without a word, he showed it to easterling.

- So I will not be alone. -

- We will be Nine. -

Khamul decided.

- I agree. -

Necromancer grabbed his hand, and locked it in his own.

- Swear. -

Khamul dropped to his knees and made ​​a feudal oath formula. The stranger seemed satisfied. He gave him a ring and let his hand.

- Your word is enough for me. I knew that we come to an agreement, easterling. - he said with a faint smile.

- What shall I do, my lord…? How to unleash the power? -

- Oh, do not worry; it will possess you. Soon we’ll meet again… You’ll arrive when the time comes. -

Before Khamul could react, he pulled back the tent’s flap and stepped out into the night. When easterling looked behind him, he had impression that necromancer just melted into the darkness, becoming a shadow among shadows, or gone through some kind of magic trick. After a while however, he heard quiet horses snort and for an instant he saw tall figure just outside the circle of campfires, leading horse by the bridle.

Khamul went back inside and sat down at the table. In head he had a total chaos; felt like bizarre, rambling dream, full of incomprehensible symbols and allusions. He shook his head and rubbed his temples. Almost could believe that meeting with stranger from West was just a figment of his imagination, but deep in soul he knew that everything really happened… Chair on which sat his guest was still warm, besides he could still feel strange smell- subtle, barely perceptible scent of leather, magic and danger… And in his clenched hand resting massive circular object. He looked at him now with fascination.

The ring was beautiful; simple but at the same time excellent and made ​​with extreme finesse.  Proportions were perfect, anything couldn’t be improve in them. Despite the lack of ornaments, ring seemed to be royal gem; austere beauty, like a uncut diamond…

When finally pulled it away, outside was getting bright. Light armor clang and steps indicated that changing of the guard had come. Khamul stood up, slowly straightening stiffened back and headed for the bedding. All the time involuntarily played the ring, thoughtfully staring at the canvas walls. He was afraid to wear it; he felt powerful, compelling power, emanating from small object. He know, at the moment he will slide it on finger, there will be no turn back.

Next day, in the evening, he returned to quarters earlier than usual and spent half of the night staring fixedly at a ring lying on table. Finally picked it up and put firmly on the middle finger of right hand. In a dim glow of single candle, his face seemed to be older and more gravely, almost menacing. Subconsciously expected a shock, impact of strength, vision or lightning… He winced lips in a wry smile when nothing happened.

Fool me… - he thought and looked at his hand on which proudly, like a tiny star, flashed black stone set in a silver ring.

- What are you…? - he whispered. The ring remained cold and indifferent.

 Far west, behind the curtain of sharp mountains, in the chamber lit by fire, the Dark Lord closed his eyes, feeling  gentle currents of power. On his lips slowly appeared faint, malicious smile.

 

--------------------

 

Years passed, and Khamul almost forgot about the strange visitor from Mordor. Ring affected subtly; slowly attach to owner, enslaving his mind and eroding will.

He wore it all the time, unable to bear simple thought of even temporary separation. At first he felt no change, but all others noticed it clearly. He became calmer, more self- confident. His skills as a swordsman and strategist immeasurably increased, while respect which he has among tribesmen slowly turned into fear.

From beginning, he constantly waited for some sign or another messenger from Mordor, which would bring news from his new master.

"Soon we’ll meet… You’ll arrive when the time comes." - told him the necromancer and Khamul waited.  "Soon", however, takes much longer than he suspected.



Ten years passed, and he remain not changed. On Easterling King’s face wasn’t any signs of passing  time, and his body seemed to be even stronger. He conquered another lands, one by one, and his folk became powerful. Warriors led by Khamul always gone to victory; no one battle has been lost. Easterling had a gift, as well as the incredible intuition. Was able to predict in advance almost all enemy’s movements and he never wrong. Years of luck and prosperity went by; finally, even the half-wild tribes from the north, with whom they lived in eternal war, made ​​a tribute to him, bowing heads before his war artistry.

But one day something changed. Dark force, which he made ​​covenant, concluded that time has come to pay off the debt.

