A/N:  Set T.A. 2980, after the events of my story, “Ransom.”  It’s not necessary to read that tale first.  Big thanks to Cairistiona for her help as beta.  This story contains depictions of slavery, non-graphic violence (in large quantities), and dark themes.

“What do you owe these strangers?”  -Hakim, to Aragorn the night before he turned south

Come in, come in, make yourselves at home.  Is that the lot?  Ah, good.  Close the door now, my boy, and make sure to stuff the rags beneath it—this sandstorm threatens to bury us all.  There’s a good little man.

No, no, my friends!  ‘Tis no trouble!  We’ve rooms enough for those that can pay, and you seem like folk of means and taste both.  You can no more travel in this storm than fly over it, so you might as well rest your feet awhile.  No, have no fear!  Your camel will be snug in our stables—I am no brigand!  You are going north, yes?  Indeed, the storm will likely blow over by morning and you can be on your way.  ‘Tis a wonder you made it so far in such conditions, especially with such lovely ladies and those little ones.

Oh, no, my good ladies, I take no offense!  We respect the old ways in these parts, and there are plenty of upstanding ladies who choose not to doff their veils in the company of men, even men as respectable as myself.  I’ll just set up a private parlor for your comfort, perhaps send up a few drinks?  We’ve fruit juice for the children, but you’ll have something a touch stronger?  Of course, not a problem at all!  You’ll be spending the night, then?  Ah, yes, that will suffice, you are most generous.  You’ve my thanks, good sir; may the Eye look on you with favor!

Now, then, will you gentlemen join me for a pint or two?  We’ve a good ale and better prices!

Six tankards, then, my boy, and be quick about it!  Don’t forget to send those drinks up to the good ladies either!

Now, then, good fellows, have you any news from the southern cities?  No?  No tales, not a one?  More’s the pity.  But, I suppose that’s how it goes in these cruel days—there are not many that will share a good story with a stranger, too many are distrustful or untrustworthy.  Not me, though.  Treat strangers like friends, I say, and you’ll never run dry of neighbors!

Oh, but you haven’t come to listen to me hold forth, my apologies, gentlemen.  Still, if you’ve no tale to weave of your own, perhaps you wouldn’t mind hearing one!  We get all types coming through here and some tell tales stranger than any child’s fancy.  No, it’s no trouble, you’ve been the only guests all night.  See, we’ve fine tankards and strong walls to keep out the wind—‘tis a lovely night for a tale!  So, listen if you’re stout of heart, for the one I’ve in mind is no tale for children.

No, not even you, my boy!  Haven’t you some washing to do?  Go on, then, help your mother, there’s a good son.

But, where was I?  Oh, yes telling you a tale of fortunes lost most violently.  Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving fellow, though, Eye strike me down if I lie.

You see, there was this fellow named Imran who used to pass through these parts.  Quite the unpleasant man.  He was stingy—never tipped, haggled over every price.  Old Imran, he hated to see a copper get away, which I suppose is how he’d hung onto so many silvers.  It wasn’t by charm, that’s the truth!  Now, Imran was a slave trader.  It’s important work, I know, gathering miners for the Eye and rowers for the galleys and all sorts of laborers for those who can afford them.  Important, but unpleasant, if you’ll forgive my saying so.  Yes, I can see by your faces that you agree.  There aren’t many around here who would do it.  Imran, though, he was made for that kind of work—has a cruel streak if you get my meaning.  He would hire two dozen rogues as drivers and minders and they would gather up great strings of slaves—perhaps two hundred at a time—and march them from the northern villages down, down to Umbar to be sold in the markets there.  Oh, he made a fortune, that Imran!  Wasn’t afraid to lord it over us common folk, either.  Like I said, it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving sort.

