Author’s Note:  Huge thanks, as always, to Cairistiona who has been my wonderful sounding-board and beta extraordinaire. 

Come in.  Come in, quickly, close the door.  Were you followed?  Are you certain?

Draw the curtains.  No, not all at once, what if they’re watching the house?  There have been three raids already this month.  Draw that set of curtains and stay out of sight of the other windows.

No, I don’t think I’m being paranoid.  This is not a gentlemen’s gambling club, after all; this is a conspiracy to resist the Great Eye.

Yes, I said it aloud.  Now, if you are spies of his, you may as well arrest me and waste no more of my time with lies and deception.  I find I have little patience for such games.  No?  Then, if you be allies, set your packs aside and take your ease.  I’ve little enough food, but what’s mine is yours, as the old customs demand.

I see you are surprised at my boldness.  Do not mistake it for courage.  It’s merely that we have been playing this shadow game with the authorities for so long that I weary of it.  I could spend half the night mincing words and prevaricating while I try to evaluate your true allegiance, but I think it would avail me little in the end.  So, here is the truth:  I am a loyal son of Harad who would see his country free of the false god Sauron.  Now, if you do not see fit to drag me off to torment, I can comfort myself with the notion that you are a friend and we will dwell no more on it.

Shocked you into silence, have I?  Come, friends, let us speak no more of torment.  They say, after all, that to speak of evil is to invite it to your table.  You bring news from our comrades along the coastline?  I will take those missives, and with thanks; it raises my spirit to hear of others who still stand strong.

For myself?  I’ve little enough to tell.  I have managed this simple dwelling as a safe house for our cause for more than a year now.  The Shadow does not just hang over this city; it settles.  It has built a house here, and now it rests before its hearth like a comfortable old grandfather.  The governor in his palace and the viziers in their mansions content themselves with spending the taxes they collect and with undermining each other for the favor of other lords.  The army poses more of a risk, but they fix their gaze outward, for the most part, concerned with foreign invasions and lawless nomads.  Simple Men of Harad like you and I are largely beneath their notice, and by all the gods, may we stay that way.

But, you were not truly asking about me, were you?  No, I thought as much.  You’ve not been in the movement long, have you?  No, sooner later all the young recruits seek me out to ask how I came to the cause.  But, really, they’re asking about him.  About Dakheel.

Yes, I can see that you’ve heard of him.  From the gleam in your eye, I can tell you’ve heard a great deal, much of it evil.  And yet, you ask me.  Can it be you’re not sure what to believe?  You’re not the first, you know, to question what you’ve been told about him.  It’s been more than three years since his departure, but his legacy is still felt.

And what a contradictory legacy it must seem!  Even the most bitter of his enemies cannot deny that he helped found this resistance movement.  Yet, in the next breath, they would tell you that he was a traitor—a foreign spy sent to undermine us.  Is it any wonder young people like yourselves keep asking about him?

Perhaps it’s finally time to set the record straight.  Yes, that would lighten my mind, at least, and there is no one left that it can harm.  This is the full story—not the one you’ve heard, the one we agreed upon, but the true one.  This is how I met Dakheel.

I’ll admit, the first time I saw him, I gave him little thought.  You’ll have to forgive me; I was beset by concerns that seemed much more pressing.  You see, I glimpsed him for the first time while I stood bound and gagged in the courtyard of the justice building.  Yes, the same monstrous edifice of stone that you passed not two streets from here.  Then, as now, it was the seat of power for the Lord’s magistrate.  All accused of wrongdoing were brought there to face what the lords mockingly call “justice.”  For myself, I expected little mercy.  I was young—still a year short of my majority—but everyone knew that boys half my age have been maimed for less than I was accused of.  Officially, the charge was simple theft—pickpocketing.  I had been caught with my hand in a camel’s saddlebag.  But, the camel belonged to one of the under-viziers, so everyone knew the punishment would be steep.

Oh, but didn’t I promise you the whole truth?  Very well, I’ll spare you from picturing me as some hapless victim.  I knew full well to whom the camel belonged; that was why I chose it.  Robbing an under-vizier while he takes his evening meal may seem petty and pointless to wiser men, but to a boy angry at the world, it felt like the very height of righteous vengeance.  But, I was a poor thief and constables, I’ve found, are not half as blind as our humorous tales would have us believe.  So, I was brought before the magistrate.

This magistrate was not the one who now holds this city in a grip of iron.  No, this was a man named Tariq, a recent appointee of the local lords who had been in the city but a week and now walks here no more.  As is usual for such situations, he sat on his dais in his fine robe with a handful of clerks and advisors around him while we, the accused, stood before him in packs of a dozen or more, watched over by a few bored guards.

I was frightened.  Let no one tell you otherwise.  But, I was also young and full of fervor.  I was making a statement, after all, though I was less clear on what that statement was.  So, naturally, when the clerk called my name, instead of stepping forward to face my punishment, I turned and darted for the courtyard’s gate like a hare before the hounds.  The guards were so startled that for a moment, it seemed I might evade them.  The magistrate was utterly speechless.

But, then I ran straight into him.

No, not Magistrate Tariq, of course.  Even then, I was not that much of a fool.  I mean Dakheel.  He’d been standing in a slight shadow under the eaves, unnoticed by most, which was how he preferred it.  In my mad dash for the gate, I bowled right into him.  It was like running into a mountain.  He moved not an inch.  As I bounced off his chest, though, his arms came up to catch my wrists and keep me from falling.  His eyes locked on mine and seemed to be searching them for something.  I could tell that he was a Tark, but when he spoke it was in perfect Haradric, though at a bare whisper.

“That is not the way out,” he told me.

But, I had no time to ponder what he meant.  Not two heartbeats later, the guards caught up and wrenched me away.  They punished me for my defiance with a few heavy blows and dragged me once again before Tariq, whose duty it was to sentence me.

When I dared to look up again, I happened to notice him—the Tark who had, perhaps unintentionally, impeded my escape.  No one else seemed to take note of him as he circled the courtyard with that long stride of his.  He was dressed in the livery of Tariq’s house, which at least explained his presence there in the courtyard.  The badge on his shoulder proclaimed him to be a bondsman, not a mere slave, but in this city there is often little practical difference, especially for Tarks.*  Still, no one stopped him as he approached the bench, and when he leaned down to whisper something in the magistrate’s ear, Tariq turned to listen.

