The late afternoon sun washed gold across the restless plain.  Long field grasses glowed and swayed in the breeze.

Dezoch was not moved.  Only a scream from the far side of the encampment brought a brief smile to his hard face, the sound of a captured scout leaving the mortal world.  He was the last of three they had ambushed today.  Gondor was blind to the force he had assembled.  Dezoch had crossed the Anduin, six thousand strong with the three tribes.  The main force had marched due west, planning to meet Gondor’s army.  He had taken a more southwesterly path for three days, anticipating Gondor’s move north for what they would believe to be the main battle.

Dezoch had followed the gullies and low swales of the Wold, keeping his men below the general line of sight of the rolling upland plains.  And one more tactic he had learned from his ancestors, blending in.  Their woolen garments were a buff yellow, matching the grasslands themselves, almost invisible at a distance.

His scouts had verified that Gondor’s host had passed north of them, several leagues to the west.  Immediately he had turned his army north as well, paralleling their movement, though intentionally lagging behind to maintain their secrecy.  Now Gondor’s legions were just five leagues away to the north. 

Dezoch would resume their march, a league before dusk, then another by moonlight before they settled for the night with no campfires or lanterns.  He would rouse them before dawn and steal up low swales and shallow channels to within two leagues of them by daybreak. There they would wait, with scouts bringing back tidings of the battle so Dezoch could plan his attack.

Dezoch was pleased.  He longed to swing his studded club and feel its fatal weight pound enemies into submission and death.  All in his tribe felt it. 

He looked over to his right where men clustered around two banners.  Mubrat, leader of his tribe and Nuqab, chief of his, each with their lieutenants.  The blood lust coursed strong in their people.  They would have marched all night with him if he had asked.  He walked over to them idly dragging his club along the ground.

 “We must cover another league before we rest.  Tomorrow we rise while still dark and march another two.  Then we wait for our signal.  Mubrat, Nuqab, understood?” 

 Mubrat was taller, leaner than most.  The sides of his head were shaved.  The long tangle of black hair on the crest of his head had been partially resolved into braids that ended in a knot around bits of old enemies, ears, fingers and other parts.  His men were similarly adorned.

 “Let us pray we do not wait long.  The men are restless.’  Mubrat smiled evilly.

 Nuqab was Dezoch’s height, shorter than Mubrat.  Nuqab had filled out, almost to the point of plumpness.  A broad smile always filled Nuqab’s balld head from ear to ear.  But his eyes held no mirth, only a leering cruelty.  Unlike Mubrat, his men would take prisoners for later amusement.

 “Wait, march, kill.  It is all the same, Dezoch.  We live until we do not.  But I would live well tomorrow”  Nuqab’s grin revealed rows of teeth filed to sharp points.

 “There will be plenty for us all.  We will strip them of their mail, swords and helmets.  Their lands will be ours.  Now go to your men.  The time for talk is done.”

 Dezoch stalked away.  He would send scouting parties out in the night to hide within two miles of Gondor’s army.  They would send new scouts out at dawn, unsettled by the absence of any of their reconnaissance yesterday.  His men would bring them down like the rest.  Gondor would soon be too occupied by the eight tribes to their east to worry about the south.  Until it was too late.

 A rare smile cracked the harsh lines of his face.  It would be the day of days.