Firstly, it was only vague feeling of anxiety at the bottom of soul; feeling that unfulfilled duty awaits him. Year passed and Khamul gained confidence; power from afar reminded about him. This time he have to decide alone. He delayed for several months, fearing the inevitable destiny, but at the same time feeling some excitement. His tribesmen initially tried not to notice the fact, their leader doesn’t age, and his strength and abilities inexplicably increase… But over time he get tired of stealthy glances, whispered rumors and ​​signs of evil eye made behind his back. All feared him and Khamul wanted to finally experience companionship of someone equal. Besides he felt increasing fear, because in his body and psyche began to occur deeply and completely unexplained changes.

Finally, after spending half the night awaken, he came to conclusion that further delay doesn’t make sense; only put off the inevitable. He packed some most needed things, weapon and a few souvenirs to leather bag and saddled a horse. Clad in armor, threw over his shoulders thick traveling cloak. Casted the last, longing look at camp, he mounted a horse, heading West. He felt, he’ll never return.




He traveled by day, stopping only for a short rest, and by night slept wrapped in thick coat and blanket. At dawn moved on. It was autumn and pale, daily light barely infiltrated from behind the clouds, giving to endless steppes some wild and gloomy charm. Khamul liked that view; gray, storm clouds skimming on the infinite sky and whistling wind caused that he felt free and lonely at the same time- as the last human being in the world. It was nostalgic, but in a strange way nice feeling.

Now however, he had impression, he is not alone.

Before the evening horse snorted softly and jerked his head; possibly felt something ahead, on the trail. Khamul made sure, he has weapon at ready; crossbow strapped to the saddle was loaded, and the hilt of sword palpable under his fingers. He expected to hear wolves howling, or wild dogs, but around was quiet. Mount stepped nervously, snorting and laying flat his ears.

Suddenly in the distance, he saw something on the road. Dark spot grew quickly when approaching and finally Khamul could see the silhouette of black horse and rider. The stranger pulled off the reins and waited in silence. Easterling suddenly realized that dressed in a black coat, broad-shouldered figure looks familiar. Unhurriedly caught up with the horsemen and stopped in front of him, raising his visor.

- You took your time. - said the man with a slight reproach - I waited for you for several months. -

He throw out the hood and Khamul saw familiar, gravely face of necromancer. It has also no stigma of passing time; yet seemed to be somewhat thinner and features hardened a bit.

- Over the years I watched any sign from you. - said Khamul - It has been a long time. -

- Time is irrelevant… It's nothing compared to eternity. - necromancer muttered.

- How did you know when I leave? -

- My Lord sees all, many also can predict… Now I will lead you to him, because road through Ash Mountains is difficult and treacherous and safe paths well hidden. -

- I was going to ride the mountains from north. - explained Khamul - But if I have a guide, perhaps it will save many days of travel. -

- Many weeks… The lands of Mordor are wide. -

They catch up and rode stirrup to stirrup, mostly in silence, sometimes talking. In companion of necromancer time passed quickly and Khamul almost forgot about him tormenting fears and nostalgia. When they stopped to give the mounts some rest, he noticed that companion eat almost nothing.

- This is probably caused by ring… - said the man - For some time I don’t feel hunger… -

Khamul questioned about other changes that power exerted upon him, but necromancer wasn’t talkative. Later however, the wine which easterling offered him, solved his tongue. Khamul noted with relief, their experiences are similar.

- How long you wear a ring? - he asked.

- Much longer than you… And before I received it, I served Sauron from… - necromancer thought for a moment - More than half a century… -

- But, my lord… - muttered Khamul - How is that possible…? After all, you cannot be older than me more than ten years… -

The wizard smiled.

- I’m ninety-seven years old - he said.

Easterling's jaw dropped. He looked at necromancer in disbelief.

There was something about him that suggested great knowledge and experience, but his face and straight, strong silhouette belonged to a middle-aged man, in full of strength.

- So you really have to be numenorean. - he whispered - Long-lived, from the first people kin… -

The wizard nodded.

- Applause for perceptiveness, easterling. By the way… My real name is Er- Murazor. -

Khamul bowed his head respectfully.

- Tell me my lord, why did you come from across the sea…? -

Numenorean winced noticeably.

- It's an old story… I don’t like to recall. -

For a long time they sat in silence, at the dying campfire. Khamul finished meal, but Murazor not even touched his. Instead spread a thick blanket on the ground, already heavily soiled and saturated with smell of horse sweat.




