The worst battle is the one longest fought.
A heaving throng of orcs trudges its way through the fiery sands: wearing furs, bent plates, and disheveled clothes, clearly unprepared for the environment that the Lord of the Black Land has taken them to. They are led by a brutish captain named Lûg, on the campaign to announce the loyalty of the next tribe to the will of their master. With them, beaten slaves of previously subjugated tribes and city-states carry carts of tribute that push to persuade the various chieftains towards unconditional surrender. The stink of sweat, dried blood and unwashed orc-flesh taints the air, and all breathe heavily with the desire for rest and water. Paranoia grips the smaller snaga, victims of their own craven nature, as they flit their orange eyes towards the snakes, scorpions and other hostile fauna that prey on their careless expedition. No orc desires to be outside, much less beneath the terror-inducing power of the sun in Far Harad. For them, there is no direction but forward; this too is the path of death.
The mile beyond the orcs lies a standing, huddled mass of Haradrim tribesmen, their bucklers strapped to their arms and their spears and javelins slung over their backs. The many faces, wrapped in an assortment of black, gray, white and reds, hide all but their eyes, with which they peer out at their beloved homeland at a crossroads of concern and determination. Their tunics, billowing in the soft breeze that gives them respite from the heat, vary from black to brown in color. The many boots and sandals sink into the sand, anchoring them towards the one thing that holds them together: the desert. Each of these men stand prepared, the thought of orc-kind grasping their mind in a flood of disgust.
In the midst of the crowd, a pair of jade green eyes sparkle from beneath the black headwrap of a young warrior, who grasps his spear until his knuckles lighten shades. He fears greatly, knowing the truth that haunts them all: no water, food, horses or wives are to be earned, as these orcs have come for their wills. The path of glory is one littered with loss and destruction, not duels and honors bestowed by the chief. The path of defeat is not shame and training, but submission and death. This young warrior, Khazim, Son of Basara, can think of nothing but his wife and daughter at the village, their sweet faces hardened by the thought of his failure. He exhales, attempting to release his worry, before Síban, the son of the chieftain, steps forward with a horizontal line of four warriors behind him.
"Morkât!" (Orcs!)
Síban proclaims aloud the sight of the enemy, and all the warriors in the mass look forward at the dark horde that slowly creeps over the dunes. Quickly, the Haradrim crouch beneath the natural barriers of the sands, hiding their positions far before the host of Mordor can witness their presence. The first warrior in Síban's line pulls a javelin from his sling, clicking it against his buckler three times. The signal is given, and two groups split from the left and right flanks of the mass. They scatter into the sands, assuming positions behind dunes further up the line of sight. This creates a formation that resembles a crescent: two wings on the flanks with a center mass at the bottom. Khazim remains with the center mass, an imperfect square that treads forward carefully, scaling the tall dune in front of them and secure an upper-hill advantage. The desert blesses them with its mighty forms today.
An orc at the front of the horde pauses, his nose crinkling at a distinct smell that alerts him.
"I smell Man." Lûg twists his head with a menacing gaze, interrogating the underling with nothing but his eyes.
"I-I don't know where, captain! The wind is hard on me nose. I'm tryin' to sniff em' out but I just smell em' all over the place!" Lûg grunts with inconsolable disappointment, shoving the underling backwards into the rest of the regiment.
"Keep yer eyes peeled, lads. There should be no Men here. The next village ain't fer another day." The captain snarls, this turn of events crossing the thin threshold of his patience. There were supposed to be no Haradrim at all. Unless the Dark Lord is bringing him reinforcements, the captain feels that this can only mean trade or worse, an army. The tension in the orc force increases; crude spears, rotten blades and devilish axes rise to readiness as if attack can come within the next breath. They continue on their march, and as they descend into a basin, the stench of Man engulfs them.
Atop the basin stands Síban, gripping a javelin buried point-down into the sand, with a line of ten warriors, including the young Khazim, behind him. Their headwraps flap in the wind as they stare down at the regiment of orcs come to deal with their people. Khazim's eyes widen, having never seen such awful creatures before. He wonders what chieftain would hire warriors that cannot even stand up straight, with rotten smells, and weapons worthy of scrap. The only problem to him is the sheer number of them. The seething black mass forms a rough circle, prepared to defend all flanks from ambush.
Lûg smirks, two rotten teeth slipping over his scarred bottom lip.
"Get a slave that speaks their tongue! Tell em' we're on a trip to give gold to loyal servants of the Eye!" He beckons at the mass behind him: orcs begin to snarl, push and shove. Eventually, a lone Haradrim adorned in a simple tunic, trousers and a collection of bruises stumbles forth. He looks to Lûg, fearful and unsure. As Lûg moves to prod him forward, the Haradrim slave nods twice and begins to walk swiftly towards Síban, who stands atop the dune without moving an inch.
Síban beckons to Khazim, who gulps loudly but offers himself forward. He whispers to the younger warrior's ears, and pats his shoulder with hearty assurance. Khazim nods, and jogs down the edge of the basin towards the enslaved delegation. A long, dreadful silence permeates air. Sand blows barriers between Síban's line and Lûg's host, enveloping their line of sight as they await the exchange between the slave and the warrior to finish. As the two split, the orcs begin to prove rowdy, stirred by the tensions into a delayed madness.
