The hills loomed grey, the sky ashen as the light faded from the day. Then sun never truly shone or set in Angmar, forever shrouded in the foulness that hung in the air. The land was barren save for a few skeletal trees and dried clumps of yellowed grass. Abrazir knew the trail well that lead to the village of Aughaire, once it was the place to buy meat and cheese from the herd of aurochs kept fed on fodder from the valley of Ram Duath to the south but now it was the heart of the enemy. The enemy that had once been brothers and hopefully would be once again.
The man was in a foul mood, he had not wanted to be chosen for this mission, it was one of a sensitive and delicate nature and either suited Abrazir. At least he thought so but could not bring himself to argue with his two powerful uncles. He rode a small dun mare, her mousy colored coat blending into the surroundings. Once he left the Duvardain territory, he entered Fasach-larran, an area disputed by both sides and a dangerous place for a man riding in the open. Sacrificing stealth for speed, Abrazir pushed the little horse into a loping canter, kicking up dust as he stuck to the main trail. On his saddle was a white cloth marked with the symbol for a neutral messenger and he hoped the Gallorg stuck to their beloved tradition and did not kill him on sight.
Securing the perimeter around the small encampments surrounding Aughaire, walking along the cracked and familiar desolation of the blighted lands, Tallorc made sure by the scouts in his charge of the exact position of the nearest orcish encampment. Aughaire was sheltered in dark shadows of Angmar, providing a strategic position against the Iron Crown; yet, for their defiance they have endured more resilient attacks upon their people. Not only from the Iron Crown itself, but also from their own treacherous blood. The Trev Gallorg, steadfast and archaic in their views against the enslavement of their people, have paid for it dearly; but old customs are threatened severely by the massing orcs in the North. More and more men are lost as days are fought on the borders and around the camp disease are rife and dying. There was much that had be plaguing him that day.
Talorc was standing upon a hidden and shadowed him, concealing much of his figure with in the darkness. A scouting party was sent out and Talorc needed to be there. His men, his responsibility. The edge of his sword dug in next to his feet as he watched the dust settle around the approaching traitor. Though ancient laws must be obeyed, and if not for the brazen courage this man bore, he would have forfeited his life. The white symbol of peace meant little to Talorc. Yet, there must be a reason for this messenger, and he was curious.
"Kneel, filth!" The words spat out of the chieftain's sons' mouth. Talorc stood straight, glaring down as two of his men forced the captive by the shoulders. The man was brave and proudly bore his respect; they were the same blood after all.
"Talk, maggot of the Iron Crown! What does the treacherous Trev Duvardians, those that we disown, seek with us?" Talorc's voice slithered threateningly through his clenched teeth. It would be so easy to end the weasel's life; and that is what he should do, he thought, eyes shining with malice.
Abrazir reined his horse in as the two men jumped at him with their spears drawn. He wore his sword with the straps in place, another subtle gesture of his non combative status. He had refused to be without it though, just in case the crimes of the Duvardain were enough to make even the stalwart Crannog disregard the neutrality of a messenger. The man offered no resistance when one of the warriors reached to drag him from his saddle, other than to scowl and grumble, "I'm getting down, back off."
Shoved to his knees, he looked up with a sharp glint in his dark eyes at the man above him. It took a few moments to register, for he had not seen the lad for nearly eight years and time had aged the fresh faced boy to the hardened warrior before him. Blinking slightly, Abrazir could feel the disdain like a slap in the hissed words of Crannog's eldest son.
"Talorc," he said, his voice rough but even, "I come as a messenger from my chief Domongart to speak with Crannog. He offers peace and a way to free our people from the Iron Crown. He wishes to reunite and see our troubles buried, a great leader of hillmen from the south has offered union with his tribe to fight our enemy."
Even as he spoke, he could see the disbelief in the men's eyes and one of the spearmen made a threatening gesture towards him. Abrazir did not move, keeping calm as Talorc reacted.
The face hidden behind a thick layer of grey dust that blew insistently around them seemed familiar, yet it was only upon hearing the man speak that Talorc recognized Abrazir as one he himself shared an old bladder-flasks of sweetened water with, one he shared old tales with around smoldering campfires. But it was a time long time ago; one which is best left forgotten. The traitors made their choice, but brothership is a calloused thorn. Talorc nodded sternly to dismiss his scouts.
"What? Now the Iron Crown fits like another like rusted suit? Has the promise of the Witch King not been fulfilled? Has the orcs turn against you, brother? The Trev Duvardian's loyalties lies so shallow. You talk about our people as if you were not ones that slaughtered in the name of the vile itself. Tell me, brother, what does your uncle, the mighty Domorgart, want with my father?"
