Under strange stars by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 7

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With his spirits raised by rest and water Elrohir was eager to rejoin his company. They decided to forgo a day’s rest and instead weaved their way through a maze of spectacularly coloured canyons, dry riverbeds and rock formations, the dusty green of the surrounding shrubbery a fascinating contrast against the deep red rock. Ot’s steps loudly echoed in a silence broken only by the whistling wind.

After a few hours of slow, winding progress that unmistakable sensation of being watched crept up on Glorfindel. Not daring to risk even the sound of a whisper, he tapped Elrohir’s shoulder and pointedly raised his eyes to the canyon rim above them when the Half-Elf turned around.

A lesser Elf would have startled when Elrohir burst into song at the top of his lungs. As far as Glorfindel could make out it was Haradi with a heavy desert accent; a silly ditty about a girl, a camel and what had to be a lot of double entendre. Elrohir’s unmistakably Elvish voice singing so foreign a scale and rhythm was eerie. He stopped abruptly halfway through the second stanza and leant forward in the saddle as he strained to hear the song taken up by a hoarse man’s voice somewhere on the plateau above. The unseen singer dropped the song halfway through a line, only for Elrohir to continue without a moment’s hesitation. 

This was some kind of test, and their observers were now apparently satisfied that Elrohir was indeed one of their own. Once his strange performance wound to a close several veiled Haradrim began to climb down from the canyon rim. Elrohir made Ot kneel and dismounted, meeting their leader as she approached, waterskin in hand.

“Eru bless the camel that carried you here.” Her voice was familiar.

“And Eru bless the hands that reach me this water,” Elrohir’s voice sounded perfectly formal, but his smile as he took a sip from her waterskin could have melted glaciers. 

This was Hamalan, Elrohir’s lieutenant whom they had sent away as they rode to confront the Ringwraith. Strange that it had been only ten days ago. Glorfindel was surprised by the depth of his own relief at reaching the end of the loneliness and desperate peril of their journey. It seemed as if Elrohir and he had been roaming empty desert for an eternity. Elrohir seemed to be taking it all in stride; the Haradrim were as hard as their land. 

Hamalan, too was beaming at Elrohir’s return. “You’re still alive, and you seem very much yourself. Dare I believe that you have done it?” she asked, carefully examining Elrohir’s face.

His expression grew serious. “The Demon is not dead. Glorfindel managed to frighten and maim it. It has fled from us screaming, and we have not felt its presence since. So yes, we may have done it, depending on your definition of ‘it’.”

Hamalan smiled and turned to Glorfindel with a bow. “This is more than we dared hope for. I have gravely misjudged you, Master Glorfindel. Please accept my apologies. We are in your debt.”

Glorfindel returned her bow, glad for the mistrust and wariness to abate.

“Mistress, you were only sensible not to trust a stranger too lightly. No apology is needed.”

Elrohir interrupted the pleasantries. “Tell me, Hamalan. The Umbarians…?”

Hamalan launched into a breathless diatribe. “As bad as we could have hoped, praise Eru!” she rattled, “They are already slaughtering their animals. The occasional supply caravan slips through our fingers, but nowhere near as many as the army needs. There is talk of rebellion among the troops! General Arnuzîr has orders from the Emperor to keep moving, but he had to subdue a mutiny by the legion from Pellardur.”

Elrohir smiled with the fierce joy of bloodlust. “Good news indeed.”

The dark mood passed like clouds blown over as Hamalan recalled a more cheerful tiding. “Meanwhile we can offer you some fine hospitality! You two look famished. With all these raided caravans we shall soon grow fat on Arnuzîr’s food. Climb up with us, a feast awaits like you haven’t seen since before this infernal campaign began. Master Glorfindel, let me offer you this small compensation for your troubles!”

Ot was left hobbled in the valley to graze what green shrubbery there was, and Hamalan led them clambering up a side canyon. The Haradrim camped in cool shadow under an overhang where a nameless river had once worn away the red rocks, uncounted years before this land became a desert.

Elrohir was happily reunited with friends there. If some of the Haradrim thought the strange Northerner’s presence an intrusion they were too polite to stare, at least while they believed Glorfindel would notice. They were a peculiar people, Glorfindel thought. At once brutally savage in war and utterly restrained in their demeanour, veiling their very faces to all but their closest companions. It seemed that defeating the Ringwraith had gained him access to that inner circle, and the meal was pleasant enough for it. 

Elrohir excitedly recounted the Ringwraith’s defeat, and suddenly the burden of dread and oppressive strangeness he had carried like a heavy cloak seemed lifted. Glorfindel was glad to finally hear his laugh, a merry sound that sharply reminded him of Elladan.