I shifted from foot to foot while they exchanged quiet words.  Blood trickled down my face from where a guard had split one of my eyebrows.  At last, Magistrate Tariq shook his head and said something that seemed to displease the bondsman.  The Tark’s face clouded and he opened his mouth as if to argue but then quickly got ahold of himself.  It would, of course, be quite the disgrace if one of the magistrate’s servants were seen questioning his decisions in public.

Well, by that point, I couldn’t take much more suspense; I was very near to breaking down and utterly shaming myself.  Fortunately, that particular misery was quickly brought to an end.  The magistrate dispassionately proclaimed my sentence:  twenty lashes for the theft plus two more for resisting the guards and an afternoon in the stocks to “make the lesson stick” as they say.

I breathed again.  It was indeed a severe punishment, but as I’d been fully expecting to lose a hand or worse, it came as a great relief to me.

The sentence was carried out not an hour later.  I will not dwell on that.  Surely, you’ve seen such punishments with your own eyes—how the victim is stretched against a pillar in the town square and lashed with a whip deemed too cruel for use on oxen.  Stocks, too, are now ubiquitous in our public places and much feared by those who have been whipped on account of the insects that swarm there.  Still, people hardly ever die from a simple whipping, and it was better than being maimed.  I resolved to suffer through my punishment and then limp off to some deserted alleyway where I might catch a bit of sleep; at that time I had nowhere else to go in this city.

Alas, I overestimated my own strength!  When the guards released me at sundown, they had to haul me bodily off the platform, and then I simply collapsed where they dropped me.  My bones might rest there still had a Man not met me there.  I was aware of little, but I recall a man lifting my head and bringing a cup of water to my lips.  “I am called ‘Dakheel,’” he told me.  I scarcely knew my own name at that moment, but I suppose I nodded.  “That was ill done,” he said.  That statement I could not have interpreted, even had I had full use of my faculties at the time.  I thought he meant my crime or perhaps my behavior at sentencing.  Only later as I came to know him did I realize he meant the sentence itself.

He rescued me that night.  He all but carried me the three blocks to the magistrate’s own house.  Fortunately, I was insensate enough that I let him.  Like most nobles, Tariq had a well-appointed three story dwelling for himself and behind it, a smaller building of cramped apartments where his servants slept.  Dakheel took me to the smaller building, to a room that I soon realized was his.  It was a tiny garret, but had a narrow bed, a table and chairs, and even its own hearth.  For a half-starved street boy like me, it could have been the guest room of a palace.

Asking for nothing in return, Dakheel fed me, treated my wounds—people have forgotten what a skilled healer he was—and bade me rest in his own bed.

But, now we reach a part of the story that has never come to light before.  Some will see my long silence as evidence of treason.  If you find yourselves in that camp, just remember that at the time, Dakheel was in the process of saving my life.  He never gave me cause to doubt his loyalty—only his origins.  I’ve told many of how Dakheel took me in when my need was most desperate.  But, I’ve never mentioned that I was not his only visitor that night.

After he deposited me in his bed, the northerner banked the hearth and settled himself before the table, poring over some sort of ledger by the light of a single candle.  He showed no sign of planning to sleep himself, but I suppose I did after a while—lightly and fitfully like the vagabond I was.  I’m sure I slept only because I remember waking at the creak of the door.  Though Dakheel had latched it firmly, it suddenly swung open of its own accord.  I froze and my host sprang to his feet.

An old man walked through the doorway, bending his head so as not to hit it on the low frame.  He was dressed in simple robes—ragged and quite dusty—and carried a long staff which he leaned on as he walked.  He had the face of a Tark—bright blue eyes and skin that was fair, though much creased with age.  After closing the door behind him, he folded his arms and glared at Dakheel.  Behind his bushy beard, his lined face wore the sort of stern expression that a schoolmaster might use on a truant child.

Dakheel relaxed.  “What in Eru’s name are you doing here?”

Neither man took notice of me, so I quickly shut my eyes and feigned sleep.  I just listened.  It’s strange.  I was exhausted and weak, still recovering from the ordeal of my sentencing, yet I can remember nearly every word of the conversation that followed, though they spoke of places and happenings far beyond my knowledge.  It is almost like a dream that one somehow remembers in vivid detail or like the childhood experiences that rise to mind years later, devoid of context.  The newcomer’s voice scratched slightly with age, yet was far more lively than I’d expected.

“That,” he told the man, “Is exactly the question I’ve traveled uncounted leagues to ask of you, Dakheel.”  There was a strange inflection to his voice as he said the name—it fell somewhere between amused and accusatory.

After a moment, Dakheel sighed.  I heard the scrape of furniture as he offered the old man a chair.  “I am sorry, Gandalf,” he said, “Events have swept away all my plans of late.  How long have you been searching for me?”

“It’s a rather long story,” the one called ‘Gandalf’ responded, “And perhaps best repeated away from prying ears.  Who is your guest?”  I felt their eyes on me and focused on lying very still.

“Don’t worry about him,” the younger man responded, “He’s just a boy with more spirit than sense.  He will not wake to overhear.” 

Well, he was half right.

Gandalf grunted skeptically, but after a moment he spoke again.  “Very well.  Then you should know that I began my hunt for you before summer’s end.  When you missed your annual rendezvous with your cousin, your relatives became quite concerned, a fear that did not lighten when they traveled to Minas Tirith and discovered you’d left Ecthelion’s service months before.  And when they learned of the manner in which you left Gondor . . . well, your uncle and your adar were a hairsbreadth from reforging the Last Alliance to come and fetch you.”

Dakheel muttered something that I didn’t quite catch, but which definitely included the word “overreaction.”

The old man harrumphed.  “Yes, a fine thanks I get—I who have combed the interior of the Black Land in search of you.  It was only desperation that drove me to try Harad, and by luck alone I stumbled upon a certain First Age bauble tucked away on a run-down ranch and so picked up your trail.”