Anyway, it was a few months back, and Imran was in one of the northernmost villages, just rounding off his next shipment, when a simple farmer from the outlying lands walked into the market leading a Tark from the north like none any of them had seen.  He was tall, this Tark, so very tall, but he kept his head bowed and spoke not a word in Haradric or Westron or any other tongue.  So, the farmer walks up to Imran and he says “There’s no use for it.  You must buy this Gondorian from me.  And I’d be grateful if you’d give me a fair price for this as well.”  And he whips out a great long sword, like the Gondorim always wear in battle.

This Tark, you see, had been a warrior, until he wandered onto the farmer’s land out of his mind with sun-sickness.  To this day, no one knows how he traveled so far, for the farmer’s land was a forsaken ranch right in the middle of the Haradwaith.  No one thought to wonder why he came so far just to collapse among the farmer’s goats.

Now, Imran was no stranger to transporting fighters against their will—half the slaves in the market these days are captured from Gondor, and they all start out not knowing a whip from a turnip plant.  This fellow, though, he had a fierce look about him.  He was tall, like I’ve told you already, and hard-looking, with eyes like chips of granite.  Have you ever seen those Tarks with their eyes?  It’s right unsettling.  Come to think of it, they look a good deal like your eyes, young sir.  I warrant you’ve some Gondorian blood in you.  Peace, my friend!  I meant no offense!  That’s just me letting my mouth talk away from myself.  And, it’s no shame having a bit of foreign blood.  Why, I myself have a grandmother from Khand.  Khand!  It’s a wonder I’m not eating chicken entrails and wearing the dish towels as clothes. 

Where was I, though?  Oh, yes!  The Gondorian.  He was an unsettling sight for the slavers.  He just had this air about him, like he was watching the world from a great height.  It was none of Imran’s unwarranted haughtiness—rather, the Gondorian seemed to have deeper concerns.  It was like the people around him were just minor characters flitting in and out on the edges of some larger story.  He just seemed so sure of himself, even in rags with his hands bound.  It wasn’t the sort of demeanor Imran saw often, and he saw plenty of Tark slaves.  This one was strong, though, and sound, and Imran knew he could make a hefty profit, so he paid the farmer nary a quarter of what he was worth, and clapped the Tark in irons with the others.  Just on a whim, he bought the sword too, and Imran closed up shop and he thanked his lucky stars for such a windfall.

They were due to start south the next morning, so that night Imran decided to take his ease in the local tavern.  He strode in wearing his finest robes, pockets jingling, dreaming of all the profits he was about to make, but who should he meet there but the poor farmer?  The man was well into his cups, and he had a desperate look about him.  It’s the look of a man who’s seen hard times and expects to see more, but there was something guilty about it, too, like there was some crime he was trying so hard to forget.  Seeing Imran, he all but attacked him, grabbing the front of his robes and crying.  “I had to do it, don’t you see?  I’d have been ruined otherwise, ruined!  I have a wife and children and I couldn’t . . .”  He trailed off and seemed to remember himself.  He let go of Imran’s robes, but before the trader could escape, he gave him a strange, solemn look.  “You treat that Gondorian well, you understand me?” he said, “He’s a proud sort and strange, but right useful.  Treat him well and he’ll be the best thing that’s ever happened to your business.  Otherwise, the Eye Itself won’t save you.”

Now Imran, as you might have realized, is a rough sort under all that fine silk, and he doesn’t scare easily.  He laughed the farmer off and in the morning he drove the tall Tark on with a whip and a cuff like all the rest.  And at first, it all seemed to go fine.  They set out from the village with twenty men, near two hundred Tark slaves, and a string of camels to carry supplies.  Fine beasts, those camels, but Imran always had to have the best of everything.  That was a fine beast you yourselves brought into my stable.  Like I said before:  men of good taste.  Oh, but here I am getting distracted with talk of camels and losing the train of the tale.  Where was I?  Oh, yes, the slaves, for they are the crux of Imran’s troubles.  Mostly, they were captured fighters like the tall one, but there were some more ordinary folk too—maids and little ones and the like.  Imran expected the trip to take about three weeks.  He had to go slow, you see, because he could get a good price for the children, but only if some of them survived the journey.  And, like I said, it was all going according to plan at first.  The tall one, he kept his head down and was just perfectly quiet and polite.  He even calmed down some of the other warriors who were none too happy about being sold to the Umbari.  It was all very routine, at first, and they made good time.