Under the circumstances they were served a feast indeed, with fresh bread, dried meat, dates and even a small piece of honeycomb, with watered wine and coffee to drink. As the meal wound to a close, the conversation centered on the advancing Umbarian army. From the accounts of the Haradrim scouts, the Black Númenóreans were in dire straits indeed. 

Horror returned once more as Hamalan spoke of desperate men so mad with thirst that they slaughtered their precious camels to drink their blood. When he heard Elrohir and his companions whoop and cheer over the gruesome tales, Glorfindel could only feel shock and disgust at their rejoicing in such savagery. In his many years as an officer Glorfindel had dealt more death than he cared to remember, but never meted out prolonged suffering or allowed such a thing under his command. He would have deemed the strategy of the Haradrim Orc-work, if he had not fully understood their desperation.

From there they went on to list their own losses. Among the dead were a few names that saddened Elrohir. Glorfindel, too was grieved to learn that his friend Samak had not survived a raid on an Umbarian supply caravan.

After the meal most of the company took to their bedrolls. Glorfindel sat in meditation beside Elrohir’s sleeping form. All the world had stilled. Heat shimmered in the sun-baked canyon outside, the silent shadows of the sentries guarding them the only movement. 

Glorfindel recalled Imladris, where snow had to be thick on the ground by now. He thought of Elrond, wondering how his old friend was holding himself under this hope turned to torment that was the long wait for his son.

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At dusk Elrohir and Glorfindel took their leave of Hamalan and her warriors. They went to the main host of the Haradrim at the Pass of Horns to bring word of the Ringwraith’s defeat. The ride under the stars became a pleasant experience now that they were well-fed and safe in friendly territory. Elrohir, too, seemed in a softer mood, humming the watchword song from that morning under his breath as he steered Ot through a maze of rocky valleys whose walls became ever steeper and higher towards the heart of the mountains.

At sunrise they entered a wide, sagebrush-speckled valley surrounded by craggy hills, their rocky flanks a dream-like display of bands of red, russet and pale ochre. To the west the valley floor, strewn with sage and cacti, stretched out until it was lost in hazy blue distance. In the east the land sloped up towards a narrow pass among vertical rock-faces towering like the painted walls of some mad giant’s keep. The endless whistling of the ever-present desert wind was the only sound in the desolate expanse.

Glorfindel knew they were being watched, from hilltops and hidden caves.

“These hills have eyes,” he remarked.

“Aye, but to us they are friendly,” said Elrohir. “We have reached the Pass of Horns. This is where the future of all of Harad will be decided.”

Glorfindel peered into the distance to the west. Even his sharpest of eyes could not yet discern any sign of an approaching army.

“The Umbarians are far away still.”

“They will come,” Elrohir answered dryly as he turned Ot towards the narrow pass in the east. “There is no other way. Come, let’s go see how the preparations are going.”

At their approach a welcoming call went up. Seen up close the rock faces were riddled with cave-mouths. A vast system of cool, dark underground caverns sheltered the army of the Haradrim. Water must once have created these passages, and though they seemed bone-dry now there was at the very edge of smell the promise of moisture in the air, blowing up from deeper places. These caves held a priceless treasure: the only untainted well in hundreds of leagues of empty desert. The water they were greeted with was crystal-clear and cold.

The keep swarmed with people and camels. Elrohir was clearly familiar with the place. He led Glorfindel by torchlight up many winding passageways. In aeons past some underground river must have sculpted them from the cliff side's living rock of many colours. As they climbed up through vast chambers and narrow hallways the torch lit fantastical growths of stone, shaped like creatures from a fever-dream. 

In one of the larger caverns Elrohir stopped, and lifted his torch. Glorfindel could not suppress a gasp. The flickering light revealed a fleeing herd of aurochs. Every single animal seemed about to leap from the wall and thunder through the cave, eyes rolling and horns aloft, yet all were painted in red desert pigment by unknown hands.

“Who made them?” Glorfindel asked.

Elrohir shook his head. “We don’t know. It must have been very long ago, and the world changed since, for these animals are strange to us who live here now. Some say they were painted by the first Men Eru woke. This is a holy place.”

On some level Glorfindel had always understood that loss of history was the unavoidable fate of Men, for whom lore could be kept only until the sheer number of transferrals from one generation to the next garbled it beyond all recognition. It was sad to see it with his own eyes, this ancient work of captivating beauty now shorn of its meaning and the name of its creator. He copied Elrohir’s respectful bow, and followed him to what lay beyond, letting the painting fall back into darkness.