I heard the pop of a cork.  “Have some wine, Gandalf,” Dakheel said, “It seems you could use it.”  As he poured two glasses, I wondered how a Tark bondsman had gotten his hands on something as valuable as wine.  This Gandalf apparently did not find it odd, but you can hardly expect a foreigner to understand our social hierarchy at a glance.  “So, they haven’t sold it,” Dakheel murmured.  “I don’t suppose you managed to recover it?  My ring?”

“It’s your trinket, fetch it yourself!”  Gandalf snapped.  “I merely drew the tale of your stay there out of a little girl in exchange for a firecracker and some magic tricks.  I’ve come to recover Heirs, not jewelry.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone about that ring,” Dakheel muttered, but his tone was lightly bantering.  I suspected this was an old point of contention.**  “Should I be touched by your concern or insulted by your lack of faith in me?”

“Welp.  These are treacherous lands to walk, even for one who takes undue pride in dangerous journeys.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Númenorean upstart!  When you’ve a tenth of my hard-won experience, then you may go where you wish.  Until then, your family is worried.”

“My uncle should know that I have responsibilities beyond my duty to Eriador,” Dakheel growled, “And perhaps Adar would do well to remember that also.”

“Tell him that to his face, then, but be sure to do it when I am safely leagues away.”

Dakheel had nothing to say to that.

After a moment, the old man sighed and his voice softened considerably.  “They’re not fools, you know,” he told Dakheel, “They know more than most about your duty.  For decades now, they’ve loaned you to the lands outside their borders and they’ve done it without complaint.  But, Harad?  I’ve heard a little of your exploits:  slave revolts and defections and now this conspiracy.  You’re stirring up a hornet’s nest here, and it won’t go unnoticed.”

“The Haradrim deserve the chance to be free of Sauron.”  My heart leapt into my throat.  Perhaps I should have seen it much sooner, but that was the moment I realized he was plotting a rebellion against the Great Eye.  “There are good people here.”

“But they are not your people,” Gandalf said sadly, “Do not seek to save them from themselves.  That is arrogance.”

“I seek only to oppose the Enemy.  As I always have with whatever allies will stand with me.”

“But will they stand?” Gandalf asked, “And if they do, will they suffer you to stand with them?”

For a long while, Dakheel did not respond to that.  Tired as I was, I was nearly dragged back into sleep before his voice roused me once more.  “I cannot leave yet.  Not yet.”  He took another moment to collect himself.  “You should return.  Tell Uncle and Adar that I have matters under control for the time being.”  I heard a touch of that slow humor of his.  “I would appreciate it if you’d at least create the illusion that you believe me.  The last thing Harad needs is an invasion from the Last Alliance of Concerned Relatives.”

It must have been some attempt at a joke, but the elder remained quite somber.  “I always believed you, Estel,” he said, “Like I always believed in you.”

There’s little more to tell.  Dakheel had nothing to say to that, and the old man departed soon after.  Neither ever realized that I had woken.  Perhaps you think me a fool for not recounting this visit sooner, but remember that I was not truly a member of our movement yet.  Only a confused boy, I did not quite know what to make of the strange encounter.  All I had really learned was that Dakheel hailed from some faraway land—which was obvious enough; few Tarks are born here—and that he was called by other names—again not a surprise; what new mother would name her babe “foreigner”?  I’d heard the old man use that other name—“Estel”—but that meant nothing to me, and it is not the name we came, in time, to know him by.

I woke the next morning, still very weak.  Dakheel tended my wounds and fed me again and we talked for hours.  He spoke little of himself, but drew the story of my life from me in painful increments.  No, I will not bore you with those details now.  In light of the greater cause we now serve, that child’s sufferings seem trivial.  Mine was hardly the only family torn apart by rampant poverty and the petty whims of mercurial lords.  Other brothers besides mine have been hauled away to die as unwilling conscripts.  Other sisters have been used and tossed aside by powerful men who see us all as little better than slaves.  All you really need to know is that by the time Dakheel found me, I was alone, powerless, and very angry.

By nightfall, I was a bit stronger, and the day of rest was over.  Dakheel brought me supper and we ate together.  He was strangely silent for a long time.  I felt those keen eyes of his searching me.  Evaluating.  At last, when the meal was gone, he looked me straight in the eye and asked “Do you want to know the way out?”

He gave no explanation for the strange question, but it tugged at my heart.  I found myself nodding, almost without realizing it.  Words were beyond me.

Without another word, he rose and gestured for me to follow.  He led me through darkening streets to this very building, which was a safe house even then.  He handed me over to the master of the house, saying only “he wishes to be one of us.”  No, I’ll not tell you that man’s name; he is in the movement still and is among the most skilled of our spies.  But it was he who told me of the conspiracy to resist Sauron and the role I could play in it.  After Dakheel departed, I took my vows—not to any lord or even to the old gods, but to the movement, to the promise of a free Harad.  To those vows, I still hold true, though I have been sorely tested.

They found a position for me as a servant in the household of a hostile lordling.  My new master was like most of the governor’s advisors—puffed-up and petty, sycophantically loyal to the Dark Lord’s messengers—but he was an enemy of the under-vizier I’d tried to rob, so he took me on.  It was a sore test of my self-control, but as a spy in his house, I garnered much information about the governor’s scheming and the Dark Lord’s devices—enough that I was eventually called to report to the secret council that provided our local leadership.

I’m sure you can imagine my nervousness as I waited in an underground room while a half-dozen leaders of the movement gathered.  I recognized none of the first six who arrived.  They wore the fine robes of merchants or the simple livery of servants and guardsmen or even the rags of beggars, yet they all greeted each other as equals as they gathered around the long table.

The seventh man who entered wore clothes finer than any of theirs with a headdress drawn partially across his face.  Only when he removed it did I recognize the man.

Magistrate Tariq.

For the second time in his presence, I bolted for the door.  I was certain we were betrayed and that the city guard would be soon behind.  This time, there was no one to catch me, but I tripped over a table leg and landed in an undignified heap on the flagstones.