At dawn Khamul opened eyes and saw him nearby. Kneeling on the ground, leaned over travel bags. He pulled out a clean, linen shirt and began to unbutton the one he was wearing. He stripped mucky material, and easterling's eyes widened in mute amazement.

His back was crisscrossed by scars. All seemed to be old; thin and pale, almost invisible. He could seen them only in bright morning light. Such traces could leave only one thing… A whip in hand of experienced hangman.

Numenorean turned abruptly, feeling his stare on back. Khamul quickly lowered his eyes, sat up and began to gather his belongings. He dared not question about something such personal, but in his mind slowly sprouted anxiety.  After a few hours, finally threw out with seemingly casual tone.

- How is he…? -

Wizard replied questioning look.

- Sauron. - clarified Khamul.

- Well, soon you'll see… He's hard to describe. -

- And what kind of manner is he? Is his service hard? -

Murazor shrugged.

- Certainly requires full devotion… And absolute loyalty. If there’s something, my Lord absolutely doesn’t tolerate, it is a betrayal… -

- Understood… - muttered Khamul - It is said however, that he’s extremely cruel… Did he often punish his minions with pain and torment…? -

Necromancer suddenly laughed.

- Ah, that's what you mean… - he said, still smiling mockingly - No, these scars are not memorial of him… I got it from my father. Lord Sauron rarely descends to so… trivial methods. -

Khamul looked at him in astonishment. He also had known in his youth fatherly hand and even birch, but it was nothing more than a mere rebuke.

- Father…? -

Curt nod, clearly ended the matter.

- Now it’s clear why you didn’t want to remember the past… - he thought.

- Truly, you have nothing to fear. - added a necromancer - You are a valuable minion for Sauron; his new secret weapon… My master is powerful, but he used to say that great power involves great responsibility… It's master who cares for his people… -

 


Another days went by monotonously. Steppes remained silent and deserted; except small animals and hawks circling high, which shrill cries accompanied them constantly, they encounter no living soul.

Dry wind blowing from the east, whistling loudly among rachitic trees and grasses, and on the gray horizon soared jagged clouds. Soon, in the distance, began to loom sharp chain of Ered Lithui. The more riders approached the walls of mountains, than warmer was getting, and land became more barren and dry.

Khamul has never been so far west. Never watched massifs of Ash Mountains so close and now they seemed to him taller and more sinister than he thought; were dark and cracked, as if made ​​of dried magma and volcanic rocks.

Volcano itself remained invisible for now, but a couple of times, in the distance, barely visible against grey clouds, beat in the sky pale smudges of smoke.

On the seventh day, when only a few leagues separated them from mountains base, earth suddenly quaked. Underground shock echoed a dull, muffled roar; so low that it was more palpable than audible. Khamul’s horse reared up, with scream of horror and easterling barely managed to master him. A frightened mount danced nervously, with eyes bulged and ears pressed flat against the skull. The necromancer was waiting nearby, stoically, and his stallion didn’t even flinch, but also snoring, threw his head back and showed teeth.

Earthquake passed with echo and not repeated more.

- What was that, for Melkor’s sake…? - whispered Khamul.

- Orodruin. - said calmly numenorean - Volcano sleeps restless and sometimes wakes up. -

- Often it happens? -

- Every now and then… Usually when our Lord is particularly pleased or angry. -

Khamul gave him a grim look.

- If it repeated when we’ll ride between mountain passes, can bury us alive… -

- I think not. - calmed him Murazor - No one ever died in these mountains. Well… maybe except of Morgul Pass… - added thoughtfully.

- What is this place…? -

- Far away, on the west wall of Shadow Mountains… The secret entrance to Mordor, but well guarded… On the slopes lives a great spider, spawn of ancient creatures… -

Khamul grimaced in disgust.

- Wonderful… - he muttered and ran a horse.

 


When in front of them rised towering walls of Ered Lithui, necromancer, who was riding in front, stopped abruptly. Khamul raised his head, trying to see the mountain tops, but in vain; were buried in mounds of dense, white clouds.

- We lost our way? - he asked.

- Be quiet. - Murazor silenced him with a gesture. He remained motionless, raised his head slightly, as if he listening.