Talorc's scorn was building as he spat out in contempt. "There was nothing to discuss between our people. All was written in blood by your own sword. Peace for what? To be stabbed in the back once again by your own brothers?" It was hard for Talorc to swallow his pride, but the promise of peace, a stop to the nightmare they endured here in Angmar.
"Stand, Abrazir" Talorc relented, taking a step back. He knew this man was but a mere messenger and struggled to keep the natural animosity for the traitors to shimmer. And he was an old friend "Tell me of this proposal you so brazenly bare"
Abrazir remained stoic in the face of the accusations, for what argument could he present? What his uncles' Domongart and Dolguzagar decided was not his affair, what Zorzimril ordered him to do was his only concern, he was sworn as her bannerman. She had asked him to come and bear her message and it was what he did, now he was roped into playing messenger and diplomat. The man grimaced at the last verbal barb, there was no hiding the fact that the Trev Duvardain were kin slayers and that had never sat well with the stalwart warrior.
Finally, he stood at Talorc's order, reaching up to wipe the dust from his bristling black beard. "I've come to invite Crannog to speak with Domongart, to reunite our tribes so that we might fight side by side rather than against one another. Zorzimril has brokered an alliance with the Creoth, a powerful tribe of men who share our blood that live in the south. Their chief is called Gorlakon and with Zorzi will lead the union of Rhudauran tribes to fight the Iron Crown. There is much to be gained from this, Talorc."
He watched the man's reaction to his news, he recalled the affection between his cousin and the young warrior before him. Abrazir sniffed and spat out a wad of dust colored phlegm and continued, "Domongart sees his mistake in taking the offerings of the Iron Crown, he wishes to make amends. We will have ample opportunity to win better lands to the south, more fertile and with clean water. Does this not sound like an offer your father would want to entertain? To end our war and to see our people with better lives and out of the iron shackles?"
"Abrazir" Talorc said, using his man's name in a show of respect, staring thoughtfully down as the point of his sword dug into the grey dirt by his feet. The news was not what he expected. The Iron Crown threatening more raids, the filth, Domongart, demanding more blood from their kin. Yes, that was what he braced himself to hear. The words the man spoke now seemed strange in the desolate landscape, almost liken to speaking of feast spent in the hallowed halls of fables told as little children. Zorzimril was an old friend, one perhaps with which he shared more than that of only a casual acquaintance; yet, she deserted them like all the rest of the traitors. But one he trusted, more than her father at least and Abrazir was one of her bannermen.
"Aside from the promises and speculation, but from what you've seen yourself. What does your eyes tell you? Can such a promise be made, and kept? Cause for the sake of your children, old friend, my own blade will sever your head from your mangled and bleeding corpse if your people turn on us again. I believe you, of course - the Trev Duvardians are as greedy as the hungry and filled with bile bog-marshes, but your stench is just as rich in as the shit-pile itself. Have you seen the lands and the richness it provided, tasted its waters"
Talorc lifted his gaze, catching the man with a grey beam of certain accusation. "And tell me, Abrazir, this: will we not again step into another noose, though this time pulled by the tribes of Rhudauran, and Trev Duvardian?" he snorts "For if we are, my friend, I pity what torture will befall your mangled remains. So think wisely before I take you to my father. He would want to have council with Domongart. However, I can't say what the outcome will be"
Eventually Talorc sighed, shaking his head. The content in his eyes, laced with scorn, softened slightly as he snatched a half filled and worn, dusty waterskin from belt and shoved it to his kinsman. The journey would have been long and perilous, and the man would be thirsty. It was the only gesture of the age old customs Talorc offered. The Trev Duvardain's were not part of the old ways anymore, even if they were family. Water was precious, however, and both tribes found its sources plagued by the taint the Witch King left. He knew that it was a rational reason, yet the Trev Duvardians are not to be trusted with their honeyed words.
The two scouts Abrazir ordered to retrieve the tired mare Abrazir was riding, marched down towards the beast, proudly baring bronzed bodies and muscled shoulders, hardened and stout warriors, and pulled the horse after the two men. Talorc lead them along a hidden path along the fast approaching dusk to his father, the chief of the Trev Gallorg. Little could he tell what would happen, but Talorc would use what influence he had for a pact of truce between the two tribes. Too much of their own blood was spilled and it was time to join forces. Take what is needed. It will, though, be hard for any his people to accept oath breakers will keep their word, he knew.
"I've seen the green lands and tasted the water from the many rivers and streams we crossed," Abrazir nodded once, "It is true."
He followed the men up the road to the gate guarded by warriors. It was as he remembered, though there was once a time when he was greeted with smiles and even had a woman who would warm his bed when he visited. Now, after seven years of war, the hard stares in the haggard faces met his arrival.