The other men laughed.  None of them seemed alarmed by the sudden arrival of one of the governor’s trusted officials. 

“Relax, lad,” the magistrate said to me, “I’m not on duty.”

I climbed to my feet, shamefaced as no cries of “Raid!” rang out and no angry guardsmen burst through the door.  It had never occurred to me that those in power would ever choose to oppose Sauron.

Once I had my bearings, I expected Tariq to take the place at the head of the table and call the meeting to order.  Again, I was surprised.  He took the next seat down, and caught my questioning look.  “We’ll begin as soon as the foreign lord arrives,” he explained.

Perhaps ten minutes had passed before the door creaked open one more time and Dakheel entered, moving with his usual silent grace.  I had not seen the man in the weeks since my sentencing, but he was little changed.  He still wore the black and maroon livery of the magistrate’s household.  He nodded to Magistrate Tariq.  “My apologies for delaying us,” he said, “I could not easily depart without raising the chamberlain’s suspicions.”  But, his tone was light, and I could tell this was a simple courtesy, not the fearful apology of a servant who has inconvenienced his master.

Tariq smiled and clasped Dakheel’s forearm as if he were an equal.  “Think nothing of it, friend.”

Yes, they were great friends in those days—Dakheel and Tariq.  You wouldn’t know it by the tales told now, but I think there were few the rebel magistrate trusted more than Dakheel, and few the foreigner respected more than Tariq.  Dakheel seated himself at the head of the table and the other men fell silent until he spoke.  As he called the meeting to order, I realized that the “foreign lord” Tariq had mentioned could be none other than this unassuming Tark bondsman.  And after I had given my report, he thanked me graciously as if I were his equal.

But, you haven’t come to hear my fond reminiscences, have you?  No, you want the whole, dark tale of Dakheel’s fall from grace.  Very well.  Lend me your ears, but be patient with me.  This is still a difficult tale to tell, despite the passing of years, and I have never before told it all in full.

If you are to understand just how wrong it all went, it is first necessary to tell you a little about Dakheel and Tariq.  Though our movement had no official head in those days, in this city, those two were the most respected.  At first I did not understand why Dakheel—who Tariq called “the foreign lord” and who in private had a gravitas greater than any of our petty nobles—would suffer such a humble position as that of a bondsman in Tariq’s household.  In time, though, I came to understand.  As a body servant, he was little noticed by the elite of the city.  A bondsman who appears to be doing his master’s work can go places where a free Tark—always a source of suspicion—cannot.  It was clear, though, that Tariq did not see Dakheel as his servant, despite the display they put on in public.  They respected each other.  In many ways, they complemented each other.  Dakheel had at his disposal a wealth of knowledge about the size and readiness of the Grand Army, the political nuances of our conflicts with Gondor and Rohan, and even the dark devices of Sauron himself.  Tariq, meanwhile, had served in other cities throughout Harad and was intimately familiar with the character and stratagems of countless lords.  Dakheel had good instincts for whether a particular mission could be safely accomplished; Tariq had the judgment to determine if it would advance our cause.  Dakheel had the eloquence to inspire us to greater acts of rebellion; Tariq had the canniness to leverage the local officials and keep our activities secret.

As for our activities, they were not so different from our strategies now.  We positioned a network of spies to work out the machinations of the local lords and plot how we might foil them.  We quietly spread a call to arms for all who would see us free of Sauron and felt out which of the local officials might be sympathetic to our cause.  We created safe houses and weapons caches—not imagining that we could defeat the Grand Army by strength of arms, but simply to defend ourselves and give ourselves time to escape if it came to that.

Dakheel was forever advocating for stronger ties with the network of Tark sympathizers in our city—those who oppose slavery so strongly that they help Tarks escape and flee back to their native lands.  Dakheel argued—quite forcefully at times—that shared opposition to Sauron made the Gondorim and the Rohirrim our natural allies.  I think many agreed, in principle, but the rest of the leadership council resisted him out of fear.  Whispers of sedition are difficult to prove and easy to deny, whereas concrete actions like the liberation of slaves are far easier to investigate, and therefore more dangerous to us.  Still, Dakheel’s personal involvement with the slave-stealers was, perhaps, our movement’s worst-kept secret. 

Today, they will tell you that his frequent aid for the abolitionists is a sign that Dakheel only ever had Gondor’s interests at heart—that we were simply a means to an end to him.  It might shock you to learn how little how little these activities troubled his comrades while he was still among us.  It was common knowledge that Dakheel himself had escaped slavery quite recently, and most took his sympathies as simply a matter of course.  If he disappeared for a few days now and again, others made excuses for him.  And when he suddenly reappeared not long after a slave caravan had been liberated or a galley had overthrown its captain, we would behave as if he’d never been gone.  I can tell you with certainty that he risked no life but his own.  In light of the wisdom and leadership he brought to the movement, his other dealings were easily overlooked.

At least at first.

Our message was spreading.  The movement growing like fire on the windswept plains.  We fostered ties with rebel groups in a half dozen other cities, and in time, those relationships began to bear fruit.  Converts to our cause began flocking to this city to aid us.

And that is how Yakub first darkened our doors.

Yes, I know that he is a hero to young converts like you.  How could he not be, after the courage and defiance he showed at his execution last year?  Perhaps it was for his sake that you took up the cause.  I must ask you again for patience.  I hope that by the time this tale is done, you will understand why I am less reverent of his memory than most.

Yakub, you see, was a firebrand.  He hailed from the deep south where resistance to Sauron still runs deep.  He would tell anyone who would listen of how his father had been cut down trying to defend King Jabari from the agents of Sauron—how he would not abandon Harad’s last king even when Jabari himself pleaded with him to desist.  He spoke also about his grandfather—a priest of the old gods—who was flayed alive for refusing to acknowledge Sauron as the Great Eye.  Yakub was a staunch believer in old gods and older ways.

Which was all well enough; all of us would have respected his fervently-held beliefs, but Yakub did not seek respect.  He sought purity.  He began to argue—and more and more came to agree—that forging alliances and gathering support from beyond Harad would only lead to our destruction.  In his view, ours was a holy mission.  We were to show the world the might of the old gods by overthrowing Sauron the Supplanter completely by our own strength.  He was suspicious of outside help and even outside sympathy, believing that the Gondorim and the Rohirrim simply sought to replace the overlord in Mordor with an overlord in Minas Tirith.