Then, about a week in, the first child died.  It happens, you see, on any trading circuit.  Some of the youngest ones are just not strong enough to survive in the Haradwaith.  When the little girl collapsed, the tall Tark tried to pick her up and carry her, chains and all.  Well, Imran, he was having none of that.  Little half-grown slaves don’t draw near enough profit for him to risk delaying his precious shipment.  They left the girl for the buzzards, of course—there’s no human decency left in those slave drivers anymore.  It’s the work, if you catch my meaning.  It changes a man.

I wasn’t lying when I said the tall Tark was a hard one, though.  It took four of Imran’s men with whips and cudgels to drive him away.  If Imran hadn’t known that the Tark wandered into Harad all alone, he would have sworn the child was his own daughter.  Once they were well away, they beat him senseless as a warning to the others.  You see, Imran always lived in fear of a revolt, and he’d seen how the other Tarks looked to the tall one.  He’d sooner risk losing one strong slave than let the rest think they could defy him.  Everyone expected the tall Tark to die that night, but the next morning he somehow got up, though he was half-flayed.  All day, he staggered along at the very back of the column, and when they made camp, he collapsed where he stood and was unconscious before he hit the sand.  But somehow, the next day he was stronger, and the next day stronger still and no one else died, and the other Tarks looked to him with the reverence they save for great lords.

But then, when the sun rose on the fourth day, they looked to him not at all, for he was gone.  Imran could not understand it; the night watchman had seen nothing and heard nothing, but while the sun had gone down on one hundred and ninety-six chained slaves, it rose on one hundred and ninety-five and the empty, open shackles of the tall Tark.  There were no tracks, no trail to follow.  It was as if he had simply vanished.

Well, Imran still had a deadline to meet, so he simply cursed his lost profit and moved the other slaves out, taking comfort in the thought that a Tark alone and friendless in a foreign desert would never live out the day.

How wrong he was.

The second morning, the sun came up on one hundred and ninety slaves, five abandoned shackles, and the body of the night watchman.  The fellow’s neck had been broken, though he’d never made a sound, and his weapons were gone.  The missing slaves were all doughty fighters, like the tall one.  And, that was the last night Imran slept sound.

The next night, Imran placed a half-dozen watch fires and bid the watchman patrol around them unceasingly.  His throat was cut some time before dawn, and the others awoke to find ten more men missing along with one camel.

That night, Imran placed four watchmen, one at each corner of camp.  Each held a horn in his hand and was instructed to check in with his fellows four times each hour.  They must have been killed almost simultaneously; no one ever raised the alarm.  This time, the raiders took three camels and fifteen slaves—not just the men this time, but two women and some of the smaller children.

Imran and his men spent that morning beating the remaining slaves.  They knew the thieves could not possibly have stolen into camp and unchained fifteen slaves without the others realizing it.  Not a one would speak, though; not the strong men nor the old women nor even the children, though some were as young as my boy, there.  In desperation, Imran threatened to leave the remaining children to the desert’s mercies, but the stone-eyed mothers simply held their little ones out to him, and he quailed under their resolve.  Soon, he had no choice but to pack up the remaining slaves and move on.  He had a deadline to keep, after all.

That night, the men cast lots to see who would have to stand watch.  Two men lost and paid for it with their lives.  A dozen more Gondorim went free.

In the morning, Imran decided to leave the children behind after all, rationalizing that he could move faster without them and if the raiders picked them up, they would at least slow them down instead.  The Tarks offered neither resistance nor response.  To the last man, woman, and child, they were steely-eyed and resolute, like soldiers on the march.