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After a steep climb they emerged into blinding sunlight at the very top of the plateau. A settlement of mud-brick dwellings had been erected at that dizzying height. The view from a thousand feet above the valley floor was breathtaking despite the howling, sand-laden wind. 

From this high vantage point Glorfindel could discern the plumes of red dust thrown up by the ten thousand marching feet of the approaching Umbarian army. He tried to point them out to Elrohir, who could not yet see. Silhouetted against the steel-blue desert sky in his wind-blown robes and face-veil, the Perdehel had a wild and dangerous beauty, like a drawing from a storybook about the mysteries of Far Harad.

“You have sharp eyes, Glorfindel.” He said, turning away from the wide vista. “I will go give an account of these past weeks to the council.”

After a brief hesitation, in which he seemed to weigh yet again whether Glorfindel warranted such trust, he said, “Come, if you will. Hear what will be said, if they permit it, so we can benefit from your advice.”

Glorfindel felt a stab of hope at yet another crack in Elrohir’s guard.

The council, most hastily raised from their daytime beds by news of Elrohir’s unhoped-for return, convened under a sun shelter on the roof of one of the mud-brick houses, with a sweeping view of the valley below. As Glorfindel had come to expect of the Haradrim there was little pomp or splendour to their council chamber. They seemed to prefer the timeless beauty of the landscapes surrounding them over man-made objects. 

Glorfindel thought of the Silvan folk once more, and recalled the last time he had attended a similar gathering on the eve of battle. That pain remained sharp and fresh after just a long-year. A council of war in High King Gil-galad’s tent, richly draped with cloth of gold despite the hardships of Mordor. As slender as a willow-tree, and as out of place King Oropher of Eryn Galen had looked there in his simple uniform of brown and forest-green, sitting beside the hulking shapes of Ereinion and Elrond in their gold-inlaid full armour. Little love had been lost between the High King of the Noldor and his Silvan counterpart. Had Glorfindel known how bitter a fruit would grow from the seeds of discord sown by Ereinion’s lack of forbearance during that session, he may have looked beyond Oropher’s rustic ways and unsuitable gear to see the Silvan King’s shoulders straining under the same weight of responsibility for his people as Ereinion’s. Much sorrow would have been prevented, and Glorfindel would be able to look back to that particular day with something other than shame at his own disdainful attitude.

He retreated from memory back to the present. Of today’s battle, at least he could still change the outcome.

The leaders of the Haradrim were hard and serious men and women. Leanness and suffering were etched into their faces. Elrohir shared that toughness, Glorfindel mused, a hard-learned acceptance of anything and everything necessary to survive. 

Amuk was among them, and the man gave Glorfindel a friendly smile. The council listened in stunned silence as Elrohir told the story of his victory over the Ringwraith, its maiming and subsequent flight. 

After the first heady joy at their enemy’s downfall came gnawing doubt. “What if it returns with a vengeance!? What if it brings others like it?”

Glorfindel spoke at length. He was glad of having mastered the Haradi language: these people would not have listened to one speaking Númenórean, the tongue of their enemy. He told them of the nature of the Ringwraiths, their creation and defeat, and their fear of Light and clean fire of any kind. That knowledge alone might be little protection, but it was at least something to diminish the fear. 

He caught himself praying to Eru and all the Valar that the advice he now dispensed would never need to be heeded. The Haradrim were a proud and free people, who abhorred Sauron’s machinations as deeply as did the Eldar and Edain. The Valar had raised no star to guide them, no Land of Gift had been prepared, no mighty Kings would ever muster an army in their defense. Still they made their brave and desperate stand to gain either freedom or death. Secretive, irreverent and cruel as they were, Glorfindel had to grudgingly admit that Elrohir could have wound up in far worse company.

Now that Glorfindel had been accepted as an ally, talk moved to the battle at hand. From the constant stream of dispatches from their scouts the council knew the Umbarians’ exact position, and the degree of their desperation. In the day that passed since Elrohir and Glorfindel had last received news from Hamalan another mutiny had broken out among Arnuzîr’s troops. 

The deserters were hundreds of fishermen and farmhands from the coastal provinces, drafted for this campaign with promises of riches and glory. They had had no concept of the vastness and desolation of the eastern deserts. Now that the full measure of their Emperor’s ambition was revealed they refused to die of thirst for Zimrathôn’s foolish pride, turning back in droves. General Arnuzîr’s countermeasures had been as desperate as they were efficient in keeping his unwilling army marching east: his personal elite troops had left behind hundreds of decapitated bodies, littering the desert like oddly shaped rocks.