Needless to say, he and Dakheel tended to disagree.

I was witness to quite a few of their confrontations.  Dakheel often requested my presence at leadership meetings, even when I had no report to give.  He would talk to me afterwards—drawing out my opinion on this idea or that stratagem.  I think that, having once saved my life, he felt a certain responsibility towards me.  But, it was difficult for me to watch his growing struggles with those who should have been his allies.  One meeting in particular stands out in my mind.

We had discovered through our spies in the army that the generals planned to send a large raiding party into Rohan to raid some of the outlying villages.  Dakheel was arguing that we ought to send a messenger to the Rohirrim with a warning.  Then, he explained, the horse lords would crush our enemy for us and they would be indebted to our movement.  It was a sound enough plan—it required only one rider and perhaps two weeks’ time.  I saw a few of the other council members nodding along.

Yakub, of course, was not.

“Tell me, Dakheel,” he growled, “Which Haradric life would you sacrifice for the sake of a few horse masters?”

Dakheel met his gaze evenly.  “Which Haradric lives would you see lost the next time that battalion is ordered to raze a village or burn a caravan?” he countered.

Yakub’s scowl deepened.  “Yet, you would risk the precious life of one of our comrades, and for what?  What do we care for a few Tarks who cannot defend their own borders?”

Dakheel’s face darkened, and who can blame him?  The word ‘Tark’ has become so commonplace that we use it without thinking, but on Yakub’s tongue it was always a slur.  It could not have been laced with more hatred and contempt if an orc had spat it.

Tariq cleared his throat.  “Watch yourself, Yakub,” he said in his most forbidding tone of voice, “Dakheel has opposed the Shadow far longer than you.  His tactics have not led us astray.”

“I’m not questioning his tactics, I’m questioning his allegiance!”  Yakub sprang to his feet, but given how much taller Dakheel was, the gesture did not have the dramatic effect he’d intended.  Still, he met the northerner’s gaze and held onto his defiance, which is no mean feat.  “Why do we allow this Gondorian to dictate our strategy?”  He asked.  Many of the leaders—Tariq included—were now scowling at him.  But, a few simply watched with neutral expressions.  “He speaks our tongue, he takes a name from our land, but you can all see that he is not one of us!  We have only his word that he came here against his will.”

“You can count the scars, if you wish,” Dakheel snapped.  As I’ve said before, he did not keep secret the fact that he’d been a slave.

“Nevertheless, you are not of Harad.”

“And does that mean I have less reason to oppose the Dark Lord?” Dakheel said, “Or less reason to wish to see the lords of this land overturned?”

“Overturned, certainly.  And what would you put in their place?  This White Tree your people worship?  Does the Steward wish so badly to be king that he covets the crown of the Sixteen Tribes?”  He looked around and saw conflict on more than one face.  “Say we overthrow the Dark Lord.  What will it gain us if Ecthelion’s beastly captains invade?  Will you feel particularly free when the demon Thorongil is razing our cities?”  Many of the men flinched and a few reached up to tap their left shoulders—a superstitious sign against evil.  Much as we dreaded Mordor, fear of Gondor ran almost as deep.  Many of the leaders had done their compulsory service in the army as youths.  In theory, they might agree that Gondor could aid us against Sauron.  In practice, though, the thought of Gondorim battalions sent them into a cold sweat, and they reserved a particular sense of horror for the thought of Thorongil, Ecthelion’s dread captain.  He was untouchable on the battlefield, the soldiers said.  What should have been routine engagements quickly became routs when Thorongil was involved.  Just the rumor of him entering the field was enough to make some men break ranks and flee. 

Yakub looked around once more, apparently quite pleased with the anxiety he’d awoken.  “How does it end?” he all but bellowed.

Silence fell.  Dakheel let his comrades stew in their discomfort for a moment, then spoke in a voice that was cold and brittle.  “I know how one thing ends.”  He pushed away from the table and reached for his cloak.  “I will go to Rohan myself.  That way, no important lives will be risked.”  He gave Yakub a look that would have sent a wiser man running.  “Only some Tark.”

The meeting dispersed somewhat awkwardly not long afterwards.  In the wake of Dakheel’s departure, several of the leaders who had leant Yakub their silent support seemed almost ashamed.  Tariq tried to turn their attention to other matters, but he seemed distracted and even trailed off in mid-sentence once or twice.

When I returned to my master’s house, the chamberlain sent me right back out—carrying a message for the magistrate, ironically enough.  The night watchman at Tariq’s house was a member of our movement and was well-used to my frequent comings and goings.  He admitted me without question or announcement, so I did not bother to mention that I was there on official business.

The door to Tariq’s study was open and I could hear the scratching of a quill from within.  Nevertheless, I paused in the shadows and peeked carefully around the doorjamb.  Dakheel had taught me the importance of “scouting”—of gathering information before I announced my presence. 

To my surprise, Dakheel himself was in the study.  He stood behind Tariq’s desk with his arms loosely folded, waiting while the magistrate scribbled something on a scrap of parchment.  It took a moment before I understood.  Of course.  Dakheel’s dramatic exit from the council meeting was all well and good, but, as Tariq’s servant, he still needed his master’s written permission before he could travel alone.

I should have entered right then, but for some reason I hesitated.  There was a strange sort of tension in Tariq’s shoulders—a stiffness in the way he kept his face turned away from Dakheel as he wrote the pass.  After a moment, the magistrate spoke.  “I don’t like this, Dakheel.”

“So, order me to stay.”  Dakheel’s voice was mild and almost amused.

Tariq snorted.  “As if you’d be stopped by the likes of me.”

Dakheel did not respond except to glance significantly at the badge on his shoulder.

“Yakub’s not all wrong, you know,” Tariq continued after a moment’s pause, “This is a risk to take.”

“A necessary risk.”

“Are you so sure?  No—don’t answer that.  You’re always so sure.”

