Though his hands had not been bound, Caledorn felt strangely like a prisoner being led to an execution. Warriors flanked him on either side, some of them in the armor of Rhun and others in the ragtag garb of the Haradrim. They spoke little, though when they did it was to each other, and in a tongue that Caledorn did not understand. Their leader was a large man, his bare arms rippling with muscle. He garnered respect from the other men, though they did not speak to him at all. Instead he led the group, alone and a few paces ahead of the others.

Just before dawn they arrived at a small oasis, where the men refilled their water skins and allowed Caledorn to drink his fill as well. They continued on quickly, their pace increasing as they drew seemingly nearer to their destination.

When they began to ascend a tall hill the men began to congratulate each other, and Caledorn gathered that on the other side lie their final stop.

He could see several caravans near the top of the hill, some of them traveling in the same direction as he and his captors. A lone mumak strode slowly past them, several Haradrim jabbering back and forth and taking little notice of the strangely clad elf. He noticed that they were not carrying many weapons, and instead of a war tower the mumak had large crates of supplies strapped to its back. It's almost as if these people do not know that the world is about to fall into shadow, he thought to himself cynically.

As they crested the hill, a stunning sight greeted Caledorn. A vast city of tents lie beneath, innumerable and stretching as far as the eye could see. Like ranks of soldiers, the tents were set up in organized lines, and streets and lanes formed between them. Thousands of people moved to and fro, little more than dots from where the elf stood.

"Dorgesh-Suramu," the leader of the group said, his voice gruff but carrying a tone of immense respect when he spoke of the city. "The home of our people, and the last bastion of freedom in Rhun. Come."

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Along with the muscular man's words, the sight of children playing and mothers scolding them reassured Caledorn that perhaps this was the place he sought. There was no sign of orcs, or indeed any servants of Sauron at all.

The soldiers led him to a large tent that sat near the middle of the camp. Outside of it were guards, which Caledorn recognized as the elite Easterling soldiers, the Loke-Gamp-Rim. Their halberds parted, allowing him entry into the tent.

The furs of many exotic animals covered the floor, some of which even Caledorn did not recognize. Wooden steps led to a great throne, forged of steel and adorned with line upon line of Rhunic text. Guards lined the approach to the throne, as still as statues and not making a single sound. Standing beside the throne was a man, nearly as large as the stranger who had brought Caledorn there. However, this man was dressed as a Haradrim chieftain, his head adorned in a helmet around which was wrapped a scarlet turban.

Beside him, however, stood another man. Though he was not nearly as large as the Haradrim, he exuded charisma and leadership. He was clad in the armor of the Loke-Rim, though instead of bronze, his was made of dark steel, and instead of burgundy cloth he wore midnight blue. His back was facing Caledorn, for it was apparent that he had been speaking with the Haradrim. At Caledorn's entrance, however, he stopped his conversation. When he spoke again, he spoke loud enough for the elf to hear him. His voice carried with it a slight accent, though it was refined and pleasing to the ear.

"'When the West's need is most dire, then I will return to the East...' That is what you said, is it not? One year past you departed these lands, and now you return, when the seers have said that the stars grow dark."

He turned, revealing a young, chiseled face framed by long black hair. His dark eyes carried a slight glint of humor, yet at the same time he seemed grim and wise beyond his years. Scarlet paint rain down the right side of his face in lines, indicating his royal status.

Caledorn bowed, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Prince Rukil... it has been too long."

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"Ever since you left I have posted guards on the outer reaches of our lands to await your return," Rukil said as he strode down the wide hallway. "But we were not idly waiting. No, we have been hard at work, my friend."

"Aye, we've gathered many who have felt Khanar's oppression," Hadar, the burly Haradrim chieftain, added with a wide grin. "And that is a large number, for there are few who haven't felt it."

"As I am sure you saw upon your arrival, many of these are women, children, and old men. But they too needed protection from Khanar and the Dark Lord." Rukil descended the steps that led to his throne, raising a hand toward the city outside as he spoke.

Caledorn looked at the two in confusion. "How did all of this happen in one year?"

"By the grace of the Valar," Rukil replied. "Khanar attempted to rule by proxy for a short time, so as not to gain attention, but we soon uncovered the truth. I was shocked when I learned he lived, but we were able to take advantage of the time it took for him to gain control of the tribes. One of the Nazgul, an ancient Easterling king named Khamul, soon aided Khanar however and managed to subdue the people of Rhun. They moved quickly, stomping out any resistance in the cities. Many fled to us, looking for safety. They had heard of my exploits in the civil war that you took part in. And Hadar was able to recruit many warriors to help our cause."

