Their plan went down flawlessly. Three years of rebellion, three years of pantomime, misplaced orders, brothers silenced through murder, had nearly led to the downfall of a government.
Then, out of nowhere, the government's response. They realised that the movement was not a merely civilian one, and the Westerner was the first to be executed. A major general of the army. Two weeks later it was the Camel, a colonel.
The regiment had set up camp few miles north of the river Harnen, and as Ghali set foot out of his tent his nostrils were filled by the smell of spiced meat. Life was abundant, there was plenty of game to catch, and rain was not too scarce. In that season, anyway. They would last a long while stationed there, or at least until they didn't bore themselves to death.
He wandered over the cook-fire, where the smell seemed to come from. Wild goat, lemon, coriander, cumin, hot pepper, and... some kind of tuber, most likely edible. He told the men to spare him a bowl of stew and headed on towards the largest tent, which was not far off.
The colonel was inside, along with the other eight captains. And another man he couldn't quite recognise.
"Captain Ghali, we've been waiting for you."
"I beg your pardon, Colonel. I had to speak to some of my men."
"Your men can wait. We have a messenger. Don't let this happen again."
Ghali's heart skipped a beat as he heard the news brought by the messenger. The government intended to have the regiments stationed in Harad all mustered back to Khand, in order to reunite them in their eight divisions and send them off as bigger forces.
The ten men went on until late afternoon discussing those orders at the presence of the messenger. They pondered over what could possibly be the reason of such a decision, and why the government wouldn't have the divisions reunite elsewhere instead, which would be far quicker. But orders were orders, and mutiny was punished with death.
"Many things are punished with death" Ghali found himself commenting, and even though the eight captains looked at him with surprised and outraged faces the Colonel sighed and nodded in agreement.
As he stood in the tent, his nostrils were filled by the smell of execution.
All the soup was gone, so he decided to saddle his horse and ride out. No bardings for his horse, no armour for him, and only his dagger as a weapon. How foolish of him! If an enemy had been hiding in the sparse woodlands, not an exceptional aim would have been required to take him down. How ironic, and what a waste! Twenty one years of training and a seemingly flawless military career, ended by a half-wit with a bow.
It would have been easier, at least.
But it didn't happen.
The army's involvement had been discovered, and the muster was probably to have an easier time purging the ranks from the plague of the rebellion. To go back was the least wise thing to do, but what choice did he have? Where would he go? He'd be a deserter in Harad and an enemy in Gondor, and no crew of sailors or pirates would have a landlubber among them.
He returned to his tent at twilight. There was no one inside, save for... the messenger?
"Finally, Asapatis. The Bard sang about you."