Lûg spits into the sand, his bloodlust manifesting slowly but surely. When the slave returns, he huffs expectantly.
"So? What's yer news, slave?" He inquires forcefully, raising a hand to grip the slave by his collar. As his hand falls low, the slave ducks and begins to sprint madly, stumbling forward and catching himself in the sand. As two orcs pursue him, he begins to climb the basin again, but this time on the right flank of the orc host. Lûg roars in an attempt to order a halt:
"Let him run! We have more where that came from! These Men don't know good work if it hit em' in the head." The host of orcs bust into a fit of laughter as Khazim rejoins the line next to Síban. He nods reassuringly at the young warrior, his eyes crinkling with mirth at their decision.
The laughter continues, as the orcs begin to mock the small group of Haradrim warriors above them. Síban picks his javelin from the sand, raising it to the air. He shouts aloud, calling forth a line alone: after he finishes the first line, a well of thunderous Haradrim voices respond with the second.
1:"Hati malak senna!" (Come to us fools!)
2: "Hati!" (Come!)
1: "Qud hama zaki!" (We bring a swift end!)
2: "Zaki!" (End!)
Lûg steps backwards, taken by the sudden uproar of voices that can be heard beyond his line of sight. The orcs behind him begin to panic, driven by fear, and huddle closer together with their weapons meekly extended in the case of a charge. The Haradrim chant intensifies, as Síban goes silent and the entire group of warriors join in a mass chant. The slave can be seen with them, armed with his own spear and buckler, chanting along faithfully as if this new tribe is his own.
"Hati malak senna! Qud hama zaki!" (Come to us fools! We bring a swift end!)
At the end of this mass chant, the orcs' ears are bombarded with the sound of spear shafts slamming against shields in patterns of three. The chant begins again, ending with the same drumming of spear against shield. The morale of the orcs' wears considerably, and Lûg shifts with an uneasy footing as the truth is now revealed to them. At the top of the basin, more warriors appear, standing tall and proud with their spears hitting against their shields. The Haradrim prove restless, dancing as they chant and breaking formation to move forward a few steps. The battle-readied warriors pale in number to the orcs, but their hearts fight like ten Men.
Lûg and the orcs tighten their circle formation, awaiting the certain charge from these warriors, but they do not come. Instead, the chanting stops, and a shrill scream is heard at the back end of the formation. An orc falls with a javelin lodged into his back, descending into the sand that claims his life forever. Before Lûg can respond, the rain begins, and javelins heave from Síban's line; others appear from behind the dunes, as if the land of Harad itself has come to take revenge for its loss. The host dwindles slowly, as orc after orc falls to the jaws of the desert.
The time is painstaking as each orc scrambles over one another to cover themselves from the death that comes to seize them. Lûg tosses his hand in rage, dismissing the plan altogether.
"Enough of this! Charge up the hill, you curs!" The spare slaves are ejected into the fray, begrudgingly taking point in the assault on the entrenched tribesmen. They lead with crude, orcish weapons, their simple tunics providing no protection from the harrowing assault by javelins. Their bodies crumple helplessly, tumbling down the sands back to the bottom. Behind them, orcs assemble with a renewed vigor, comforted by the fact that the slaves would take the first hits in their desperate charge.
The javelins stop, and the combined host moves with speed up the basin. As Síban's line remains steady, prepared for the charge, the points of the crescent make their move and envelop the left and right flanks of Lûg's host. They sprint down the slope with great momentum, their spears held aloft. Scattered shouts of "Zaki!" announce the doom of the orcs, and Lûg quickly enters the fray to ensure morale remains at level.
The crescent closes: Haradrim warriors with spears held forward leap, roll and lunge into the orc host, stabbing at legs, chests and shoulders to disable the front line of their foe. The wave turns, and the orcs shove their shields forward to give themselves breathing room from the limber spearmen. Spare warriors fall from the occasional orcish blade, their bravado punished by the sheer number of weapons swinging at them, but their skill in true combat is unmatched.
Small pockets of group combat begin to form, and within them individual duels between more skilled combatants determine the scale of success. Khazim, engaging with two orcs, strafes the first, his buckler held at the waist and his spear aimed at mid-level. The first orc's sword thwacks loudly against his protection; he takes advantage of this window and lunges forward, piercing the gut and quickly wrenching the point back out. The first orc's innards spill into the sand, blackening its grains, and the second orc roars, raising his axe and throwing it downwards upon the young warrior's form. He responds by thrusting his buckler beneath the orc's arm, slamming it into his face and stunning him. The enemy falls upon his back, and Khazim stands triumphant over his unconscious body.
He grips the spear with great intensity, and slams the point directly into his chest.
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(Disclaimer: All concepts introduced in this story are not meant to reflect Tolkien's works but rather adaptations of his material for narrative purposes.)
(Part 2 is here: Ext. link: “Trial 3: Dreams of The Last Victory--Part 2”)
