Hadar paced the throne room, waving his hands about animatedly. "If Khanar is away at Erebor, we could take Rhun for ourselves! Don't you see Rukil? If he has no home to return to he's lost! It's the perfect time to strike!"

Rukil's fingers drummed loudly on the armrest of his throne, and he leaned back in thought. Caledorn stood silently beside him, his arms crossed in front of him expectantly. Time seemed to slow down as they waited for Rukil's answer, and Hadar eventually ceased his pacing and leaned against a nearby wall. The sun made its passage through the slits in the tent, moving from the western side of the tent to the east. After what seemed like hours, Rukil slowly leaned forward, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he began to speak.

"Should we take Rhun, Khanar would be able to rampage unchecked through the western lands. Erebor, Mirkwood, Lorien... Even the lands west of the Misty Mountains would not be safe. That may seem irrelevant to you, Haradrim, for what does the suffering of the west have to do with our people? But that would not be the end. The west would fall, and Sauron would have dominion over it. Khanar would be given much power and authority by the Dark Lord... And soon, he would gather his forces and turn back towards us. Then, he shall have the full strength of Mordor's banners behind him and when he comes for us, be it behind the walls of Morgothrone itself... There will be no dawn for us. There, we would die. No one will be left to remember us, though if they did they would speak of our greed. For to not stand beside our allies in the west would be a folly that no penance, no slow passage of time could mend. No, Hadar. We must fight him. We must rally to our friends, for all that is good in this world depends on it." At this he turned to Caledorn and extended a hand. "We are with you, my friend. We shall ride west, to whatever end may await us. Though the west would fall into the sea, or the fires of Mordor would claim it, we shall meet our fate there. Ich vasas nachta vir er Vestes!"

Hadar immediately stood and eagerly put a fist to his chest. "The men shall be ready my liege. We are one tribe, one blood. We stand ready to die for you."

If it is the will of Eru, that will not need to happen," Rukil said solemnly. Caledorn balled his fists in determination. The Dorgeshi would march.

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By dawn the army was on the move. Line upon line of horsemen kicked up the desert sand as they made their way up the massive dune that overlooked the tent city. Fierce tattooed Dorgeshi warriors brought up the front line, each of them armed with either a bow or a shield and long lance. They were followed by Haradrim cavalry, led by none other than Hadar himself. A mixture of Balchoth horsemen and heavy Easterling cataphracts known as the Loke-Innas-Rim brought up the flank, along with several Mumakil with war towers strapped to their backs.

But in front of even the front line was an ordered column of horsemen, grim and armed with swords and heavy plate armor. They were known as the Death-Bringers, and they had accompanied Rukil since the beginning. Among their ranks were men of many races; Easterlings, Khandings, Haradrim, and Gondorians the most numerous of them. They were now Rukil's elite bodyguards, the best of his many warriors.

Caledorn rode at Rukil's side, though his thoughts wandered far over the sands to the one he missed the most. He wondered where she was now, whether she had arrived at Thranduil's halls. He absently pulled his necklace from under his armor and ran a finger across it.

"That necklace... where did you come by it?" Rukil asked as he looked over curiously.

Caledorn slowly pulled himself away from his thoughts and turned to the Easterling. "It was given to me by a loved one," he began. "She wanted to accompany me, but she had a quest of her own."

Rukil nodded slightly. "Ah, so is she your betrothed then?"

Caledorn shook his head. "Not yet. Should we return, and should I see her again, perhaps then we will speak of it. But times are too uncertain now."

"I wish you both the best of luck," Rukil said with a smile. "And perhaps after all of this is said and done I shall meet her myself!"

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Rukil's POV

Rukil was happy for his friend. But at the same time, he felt sorrow as he remembered the one who once loved him. Layala had been his best friend... the light that had brought him through the darkness that had been his days as a lowly pit fighter. Without her, he would not be where he was now.

But she had been killed in the Pit of Morgothrone, a place where gladiatorial games were held. A part of Rukil's heart was left there, beside an unmarked grave in a dark alley behind the Pit's main thoroughfare. He missed her... So much.

Part of why he continued to fight was for her sake. More would die in the same way as her if the Enemy was allowed to rule. He would put a stop to it... he already had once, before Khanar returned.

The thought that somehow, despite all Rukil had done to make sure he was dead, Khanar had survived filled him with burning anger. What sort of evil power was the enemy harnessing? And why had they brought Khanar back?

These were questions that Rukil would perhaps never know the answer to. But if it was at all possible, he would try to hunt down the truth. Even if it meant facing Khanar again.

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They rode for many miles, passing through the barren steppes of Dorgesh and moving into the vast deserts of western Rhun. The Haradrim rejoiced, for these lands were more akin to their homeland than the barren hills of Dorgesh. The others, however, were unused to the heat that beat down upon them, and several collapsed and had to be carried atop the Mumakil. 