“It is a chance to disrupt enemy movements,” Dakheel pointed out, sounding slightly bewildered, “Since when must I convince you of the value in that?”

Tariq frowned as he folded the pass and handed it to Dakheel.  “Just promise me you’ll be careful?  That you’ll do nothing to draw our enemies’ eyes?”

Dakheel took the parchment with a light smile.  “I’ll not forget what you taught me on the westerly road.  And I will see you soon.”

It was time to announce my presence or be discovered.  I retreated a half-dozen paces and then returned, rounding the doorway with stomping steps.  Tariq looked up, and his startled expression quickly faded to annoyance.  “You make quite a lot of noise for a spy,” he told me sharply.

I bowed to indicate that I was there on official business.  “Apologies, Magistrate.  My lord master sends a missive.”

Tariq accepted the sealed letter with a grunt that suggested he’d already forgotten about me.  He locked eyes with Dakheel and gave him a brief nod.

Dakheel copied my bow as he retreated towards the door.  The warmth in his voice belied the formality of the gesture.  “I will see you in two weeks’ time, Tariq.  We’ll work on the young one’s stealth then.”  But he gave me a wink as he slipped past me, and I suspected that he’d been aware of my presence all along.

Dakheel set out for Rohan that very night and was gone for several weeks.  It was dangerous—doubly so for him, as a Tark on the road is always the target of suspicion.  Tariq’s pass granted him some protection, but Dakheel was still at risk of being seized by the army or even forced back into slavery.

But, it was the changes at home that posed a greater threat in the end.  For Yakubwas not idle while his adversary was away.  The man’s speeches grew more fiery, and there was no one there to act as the voice of reason.  More and more council members began to see as he did.  In time, even Tariq was heard to echo Yakub’s rhetorical question—How does it end?

When Dakheel returned, he found he was not afforded the same honor as before.  More and more, the votes of the council began to swing against him.  More and more, his stratagems and warnings began to fall on deaf ears.  In theory, the council still respected him as one of its founding members.

In practice, they began to treat him like a Tark.

It didn’t end like you would expect.  Dakheel did not suddenly snap and vent his anger on Yakub.  Instead, the foreign lord sealed his own doom with a single act of mercy. 

I was delivering a message to this very safe house when there came a sudden, single knock on the door.  The master of the house peeked out cautiously, fearing a soldier.

He got what he’d been looking for, but not in the way he’d expected.  By the light of a guttering torch, he saw a crumpled form lying on the doorstep, having collapsed after one knock.  We opened the door and found a young man in armor standard for common soldiers in the Grand Army.  His weapons were gone.  His face was battered and bruised and blood was dripping to the cobblestones in sticky puddles.  Though his eyes were bare slits, when he heard the door open, he began to whisper the password for the house—whispered it over and over again as if it were the only word he knew.

We hauled him inside.  My comrade sent me for a healer.  We did not know whether this was a spy, a messenger, or a simple deserter, but something had clearly gone wrong.  I ran for the best healer I knew.

I ran for Dakheel.

He was in the midst of writing a letter when I burst into his quarters.  When I explained what was awry, he immediately set the missive aside, tossed the cipher he was using into the fireplace, and hurried to follow me.  We arrived back here scant minutes later—me out of breath, him as collected and focused as always.  The master of the house met us—no, I still will not tell you his name.  I thought I made myself clear earlier, so please stop haranguing me.

“How does he fare?”  Dakheel asked this man with no further ceremony.

“His wounds are serious,” he responded, “He was one of our spies within the army, and from what little he said, he was attacked even as he fled Umbar and then waylaid again just before he reached us.  How he made it so far, I’m not sure, but he must have an urgent message to take such a risk.”

“Gather the council,” Dakheel ordered him, “I will do what I can.”

So, the other man departed while Dakheel and I turned our attention to the wounded soldier.  He was lying right there before the hearth where your packs now sit.  If you look closely, you can still see the stain his blood left on the floorboards.  He was covered in grime and bruises, both old and new, but his most serious wound was a deep sword cut to the thigh which had been crudely staunched with a rag, but bled still.  He was awake, but seemed barely aware.

I helped Dakheel strip him of his armor and we moved him to a pallet in the back room.  Dakheel set to work cleaning his cuts and applying salve as calmly and methodically as he had with my shredded back months before.  I aided him where I could.  Mostly, I stayed out of his way.  Dakheel sent me to boil some water, but when I heard the soldier cry out suddenly, I paused in the shadow of the doorway.

Turning, it was easy to see what had roused the man:  Dakheel had pulled away the rag from his leg, and with it some half-dried blood.  The foreigner was leaning over the wounded man now, and lifting a hand to his forehead.

“Peace, friend,” I heard him murmur gently, “You are safe now.”

But the man flinched away from his touch.  Candlelight flickered off of a bruised face that had suddenly drained to the color of curdled milk.  “Thorongil . . .” he whispered.

Still concealed by the darkness of the doorway, I froze at the name.  For a moment, I thought this must be the message he’d been so desperate to bring us—that Captain Thorongil had been seen again and had caused some trouble on the coastline.  But, then he whispered it again and there was no mistaking the accusation in his voice or in the trembling finger that he pointed at Dakheel.  “Thorongil.   Thorongil.”

My next thought was that the man must be delirious.  Or perhaps he simply had not seen enough Tarks to be able to tell one from another.  But, then I looked at Dakheel’s face.  It had frozen.  I saw disquiet there, and a dawning sense of recognition.  And I knew, instantly, that the wounded man was not mistaken.

Dakheel was Thorongil.

The foreigner had a fresh rag in his other hand.  I saw him lift it slowly.  In an instant, I saw the choice before him.  The soldier, after all, was very weak.  Dakheel could silence him and his accusation and simply tell the others that he had died of his wounds.  He could safeguard his place in our cause.  He could save his own life.

Instead, he slowly lowered the rag to press down hard against the man’s leg.  “Let me treat your wounds, friend,” he whispered, “All else can wait.”

Dakheel seemed to sense me lingering.  He looked up and met my gaze and knew at once that I’d overheard it all.  But all he said was “Where is that water?”

