He was short, but wide and powerfully built under his padded tunic and small leather curiass.  Unkempt black hair spilled over his brow.  A nail studded war club and hand axe lay at his feet.

Dezoch brooded on the small knoll overlooking the rally point on the Anduin.  His two thousand men were idling on the riverbank, among the first of the ten tribes to arrive. He grated at the delay.  It would be nearly a week before all the tribes would gather, convert their supply wains to rafts and launch across the great river.  In the meantime his men were eating into their provisions, getting drunk on sour wine and losing discipline.  He would crack a few skulls later to bring them to order.

Mozuk, chieftain of the Balchoth, had placed Dezoch’s tribe on the south flank.  His men and three other tribes would soon separate from the main host once on the west side of the Anduin.  Mozuk would meet Gondor’s army head on.  Dezoch would lead the other tribes west, but just south of the battle.  Then they would swing north to stave in Gondor’s exposed right flank. 

Mozuk had hinted that others might attack Gondor from the northwest, but revealed little.

Dezoch cared little.  They would overwhelm Gondor with numbers and ferocity.

Once they had finished Gondor’s army, the lands west of the Anduin would be theirs.  So much land.  He had been promised a great swath and a lordship for his tribe, if he survived. 

Dezoch smiled.  He always survived.