As the sun was setting in the west, the long column of men began to gather out of the City of Bar Makan, and to walk north along the Harad Road.
The column included a thousand men, all dressed in light armours, and covered with heavy clothes fit for the coming night.
Behind them came the two Mumakils, with twenty people on each of them.
They weren’t the best that could be find in the Haradwaith, but they hadn’t the time nor the will to find better.
Barad Dur was waiting for them.
They didn’t stopped until the moon was high in the sky, for they had to be as quick as possible.
During a few hours, they just tried to sleep, and not to think about the journey, and what was going to happen after they came to the Black Gate. If they ever reach it.
New rumours at come during the night, of a group of Gondorian that ambushed the new-coming followers of Sauron.
At first light, they were all awoken and walking.
Jyras was quietly walking alongside the rest of the army, focusing his mind on nothing.
But the nothing he was thinking about was so full of emotions he wondered what it would be if he tried to focus on something.
The fear hadn’t gone, far from it. In fact, it went stronger and stronger, each stride making the road seem harder to walk on.
A big knot of anxiety was seizing him at the throat everytime he looked at his longbow he was so proud of, his sword he had never used except at training, or the look of his companions around him, all feeling the same as he did.
Except for a few of them, who wore an eager, rude look on their face.
Those were the few who thought fighting for Sauron was a pleasure, that fighting itself was as pleasant as hunting or fishing or playing cards with a couple of friends.
Their eyes were full of madness, of agressiveness, and Jyras feared them, as did the other normal men of the group.
These kind of men were able to name men as treator to Sauron just to be promoted.
These men just thought burning, destroying, and killing were fun.
In fact, he would have loved to stay home, where things were different.
Oh, he perfectly knew that most of the Haradwaith was wild and dangerous, full of strange men and strange beast.
But Bar Makan wasn’t like that.
Bar Makan was an island of peace and wealth in a sea of violence.
In Bar Makan, there was a culture, there were singers, paintors, sculptors, architects, and all the artists who made a town become a City.
Bar Makan was his home, and his hearth would stay there, in peace, wathever happened to him.
Two nights later, they met a group of Orcs at a bridge across the big river that came from the Ephel Duath and ran toward the Bay of Belfalas.
This river was the end of the Haradwaith, and the entrance into South Gondor.
The Orcs weren’t many – at most a hundred – but they all wore the Eye on their helmet, and no Harad would have dared touch to one of them.
Everything that wore the Eye was, in a certain way, the Eye itself.
The head of the orc’s group – the ugliest – went to meet the first of the Harads, and looked to the column.
”Ya late. We waiting ya yesterday.”
Captain Karash, who led their group, curtsied in front of that beast and spoke humbly.
”Please forgive us for our offence. We have no excuse for our delay.”
Jyras spat on the ground.
Orcs. They had to be humble with Orcs!
Was Sauron making a fool of them?
The Orc-captain laughed.
”No excuse. Hurry then. If ya have no excuse for the Eye, ya’ll be throwed in Mount Doom!”
The orcs all laughed loudly, to prove to themselves and the other they had understood.
Jyras spat again.
This was becoming ridiculous.
The orcs crossed the bridge and went south. Toward the Haradwaith.
Jyras looked them disappear with an hateful look on his face, then followed the order of Karash to move on.
There was a time to think about orcs, and there was a time to obey.
And he had nothing to do but obey. Even to orcs, if Sauron said so.
Frantically, he thought: ”Let’s this war be finished soon!”