Still silent from shock, I shuffled off to get it.

Didn’t I tell you at the very beginning that I have no courage?  At no point was this clearer to me than that night.  I walked to and fro, fetching water and bandages and whatever else he required, and the whole time, I did not speak to Dakheel.  The soldier soon passed out from pain and blood loss.  It took Dakheel nearly an hour to stop the bleeding, and by the time it was done we could hear the other leaders gathering in the next room.

At last, he tied off the last bandage and stood slowly, staring down at the unconscious man.

I shuffled my feet.  He didn’t turn to look at me, but after a moment, he spoke.

“He will live.  Most likely he will wake within the hour, I judge.”  Dakheel’s voice was strangely detached.  “And then . . .”  He trailed off.

I swallowed.  There were a thousand questions racing through my mind like frightened animals, but only one that I could put to words.  “What are you going to do?”

He turned his head and met my gaze.  His eyes . . . they always had such a depth to them—Dakheel’s eyes.  It’s hard to explain unless you’ve seen it for yourself.  I never saw the like, even among Gondorians.  They held you, you see.  But, at that moment, his eyes were full of sorrow and regret.  After a moment, he looked down at the blood on his hands.

Then I saw him straighten—saw his shoulders square and his head come up as he turned towards the door.  It was a different man who stepped out into this common room to face the other leaders; a man tall and hard as a granite pillar with eyes that burned forbiddingly.

They were all there—Tariq, Yakub, and all the ruling council.  They fell silent when they saw him.

Slowly and deliberately, he stepped out into their midst.  The silence was palpable.  Dakheel did not break it.

After an anxious moment, Tariq spoke up.  “Well, Dakheel?  Will he live?  Has he said anything?”  Dakheel’s eyes suddenly snapped to those of his old friend.  The magistrate fell silent, though I suspect he knew not why.

I expected the eight leaders to crowd around him and demand a report, but they didn’t.  It was as if time itself had frozen.  Dakheel was the only moving thing.

He ghosted to the back door on silent feet, opened it, and left without a word.

The rest of the council knew not what to make of this—and who can blame them?  They seemed to return to themselves slowly, blinking and shaking their heads as if awakening from some spell.

Somehow, I was unaffected.  For reasons I cannot explain and rue even to this day, I chose to follow him.  By the time I stumbled out the door, Dakheel was across the enclosed courtyard and halfway to the stables.  When he heard my footsteps, though, he stopped but did not turn.  “Have you come to stop me?” he asked.

As if I could.  I shook my head slowly as I approached.  “You’re leaving, then?”

He looked at me and sighed.  “What else can I do?  That man will be awake and giving his report within the hour.”

I swallowed.  “So, it’s true, then?”

“True?”  He smiled sadly and ruefully.  “True that as a soldier of Gondor, I served Ecthelion as loyally and effectively as I was able?  True that I blunted the invasion into Ithilien, drove settlers out of Harondor, and burned Umbar nearly to the ground?  That much is true.  That in the process, my name became a watchword for the terror of Gondor, even here among Sauron’s enemies?  That, too, seems true.”

He turned to me and clasped my shoulder.  “But true that I came to care for Harad?  That I served the cause of your independence as loyally as I once served the Steward?  That, also, is true.”  His hand fell away.  “But, my time here is up.  Yakub is correct in one thing:  if this movement is to succeed, your people must find the strength to stand on your own.  And you are finding that strength already.  The cause has grown without me.”

“You don’t have to flee,” I pleaded, “You can make them understand . . .”

“No,” he said gently, “Perhaps someday, but not today.  Their hate still runs too deep.”

“You are our foreign lord,” I argued stubbornly, “What does it matter if you were ‘Thorongil’ before?  You are Dakheel now.”

“It matters,” he replied, “I have other duties—other loyalties that are equally as dear to me.  I could go back into that room and swear that I have put the name of Thorongil behind me and that I serve only a free Harad now and forever more.  Perhaps I could even convince them.  But it would be a lie, and in time they would not forgive me.”

“But, you started this movement!”

“And it will continue without me.  If I stay, I will only be a cause of schism and division.  If I go, they will soon turn their eyes back to the Enemy.”  He held his hand out.  I clasped his forearm after the manner of his people.  “This is not how I wanted to leave . . . but I knew this day was coming.  The movement will be alright.  You will be alright.”

There was a lump in my throat, but as he turned towards the stables, I found my voice.  “Safe travels . . . Thorongil.”

His hand was on the stable door when it happened.

A rough arm suddenly seized me from behind.  I cried out in surprise.  I saw Dakheel turn.  Saw his eyes widen.  Felt the cold steel of a knife edge pressed against my throat.  Heard a voice harsh with anger.

“Not one more step, Dakheel—not one!  Or I kill your little pet.”  I didn’t think I could be more surprised, but when I recognized my assailant’s voice, my heart skipped a few beats.  I would have expected this sort of behavior from a spy of Sauron—might have expected it even from a zealot like Yakub.  But, the man who was suddenly my captor was neither.

It was Magistrate Tariq.

His breath was hot against my neck and his whole body seemed to tremble with half-suppressed anger.  I knew at once that he had heard some—or all—of our conversation. 

Dakheel’s face was frozen as he turned to face his master.  His friend.  He eyes were bright and sharp, but he held his hands loosely at his sides.  “You heard.”

“From your own mouth, Thorongil,” Tariq spat.

Dakheel extended a placating hand.  “Then you heard me say that my loyalty to our cause has never wavered . . .”

Tariq dug his knife more sharply into my neck.  “Silence!”  I winced as a small trickle of blood worked its way down my throat.

Dakheel fell silent.

For a moment, Tariq said nothing.  He seemed almost like a dog that catches a rat and then is unsure of what to do with it.  “I trusted you!”  He growled at last.  “I brought you into my own household.”

“And I have not betrayed that . . .”

“Silence!” he cried again, “No more of your lies, now, Dakheel.  That’s all you’ve done, isn’t it?  Lied to us.”  Dakheel waited, not moving one muscle.  “I defended you,” Tariq continued, “For weeks, now, Yakub has warned us of foreign spies come to seize our independence before it’s even born.  ‘Not Dakheel,’ I told him, ‘He isn’t like the other Tarks.  He’s loyal to a free Harad.’  And all the while you kept this from me.”