None of Imran’s men slept that night.  It made no difference.  The raiders killed two men along the perimeter, crept into camp, and loosed fourteen more slaves from their shackles.

And so it continued.  Every night, Imran’s forces shrank, and every morning more slaves were gone.  Imran knew, by now, that he was being hunted, though he knew not how nor why.  He grew paranoid and terrified of everything, but especially of the flinty-eyed slaves who still followed his camels in a silent, ever-dwindling column.  He drove them ever faster and faster until, at last, they made camp nearly within sight of Umbar’s walls.

By that final night, Imran had only a half-dozen men left and perhaps twenty slaves.  His foes vastly outnumbered him, but he did not take the time to wonder why they had not simply overwhelmed him long ago.  Taking the extra chains that the raiders had so thoughtfully left him, he chained each of his own men to one of the slaves, determined to at least protect what little profit was left to him, for his greed overrode even his good sense.

Late that night, Imran was awakened from his restless sleep by a loud horn.  He scarce had time to draw a sword before his foes were upon him.  It seemed every man who escaped along the way had somehow followed him, and though they were armed poorly, with cudgels and only a few swords stolen from the guards, the freed slaves vastly outnumbered their former captors.  In that moment, Imran realized his own folly and the Tarks’ cleverness.  You see, a large company of foreign men would have little chance to navigate a desert as trackless as the Haradwaith.  If they had simply killed Imran as soon as they outnumbered him, the Gondorim would have been lost and perished in the desert, no matter how many supplies they stole.  But, by taking back their own a few at a time, they pressed Imran to flee faster, and he led them right to Umbar.  With the city just a few leagues away, they could easily slip inside, disguised as messengers and day laborers, and stow away one by one on ships bound back to their homeland.

But, with the city so near, they didn’t need the slaver anymore.

I imagine by now you’re wondering how I came to hear this tale in such detail.  It should have been an enigma, after all—the simple mystery of a caravan vanishing in the desert without a trace, and no one ever the wiser.  But, no.  There was one more part that had to play out, and it was this final act that renders the whole story a riddle rather than merely a curiosity.  I’m sure it came as quite the shock to old Imran when he slowly came to hours later.  The three other men who awoke were likewise shocked to be alive.  For reasons none of them understood, the Tarks had simply knocked some of them senseless with clubs rather than running them through.  But that wasn’t the strangest part.  When they finally rose and looked down on the enclosure where the chained slaves had once been, do you know what they found?

Empty chains?  That’s what you would expect, isn’t it?  And indeed, the shackles were empty.  All except for one.  At the edge of the camp, sleeping soundly in chains as though nothing had happened, lay a single Tark.  When Imran got nearer, he realized it wasn’t just any northerner.  No, this was the tall, steel-eyed Tark who had started all this mess by vanishing into the night a fortnight prior.

They kicked him awake and questioned him for hours, but he would speak not a word, even after they beat him nearly as hard as the first time.  Imran’s slave drivers were furious.  Being mercenaries, they didn’t care about their fallen comrades overmuch, but they knew that with all the slaves gone, Imran could never pay them.  They wanted to kill the Tark, but their master stopped them.  Imran dared not kill this man nor even maim him; he had no other slaves.  He owed money to a dozen creditors in three cities, and without this shipment to pay down his debts, he would be utterly ruined.  His only chance was to sell this last Tark and use the money to slip away in the night, in poverty and disgrace.  He argued with the men all through the afternoon, until they were ready to kill him instead.  The raiders, though, had taken their weapons but left Imran with the Gondorian sword that he had bought from the farmer as an afterthought all those weeks ago.  He brandished it, and they threw up their hands in disgust, cursing his name and all slave merchants and the raiders and all of Gondor for producing such brigands.  They left him there in the evening, striking out for the city and leaving Imran to face the night with only the tall Tark for company.