The pressure the Haradrim had to exert on Arnuzîr’s supply trains to keep his army thirsty was intense and costly. The council heard reports of yet another Haradrim patrol decimated by the heavily guarded water caravan they were meant to intercept.

The Haradrim strategy for the upcoming battle was simple, but sound: the Umbarian army would be lured into the seemingly deserted valley by rumours about the presence of water, spread among the troops by spies. The keep was to be defended by a deceptively small contingent of Haradrim. Once both the Umbarian commander’s attention and his personal guard were captured by engaging them, the main force of camel-riders would attack by surprise from the hills on both sides, crushing the thirst-weakened Umbarians between hammer and anvil. There would be no prisoners, no quarter. The plan was like the Haradrim themselves: efficient, daring and ruthless.

Inwardly Glorfindel winced at so much loss of life. Large-scale bloodshed he was intimately familiar with, a string of pain that ran back to the depths of time: Mordor besieged, Eregion fallen, Gondolin sacked, tears unnumbered before Thangorodrim. The thousands who would die here at the Pass were no Orcs, but Children of Ilúvatar. Haradrim warriors felled by Umbarian steel. Umbarians killed as much by thirst as by their elusive enemy. In this orgy of death it would fall to Glorfindel to somehow keep Elrohir alive and unscathed, regardless of the battle’s outcome.

 Both Glorfindel’s dark musings and the council were interrupted by the call of a lookout on the adjoining rooftop. She was a young woman of Númenórean descent, her voice both familiar and deeply alien in the Haradi tongue.

“Behold! Umbar is coming!”

The plumes of dust on the western horizon had come within reach of Mortal eyes.

Like a nest of fire-ants disturbed, the keep swarmed with people running to and fro. Suddenly the plateau was full of men and women peering into the distance to catch a glimpse of the approaching enemy. Order returned mere moments later as captains began to muster their companies. Banners were raised and the air rang with calls. Elrohir decisively turned towards a green banner with a four-pointed star.

Glorfindel quickly pulled him back by the billowing sleeve of his robe. "Where are we going?”

“To join my company.” came the exasperated answer. “We are to move into our attack position on the northern flank.”

Glorfindel looked him in the eye in search of even a trace of reluctance, and found none. It was a hard realisation, that there was nothing he could say to keep Elrohir from riding to his probable death in a foreign war that should never have concerned him if the world were a just place.

“Come!” Holding on to Elrohir’s sleeve Glorfindel pulled him towards the nearest house.

Elrohir was half-dragged along, still protesting. "What in Eru’s name is the matter!?”

They ducked into a doorway to the darkness beyond. It was a granary, motes of chaff dancing in the beams of sunlight falling between the planks of the rickety door. Glorfindel closed it behind them. Without a word he began to undress, pulling his robes over his head. Instantly the mud walls were speckled with flecks of light as his mail hauberk was revealed. Elrohir stared, perplexed, while Glorfindel bent at the waist to take it off, then thrust it at him, along with the soft leather gambeson he wore underneath.

“Quick, put this on!”

Elrohir did not reach for it.

“Take it!” urged Glorfindel.

Elrohir shook his head. “You are mad. I cannot accept such a rich gift from you. Keep it, you will be glad for it before the day is through.”

“This is no gift, it is a rescue!” Glorfindel barked. “I may not be able to keep you from engaging in this madness, but I shall drag you out alive or die in the attempt. Now stop contradicting me and put it on!”

Glorfindel knew he must have looked ferocious, because one look into his eyes made Elrohir abandon his protests. He pulled off his own robes. His body underneath was lean with hunger. The Haradi sense of modesty clearly did not allow for changing in the presence of others. His face pointedly averted, Elrohir quickly snagged the gambeson from Glorfindel’s hands and turned to face the wall. Bemused by an innocuous everyday occurrence in the barracks of Imladris causing offence here, Glorfindel quickly dressed and turned his face away until Elrohir had donned the gambeson. 

From the way he needed Glorfindel’s help to pull the mail over his head it seemed Elrohir had never worn armour before. The hauberk became invisible under his wide overclothes. Even under these desperate circumstances Glorfindel marvelled at the lightness of the Noldorin smithcraft. He could only hope it would suffice to keep his charge from harm.

Elrohir was at a loss for words, and pressed for time. Before bursting through the door he turned back towards Glorfindel.

“I cannot claim to understand what you just did. But know that I will remember it for as long as I live.” Before adding dryly, “Which may be until tomorrow, if Arnuzîr has his way. Come!”