Water also began to grow scarce after several days of marching. The desert was unrelenting, and it held no respite for the thirsty warriors. Caledorn especially was affected by the lack of water, for he rarely went without it in the fertile lands of the west. He licked his cracked lips as the army crawled forward, vainly attempting to prevent them from bleeding. His fair hands began to bleed as well, for the sun beat down upon his exposed skin without reprieve and left it dry and raw. He wore his mask constantly, for it was the only thing keeping his face from burning in the withering heat. 

Rukil seemed unaffected by it, though his skin was darker and more accustomed to such extreme weather. He sent Hadar out in search of water several times, but each time he returned empty handed. Many of the men began to grow weak from lack of sustenance, and it was apparent that even the hardy Southrons were suffering. Rukil ordered the army to stop, and he gathered the leaders together. Two muscle-bound Dorgeshi who were completely covered in tattoos from head to toe joined Hadar, Rukil, and Caledorn in council, along with a silver masked Death Bringer.  

"Rathar and Voreth are the head chieftains of the two Wandering Tribes, the Dorgeshi who returned to me after being exiled from our tribe by my father." At this the two massive men nodded curtly, their dark eyes watching all that was taking place with a subdued ferocity. "Fethi is the current Preliator of the Death Bringers. She hails from Khand." She gave a slight bow and put a hand to her chest in greeting. 

"We must speak about the current water situation," She said immediately. "We have none. The men, and their steeds, will die if we continue on like this." 

The Dorgeshi named Rathar took a step forward, his muscles rippling. "Scouts. We have them. We shall send them." 

Voreth nodded in agreement. "They will ride upon the earth, and they shall not return to their people until they find the life-water." It was clear that neither chieftain spoke in the common tongue often, though Voreth was slightly easier to understand. Rathar's thick accent made it difficult for Caledorn to make out what he said at all. 

Hadar pointed to the west. "There lies our best chance of finding water. Send your scouts that way." 

Voreth shook his head, his braid wagging. "No. The life-water lives in the sea. The great sea of sorrow sits below us, and there we must go." 

"He speaks of the Sorrowing Sea. If we are where I think we are, it lies south of us many leagues. We cannot travel that far," Rukil explained. 

"There are oases scattered throughout these lands," Fethi said. "I have no doubt that our scouts can find at least one. We should send scouts in all directions. The one that returns with water first will be the one we follow." 

Rathar turned to Rukil. "Iar menos aer blade. Ia mae zes re naene."

Rukil placed a hand on the chieftain's shoulder in understanding. "Hadar maen menos, Ia vaso nache thae." He looked over to Hadar and nodded. "Gather a dozen of your men. They will be our scouts, if they are willing." 

"They will be, my liege," Hadar said eagerly, hurrying off to carry out Rukil's order. Rathar nodded in thanks, but his expression remained grim. He and the other chieftain strode away after thanking Rukil in their tongue, and Rukil turned to Fethi. 

"Set up a perimeter and tell the men to make camp. We will only stay until water is found so tell them to be prepared to move at a moment's notice." 

"Yes, m'lord," Fethi said as she saluted and walked away. Caledorn licked his parched lips again and narrowed his eyes. They ached with dryness, and he had to blink every few seconds to keep them from burning painfully. Rukil seemed to notice the elf's discomfort and rested a hand on his shoulder. 

"We will find water soon. And before long we shall be away from these lands, into places familiar to you. Keep heart, Iar seho."

Caledorn managed to smile slightly at the foreign words his friend uttered. "You've truly become a Dorgeshi, mellon nin."

"Heart and soul," Rukil said, returning the smile. "These people are mine, and I am theirs. They are wild, like the wind itself. Unpredictable and quick to act, but wise and old like the earth they tread upon. They are my home now." His eyes burned with passion, and Caledorn could see the same wild light in them that was in the eyes of the two chieftains. 

"As it should be," Caledorn replied. "Everyone should have a place to call home." His own words cut him slightly, for he had never had a home of his own. Not since he had lost his family. He had been an outcast wanderer for many hundreds of years, roving from land to land to provide whatever aid he could but settling nowhere, for nowhere accepted him. He was always the mysterious vagrant to those he met, and though they often offered thanks they never welcomed him as one of their own. Perhaps someday that would change. But not today. Not while the war still raged. 

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Ich vasas nachta vir er Vestes- We will march for the West(Rhunic)

Iar menos aer blade. Ia mae zes re naene- My men are tired. I have none to spare.(Dorgesh)

Hadar maen menos, Ia vaso nache thae- Hadar has men, I will send them.(Dorgesh)

Iar seho- My friend. (Dorgesh)

Dorgesh is not entirely its own language. It is based largely upon Rhunic and is more of a dialect than a unique language. However, it is often more simplistic than Rhunic and fewer words are included when speaking. Furthermore, the pronunciation of words is different. "H"s are usually a more solid "hch" sound, and "ia" is often formed together to sound like "ya". This dialect is spoken exclusively by the Dorgeshi tribes and is instantly recognizable from other Easterling dialects by those that speak Rhunic of any sort.