After a moment Khamul realized, that he not only listened but also… sniffed. He drew the air loudly and slowly exhale, closing eyes to intensify sensations and remained motionless for a long moment.

- People behind us. - he said quietly - They coming up, surrounding us. -

Khamul didn’t heard anything… But after a while he realized, that crickets fell silent in the grass, and around was unnatural quiet. He looked around slowly… Still nothing. He looked at his companion. The man sat upright, still focused and in his hand turned already unsheathed sword.  Khamul without waiting for command drew his curved yataghan and made sure, that crossbow is loaded.

They waited a long time. Nothing happened and Khamul became impatient, when suddenly his ears reached very light sound; so quiet that normally would be taken it for figment of imagination. But after a few moments repeated, accompanied by a muffled horse snort.

- How could he felt it so early…? It’s impossible… - he thought - Must be still far away… -

- They are two leagues from here. - whispered Wizard - They go on foot and horses have shackled snouts… Want to take us by surprise.

- How many? - whispered Khamul.

- At least twenty-five… I can hear their breathing, they’re tired but still ready to brawl. It seems that they wanted to finish us in canyon, or when the mountain walls cut off escape route… -

It was too little time to ask unnecessary questions, but easterling barely could restrain himself.

- How does he know all this… - he wondered.

- Shall we pledge a trap? - asked aloud.

Necromancer thought for a moment.

- There’s closer to thirty of them… - he said - And with horses they have advantage in open space… So, we wait under the wall of  mountains, as they planned. Only, that elaborate plan will change slightly… - he added grinning in a malicious smile.

They ran mounts ahead and rode at trot. They couldn’t go faster, otherwise trackers could have noticed, they were discovered.

At dusk, they stood under almost vertical, dark mountain walls.

- Epfel Dúath. - said necromancer. - Now quickly, we don’t have much time. -

Jumped from their horses and gathered an armful of sticks and few larger branches from thorny, dry bushes. Khamul squatted down beside them, taking flint, but Murazor stopped him with impatient gesture.

- Move. -

From his hand ran down the ball of greenish light, which flared up like a torch; branches caught fire immediately. Flames licked the wood with green tongues, which seemed to give a lot of heat and little light. Murazor hissed softly some words, and flames roared rapidly and have gained natural, red color. In glade, at the foot of mountain, shone merrily big fireplace; so at least it looked from afar.

Now both took off their coats and pushing them with bags and branches, which laid around campfire, like a silhouette of sleeping, weary wanderers who believe that nothing threatened them and carelessly set no guard. Horses brought with them, but it was a detail that was easy to explain; animals usually were left outside the circle of campfires.

The whole operation took less than few minutes and now they waited motionless in shadows; ready on horses and with bare iron in hands. The moon had wandered high in the sky, before they heard a muffled steps and the clatter of hooves.

Khamul looked at necromancer, who again sniffed in concentration.

- Some are drunk. - he told - But they have crossbows… I heard screeching of stretched chord. It's probably your kin, easterling. -

Khamul froze. It would be necessary to kill his own people…? And why they’re hunting for him? Then he breathed with a sigh of relief; probably it was another tribe, exiled by him after victory over new land… These people lived like migratory carnivores; camped on someone else's land or on huge expanses of no one's land, extending southeast… And sometimes venture far, to plunder and take revenge for their harms. Probably somehow learned of his lonely journey, they decided to hunt down perpetrator of all woes… However, still afraid of him and the mysterious visitor from Mordor, they kept to reasonable distance, hoping for a more favorable circumstances.

Khamul smiled coldly. For such bunch surprising  warrior during a dream was nothing shameful, so trap should work well enough. It’ll be dirty, dishonorable fight. He looked at necromancer, who remained motionless, like a statue carved in granite. On his face fell moonlight, giving it an unhealthy, cadaverous tint. In dark cavities of eye sockets glowed faintly reddish light. Almost without moving his lips, he whispered:

- They're here. On my mark, easterling… We’ll see if you can wield a sword as well, as they say. -

Khamul smiled slightly.

- You may be surprised. -

After few moments, there was a loud cry and on lit by fire space, fell in full gallop over thirty riders. They rode a small, fawn-colored horses, and guttural shouts in dialect of the East have confirmed beyond any doubt, who they were.