“Tariq . . .”

“No!  No more.  For the crime of betraying the movement by spying for Gondor, you will answer to the council or I will see to it that your accomplice—” he gave me a shake, “—is tried in your place.  Drop your weapons right now!  All of them!”

For the first time, I saw Dakheel’s face spasm, expressing just for an instant the betrayal he was feeling.  Slowly, he drew his belt knife and dropped it to the cobblestones.  The magistrate’s grip on me did not loosen.  “Is this really how you want to do this, Tariq?” Dakheel asked quietly as he pulled a second knife from a wrist sleeve and dropped that as well.  “After everything we’ve been through together on the westerly road?” a third knife joined the first two, “. . . at that outpost in the south?” he knelt and drew a very small knife from his boot, “At the justice building?”

He met my gaze, and I saw in an instant what he intended.

I let my knees buckle.

Tariq’s knife scraped against my chin, drawing blood, but he was unprepared for my sudden weight.  I dropped out of his grip.  I felt the wind as something flew past over my shoulder.  Something warm and wet splattered against the side of my face and Tariq cried out.  The magistrate reached up to clutch at the blood suddenly spurting from his eye and he let out another horrified cry.

And then I was out of his arms and sprawling gracelessly to the cobblestones even as Dakheel closed the distance between us in two long bounds.  As I rolled clear, I caught only shuttered glimpses of the brief struggle.  I heard Tariq cry out again . . . saw two hands wrestling for control of Tariq’s long knife . . . and then heard a muffled grunt that was somehow so much quieter than I expected.

Rolling onto my back, I looked up to see the hilt of Tariq’s dagger sticking out of the magistrate’s own belly.  Dakheel was gripping the knife with one hand and the man’s shoulder with the other as he slowly lowered him to the ground. 

“Is this how it ends, Tariq?”  I expected to hear anger and betrayal in Dakheel’s voice.  I heard only regret.

Tariq’s lips were bright with blood.  They moved soundlessly as Dakheel eased him to the cobblestones.  The magistrate reached one trembling hand towards Dakheel’s face, and the northerner let go of the dagger to catch it.  Tariq’s eyes—before they clouded over—were shining with tears.

So were Dakheel’s.

After only a few heartbeats, the magistrate went still.  Dakheel stood slowly, staring at his blood-streaked hands—they were trembling.  He clenched them into fists.  They stilled.

When he turned to face me, that mask of rigid control was back in place.  Blood was trickling down my neck.  He tipped my chin up to examine the cuts, speaking in a low, urgent voice as he did so.  “Listen, there is little time.”  The cuts seemed shallow enough.  Reassured that I was not dying, he released my face, but clasped my shoulders.  “You came out here to stop me, you understand?  You heard the soldier name me ‘Thorongil,’ so when I attempted to leave, you tried to force me to stay.  Tariq came to your rescue and I killed him as he sought to defend you.  Do you understand?”

“But . . . it’s not true . . .”

“That doesn’t matter, now.  Tell them, or at the least they would cast you out.”

“Dakheel . . .”

“You need the movement.  And the movement needs you.”  He withdrew his hands.  “Close your eyes.”

“What . . .”  But then his fist collided with the side of my face and sent me careening to the cobblestones.  He had to make it look convincing, after all. 

As my head cleared, I saw him back away.  He stooped to recover his knives, and then paused.  He lifted his hand to cover his heart and bowed his head—a Gondorian salute.  Was that for me?  For Tariq’s memory?  For the movement itself?  I suppose I’ll never know.  He disappeared into the stable and scarcely a minute later, I heard the clatter of hooves as he made his escape.

The rest of the story, you no doubt already know.  I obeyed Dakheel’s last command.  I repeated the story that painted him a traitor and a murderer.  Tariq became something of a martyr for our cause—Yakub saw to that.  We had no more dealings with the abolitionists, and for a long time, any Tark we came across was an object of suspicion.  But, as Dakheel had predicted, our collective eye soon turned back towards Sauron and we redoubled our efforts to undermine his reign.

Of Dakheel, we heard nothing, though word of his ‘betrayal’ was sent to our allies in every city we could reach.  Could a single Tark on a stolen horse ever hope to reach Gondor while avoiding both Harad’s tyrants and its would-be liberators?  I do not know.  But, if anyone could manage it, it would be Dakheel.

No—don’t get up.  I’m only a weary vagabond, and I need to stretch my legs.

I have kept this secret for so long.  I thought I would feel relief when I was finally free of it.  Instead . . .

“Will they suffer you to stand with them?”  That’s what the old man asked that first night when it all began for me.  Dakheel clearly thought we would.  How I wish we had lived up to his expectations . . .

What will become of us now?  I do not know.  The movement has spread, but so has the Shadow.  I don’t need to tell you what a fine thread we find ourselves now hanging by.  Perhaps we will stand and live to see Harad liberated.  Perhaps Sauron will crush us as he has crushed so many before us.  Perhaps we will destroy ourselves from within.  The one thing I can tell you with certainty is that Dakheel is gone.

We will not see his like again.

Fin

Author’s Note:  I hope you enjoyed this conclusion!  Huge thanks to everyone who has reviewed and otherwise supported me along the way.  For now, I’m closing this chapter on Aragorn’s travels, though I’m sure I will revisit Harad and its characters at a later date.  If you enjoyed this (or even if you didn’t), please leave a review.  All forms of feedback, including concrit, are welcome.

*The bondsmen of Harad bear some similarities to the indentured servants of Colonial America.  They are technically free people, but sign a contract of unpaid service in exchange for room and board.  The primary difference is that while indentured servitude existed to pay off debts, Tark bondsmen usually enter into that agreement as a matter of survival since it is difficult for non-Haradric people to find paid work or to travel safely within Harad.  I may expand on this in an Aragorn-POV fic.

**For the full tale of Aragorn and Gandalf’s disagreements over the Ring of Barahir, see my fic “Treasures in Old Socks.”