Though he was exhausted from both his wounds and the many sleepless nights, Imran did not sleep that night.  He sat by his fire with the Tark’s naked sword held across his knees, watching its former owner across the flickering flames.  For his part, the tall Tark gazed back with the perfect calmness that he’d showed since the very beginning.  It was terribly disturbing; Imran searched the other man’s face for some sign of hatred or bitterness or fear, but saw only peace and a clarity of purpose that chilled the slaver to his bones.  It came as a great relief when the Tark finally pillowed his head on his manacled hands.  He was less unnerving when he slept, although even this seemed to come too easily and too peacefully for a man in his position.  Still, Imran gathered his nerve and his meager wits.  He began to think that maybe the other Tarks had turned on this one, and left him behind as some sort of punishment.  Yes, that must be it, he reassured himself.  For, what sane man would willingly place himself back in chains, having once been free of them?  All night, they were not disturbed, and Imran convinced himself.

When morning came, there was nothing to do but take the slave’s chains in his own hand and set out toward Umbar.  The Tark followed quietly, offering no resistance.  Idly, Imran wondered what the other slaves had done to him, and hoped it pained him.  That was how they entered Umbar, with Imran sweating and thirsting and cursing and the tall Tark following silently with a bowed head exactly, if Imran had bothered to think of it, the way he’d followed the poor farmer into his tiny village market so many weeks ago.  Imran wasted no time in pawning the Gondorian off as a galley slave for five times what he’d paid the farmer, but his victory brought him nothing but bitterness.  He had only the clothes on his back and that small amount of coin, and he knew he would have to flee from his creditors.

And that, my friends, is how the once mighty Imran showed up on my doorstep where once he’d boasted of his riches, dressed in rags and begging for a crust of bread.  The strangest thing, he told me as he wept into a cup of ale that I’d so generously given him, stranger than anything else was the look of the Gondorian at the end.  Just for an instant, as the northerner was being led away to his doom, he lifted his head and pierced Imran with a look.  Sharp as a sword, his eyes were—still fierce and bright as the dawn.

He did not look like a beaten man.

Oh, but I’ve gone and worked myself into a sweat with these dark tales and completely neglected your cups.  Don’t look so stricken, my dear man; these were strange and terrible happenings, but no honest folk were harmed—only the likes of Imran and some rogue from the north.  We’ve heard naught since from any of those who escaped, so it’s likely they fled back to their own land.

What happened to the tall Tark?  Oh, you needn’t worry yourself about him, good sir.  Galley slaves never last longer than three months, and it’s been at least five.  That pale-eyed demon won’t be bothering us again.

Son, didn’t I tell you to go help your mother?  Don’t you know better than to interrupt your elders?  Alright, alright, if you must speak at least slow down a bit.  Mutiny on the Sea Shrike did you say?  Yes, it’s a galley from Umbar, I know that as well as you, but it means nothing.  It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the man in this story that I told you not to listen to.  Come now, my friends, off to bed and don’t look so frightened.  You can sleep well tonight; a good honest businessman like me is far too sharp to let a Gondorian through his doors.  And, please, my little son thinks himself knowledgeable, but pay no attention to his childish fancies.

TBC

A/N:  Reviews and concrit are much appreciated.

Tark—a pejorative for a Man of Gondor or Rohan, it is orcish in origin, but Men who served Sauron may have picked it up from long contact with orcs.  I don’t fully address it here, but if you want a thoughtful discussion of the word and its implications for Haradric culture, you should read Canafinwe’s excellent two-shot “Pale-Faced Tark.”

A few words on the rest of this fic:  There are two more parts.  Each part will take place after a time jump and will have a new original narrator.  My intent was not to detail every moment of Aragorn’s time in Harad, but to offer a few snapshots of the various ways he was seen during his time there.  Thus, I’ll leave the liberation of the Sea Shrike to your imagination for the time being, though I may come back and describe the whole of his adventures with an Aragorn-POV fic some time in the future.  I will try to post again next week, but finals still aren’t over, so you may have to be patient with me.