Hadar grinned again, and he picked up where Rukil left off. "Khanar attempted to stomp us out at first, but we fought back and eventually he gave up. He wrongly thinks that we are too far from him to do damage."

Rukil nodded in agreement. "But the truth is, we've just been waiting for your call to arms. Gathering men, forging armor and weapons, training for war. We have a force of trained warriors, and they are yours to command."

Their conversation had led them back into the streets, where crowds of people had gathered in lines. Soldiers handed out food and clothing to those who had neither, and those with afflictions or injuries gathered around a tent that had been turned into an infirmary of sorts. Hadar parted with their group to help out, and Rukil rose a hand towards the people that surrounded them. "Women who have lost husbands, children without mothers, elders with no one to care for them... all have come here. They are the poor, the destitute who have lost all that is dear to them; the ragged and bleeding underbelly of the mortally wounded beast that is Rhun. We have done, are doing, everything that we can to heal its scars. But some cuts run deep, and will not be healed until the war ends... one way or another."

Just then a small girl broke from the ranks of starving peasants, running straight towards Caledorn and Rukil. She wore a tattered dress that barely served to cover her raw, burnt skin. Her face, which had likely once been sweet and full, was emaciated and her cheekbones were far more visible than they should have been. Her large brown eyes appeared to be drained of joy, and they held a sadness that no child should possess. Her bony arms shook slightly, though whether from malnourishment or some illness Caledorn did not know. He guessed that she was no more than seven years old, perhaps even younger.

She approached the two warriors without fear, and while Caledorn stood stoically, Rukil immediately knelt onto one knee, his face lighting up with a kind, caring smile. It seemed as though he looked past her ragged appearance and straight into her soul.

"You look hungry, child. Come with me." Without hesitation she took his tanned, scarred hand and followed him to the front of the line. The soldier who was serving food, a young man with short, straight black hair, immediately bowed when he saw Rukil.

"My lord," he said deferentially. Caledorn could see even from this small gesture that Rukil's soldiers not only respected him; they loved him. As children to their father, these men were completely loyal to their Prince.

"This girl needs food badly," Rukil said, placing a hand upon the man's shoulder. "Get her some, and take her to the tailor's for some new clothes. I'll take over here until you return."

"Your word is my life," the soldier replied, smiling as he sat down with the girl and spoon-fed her a bowl of stew. Rukil began filling more bowls with the stew, giving them to each surprised peasant with a smile or a reassuring squeeze of their hand. Though it was clear that they did not expect to see the prince handing out food, they also seemed to understand that it wasn't out of his character in any way.

Not only was he a prince, Caledorn noted, but he was a servant as well. His demeanor was royal, kingly even, but the kindness in his eyes and the authenticity in his gestures spoke of humility beyond that of any king that Caledorn had seen.

Rukil even seemed to enjoy the task he had set to doing, his expression bright with joy. After the last of the people had been fed he finally stood and turned back to Caledorn. "We must move out at once. Khanar moves quickly, and is likely already at the doorstep of our friends."

Caledorn nodded. "Esgaroth burns."

"Then there is no time to waste. Hadar!" He shouted, causing the burly Haradrim warrior to stumble clumsily out of a nearby tent. A laughing child clung to each of his legs, and Rukil rolled his eyes in mock annoyance as he turned to Caledorn to explain. "The children love Hadar... and of course, Hadar loves them too. He's become something of a father figure to the many orphans here."

Hadar finally freed himself from the children's grasp and convinced them to play elsewhere. He smiled sheepishly as he bowed before Rukil. "Your word is my command."

"Quickly, tell the men that we move at first light. None shall be left behind. Get a count of our numbers, and report back as soon as possible." Hadar nodded and hurried away to carry out the orders of his liege, and Rukil turned back to Caledorn.

"We have at least five thousand men. Some of my kinsmen from the north bolstered our numbers last month," he said, pointing to one of the heavily tattooed horsemen as he passed. "They heard of how I had unified many under our tribe's banner and hastened to me, increasing our strength greatly. They are strange men, even to me, but they are loyal." 

"They bear strange tattoos," Caledorn stated observantly. "What do they mean?"

Rukil pulled up a sleeve, revealing similar tattoos of his own that ran up the length of his arm. They were angular in shape, and they almost appeared to be a form of language. "Our tribe never adapted to modern Rhunic. This is our language, and each mark tells part of the bearer's tale. The older and more experienced the warrior, the more tattoos he has."

Caledorn nodded in understanding. "Ah, so a record of sorts. Fascinating." 

Rukil smiled faintly and turned back to the royal tent. "We should return, there is much planning to do before we ride west."