- Now! - necromancer growled and stuck spurs into the sides of his horse.-

------------


Group of easterlings gathered around lying on the ground coats, screaming and shaking spears.

After a while, they discovered a trick, but before could make anything, out of the darkness storm out two riders in black.

They crept like a whirlwind, slashing mercilessly; instantly five thugs fell on the ground. Horses squealed, wounded howled and the rest of group scattered in confusion, trying to beat newcomers. But those were faster; parted, enveloping squad and attacking from two sides at once. Crossbow chords groaned and one of the riders reeled in saddle, not dropped however and again raised his sword.

The young man, commanding a bunch of thugs and rebels from East stood like rooted to the spot, with his mouth open, staring at the carnage.

- It cannot be… - he thought frantically - There are only two against thirty-four… -

Now his unit has been reduced to about twenty warriors… He cried, ordering people to gather, but no one listened. They were not a trained unit, but a regular mob robbers, who in fear forgot about discipline. A few threw themselves headlong between the trees and escaped in dark steppe.

Riders in black now fighting shoulder to shoulder, turned back to each other. One of them was tall and broad-shouldered;  it had to be an emissary from Mordor. Second was the former Lord of Rhun, infamous Shadow of the East. The arrow stuck in his arm, but he didn’t seem to lose strength.

In the end, they were surrounded by easterlings and pinned up to the rock wall with long copies; loaded crossbows clicked again…

Suddenly taller rider rose in stirrups, reaching out armored hand and shouted hoarsely some strange-sounded words. From his palm gushed cold, bland light and opponents fell, when frightened horses reared and pranced.

Ankath! Dushatar! - there was a panic cry - It is sorcerer!!! -

People fled; some crawled, sobbing in terror. The next words fell, pronounced with cold, inhuman voice and a few thugs began to roll on the ground, plowing the soil with stiffed fingers and howled in some incomprehensible agony. In darkness of night young leader didn’t see what happened to them. Determined to not check it out, he screamed and rushed to escape.

But hadn’t gone far. His horse squirmed, violently throwing on one side, and easterling fell heavily on the ground. He heard a dry crack and cried, when bone in his forearm broke.

With great effort, sweating from pain and fear, he rolled on back and saw above a huge, black stallion, which dismounted tall stranger. In darkness under the hood, like a demon's eyes gleamed two red flickers.

- Well, well… - he said - You’re still alive… Very well.  -

Second rider joined him and raised his visor.  

Lying men saw his lean, weather-beaten face, framed by long, straight hair. He had more regular features than most of easterlings. Slightly slanted eyes, tinted charcoal on eastern folk manner, gave him dangerous and sad at the same time expression.

He held out gilded yataghan and put the blade to lying’s neck.

- What is your name? - his voice was quiet and somehow unpleasant.

The man spat at his feet and pressed lips together, until whitened.

Khamul pressed him to the ground, deliberately hurting broken forearm.

- Speak. Why are you chasing me? -

- You… you’re Shadow of the East… Black Easterling… You killed my father… took the land. I swore revenge. -

- I killed a lot of people, young boy… Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t remember all. I feel sorry for your loss, but know that you’re not the only one, who suffer. It isn’t worthy your life, believe me… Cause if you choose the path of revenge, it’s like you were already dead… Inside. -

The young man blinked, shocked. He was waiting for this meeting for years… Dreaming of a day when he’ll stab his sword in chest of terrible enemy, his father’s murder and will watch him, choking his own blood, with slowly fading dark eyes… Always pictured him as a cruel, with abhorrent face; more orkish, than human. His mother saw the Black Easterling and told, he was huge, terrifying, dressed in colors of death- black and crimson…

Meanwhile, he saw an ordinary man, slim and quite handsome. He seemed dangerous, but there was nothing monstrous in him. That was someone wielding a sword perfectly, disciplined, overwhelmed with strange sadness and melancholy.

When he spoke, young Easterling for the first time understood the difference between myth and reality. He consumed years, carefully cultivating hatred and making heart stone- like and merciless. In vain. Now he lay on the cold, damp from dew grass, with broken arm and blade under his chin, at mercy of his greatest enemy. Expected mockery and torture, he heard only a few words, almost gentle. No longer able to resist, he wept silently.

Khamul took his foot off youth’s sternum and sighed resignedly.

- Still a child… - muttered under his breath - Boy who wanted to become a man… What should I do with you…? -

- Kill him, we have to leave. - necromancer said flatly. - There’s no need, he dragged behind us… -

Hearing these words, lying sobbed even harder and instinctively curled; his pride apparently went into temporary oblivion.

Khamul grimaced and shook his head.

- It’s a dishonor… He is defenseless. And in addition this is my kin, even if doesn’t look like… -

Murazor sighed, leaned over the man and with instant move struck him in temple; not hard enough to kill, but more than enough to turn off consciousness.

- Let him rest… - said mockingly - And then try to return home on foot… - he turned to his companion - We need to do something with arrow, which stuck in your arm. -



Khamul only now realized how much he suffered. Arrowhead lodged deep in muscles, not going through, and from his bracer stuck out a half ell gray feathering shaft. He hissed through clenched teeth looking at injury and touched lightly; it hurt like hell.

- Leave, I’ll do that. - necromancer made short gesture, ordering him to sit on the ground.

He began to unfasten the straps of companion’s breastplate and bracer and with short, sharp knife cut shirt’s sleeve, baring his shoulder to forearm.

Khamul found that almost cannot move his hand. Flesh around the wound was hot and tight, but bone didn’t seem affected. In dense darkness he saw little; mostly dark blood oozing and dripping continuously on the ground.

- Light some fire… - he said - You won’t see anything. -

- I can see perfectly. - assured him numenorean.

- But… -

- Don’t move. -

Khamul cursed silently. Probably necromancer will tear his tendons, or violate artery, however seemed confident. Now he put one hand on injured collarbone, grasping the shaft with other.

Khamul tensed, but to his surprise numenorean was very gentle; he almost didn’t feel pain.

- Now I have to push it. - he said - When the tip comes out the other side, I’ll break the shaft and pull it out. Can you endure?-

Easterling nodded.

- Only make it fast. -

- On three. -

Khamul suddenly clenched his teeth, when before added to two, felt slow, strong push. Dart came out, dripping blood, and necromancer broke and drew a shaft in two fluid motions.

But then, instead stop the bleeding, he placed both hands on the wound, whispering few words.

Khamul jerked violently, but grasp was iron- like.

- What are you doing, damn…?! -

The pain immediately stopped. Khamul looked at his arm in mute amazement ; it stopped bleeding, and in place of raw wound appeared a fresh scar. He raised arm carefully and noticed, he could do it easily, feeling only slight resistance of stiffed, swollen muscles.

Necromancer closed his eyes, breathing heavily. He seemed very tired. Then got up with a clear difficulty and slowly mounted his horse.

Khamul didn’t know what to say. He stood up slowly, still in disbelief staring at his arm.

- Thank you, my lord. - he said at least, bowing his head with respect.



After fight at the foot of Ash Mountains, Khamul differently looked at his companion. From beginning he had a lot of respect for him, but now he realized how powerful necromancer really was. The first time he saw real magic, used both in battle, to hurt and inflict death, and in order to heal.

Besides numenorean showed the most perfect sword mastery, he had ever seen. Khamul was a great swordsman, but Murazor not persisted him.

He presented a strange, unknown in the east technique, using a two- handed sword like extension of his own arm. With considerable strength ruled him freely, so the heavy blade slashed with saber speed, though it’s weight gave blows a monstrous power. When they fought shoulder to shoulder, Khamul heard only a whirr of air and silvery blade slashing so fast, that was barely perceptible.

Typically yataghan had advantage over even best-balanced swords, thanks to its lightness, which enabled rapid, precise cuts, almost with same twist of the wrist, without body balance.

Now however, Khamul was convinced that he couldn’t keep the field. At least not for long.

When he saw as necromancer in fight, one thought struck him:

That's impossible… No man can so wield the sword…

And after a while, another:

 "Unless, he is not a man…"

 

That's history about the past of seceond in nazgul command- Easterling king.

It's my first publication like that, so please, be merciful ;P Hope, you enjoy ;)
© 2014 - 2024 dead01
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TheMaiaNightmareMoon's avatar
This is a great story! :D For some reason I always thought of the Witch King and Khamul as friends even before the Rings.