Lore of Harad

These are the Chronicles of the Judges who immigrated to the realm of Eriduah from the land of Harad.  I, Nathan, wrote this book of our people’s lore, taken from the irreplaceable skin of my fathers.  I am the son of the Scroll-Keeper Jothan, the firstborn son of Joban.  Joban was entrusted as Keeper of the legacy.  He was the adoptive son of Harinthros, the eighth son of Nu’yalthan; that first man of the Haradrim to be pardon in the West.  

 Following the overthrow of the Lord of Dred which ended the war to end all wars, a new King came to power.  The people from both sides of that conflict emerged to bury their dead, and ever so slowly they made efforts to rebuild their war-torn lands.  Desolation and waste had ravaged the Southlands of Harad from which now its ragged homeless had begun to wander into the fertile realms of the west.

  A man and his family were brought before the new King of the White City.  The King’s guard told his majesty, “My Lord, this man, woman and child were found passing through our gate and quickly brought before you as was your decree if any of the Haradrim, were so discovered.”    

Without being told, the three of them went to their knees.

“Speak, why have come,” asked the Wing-crowned Lord upon his high throne?

 With head still bowed the man spoke as ordered, “With humble heart your Lordship we meant no offense.  I am called Harinthros a son of Harad.  It was for this very reason, to come before you that we entered the gate.  Oh, Great King, I ask your forgiveness and pardon.”

 Upon seeing the woman was with child, King Aragorn injected, “Rise, and speak.”

 After they complied, Harinthros continued, “Gratitude my lord.  In coming here before you am I seen as weak among mine own kinsman, and I must be nothing more than ‘a vile barbarian’ before thy throne and your people, sire.  Nevertheless, lord king, I boldly beg before these witnesses, not for myself but for my pregnant wife, and this my sister’s son your holy forgiveness.  I beseech your mercy to allow us to begin anew in your realm.  We are but a defeated enemy who has returned to our desolate land, and I alone of the Haradrim have found the courage to stand before thy lordship as such.  Oh, King of the west, know that our part in that Great War was but as beaten thralls and pawns for the cause of that great Evil.

 “In truth Lord -- to say that we have even survived would be a kindness, for many have mental scars unseen and broken bodies maimed for life; all under the foot of his will.  They who have returned to their homes in the south have sought only to live among themselves, for that was the only happy legacy in meeting the lord of death.  My true King, I would that you sever this head from my shoulders if that is your Will, but for mercy’s sake spare these two my Lord; that peace may finally come to us.”  Harinthros could no longer speak for he was overcome and wept sorrowfully before that court, again upon fallen knees.

 All the while, that the tattooed Wildman spoke before that white-stone hall, Lord Aragorn held his anger in check with grave silence.  Upon hearing his broken words with crushed voice, the King quickly replied, “Arise Harinthros of the defeated south and be pardon for mercy’s sake before these gathered witnesses.  For far too long has war-ravaged us all; people known and unknown alike.  Heralds throughout the West shall declare this great news, and by the very words you have so sworn shall be sealed with the standard of The White Tree as proof of your forgiveness.  You and all those who come afterward shall be granted, by such oath, unimpeded passage throughout these newly freed lands.  Be healed in time, from the dark woes that once afflicted us all.  Go in peace, you and all your house -- unmolested.”

  Then his Queen said, “My husband, in doing this you have only encouraged more to come.”

  “Many unseen are already here my love, and yes more will come.  Our real enemy has been defeated, and these people were never truly the enemy.”  

  Harinthros and his family were fed and given new apparel.  That first son of Harad, to so approach the new King, proudly wore a garter sash across his chest which declared he as Friend and Freedman.  Harinthros wore it all the days of his life for it had been granted by the King himself with honor.  Also, leather scrolls were drawn up and awarded them, with burnt images of The White Tree seal for any who would demand proof of their claims of pardon. 

  Though all heard the King’s Herald and saw such posted notices; not all befriended Harinthros, his wife Shimkah or their adoptive son Joban.  Neither were they themselves naive of their statues, for deep wounds only heal, with much time.

 The family of Harinthros lived in a tent just outside the main gate of that tremendous citadel, as was their custom had they remained back in the land of Harad.  In two months time, from having been pardon by the King, Shimkah delivered twins for her husband; a son and daughter.  The son he named Ha’Jorim, and the daughter she named Ha’Sorem (meaning Beautiful one).  The people of the city were only kind because of the King’s blessings.  Yet Harinthros and his family strove to repay their kindness, and pave the way toward genuine peace.  Without being asked, he joined in rebuilding the walls.  Harinthros displayed great skill in the art of being a blacksmith.  Likewise did Shimkah, his wife teach many the art of animal husbandry in birthing and raising flocks.  Even Joban was eager to work alongside his adoptive father as a Smithy.  All the while they lived there, the husband prepared his wife for the day they would depart and begin their own lives, “For we are, after all, my love Haradrim and nomads seeking a place to call our own.”

 

  Now, there were some who had come to know the tented-family, (for those of the city lived in stone houses); and knew them as earnest folk, desiring only to be seen like unto themselves as ‘lover’s of peace.’   When six months had passed and they found no others from Harad had sought them out, Harinthros felt it time to leave the city and his children fit for travel.  A trader named Tom Willows and Blacksmith Barthom both gave the traveling family a wooden housed-wagon, and a pony named Sam.  Tom told Harinthros, “He is a small thing I know, but stout to speed you along your way.  Safe-journeys my friend.”  With such encouragements did the Haradrim take his family, their tent, and house-wagon into the west.

  At the end of a full day’s ride, they came to the forest of Nearsome.  It was there they set camp and ate from the supplies given them as parting gifts.  Only after Harinthros had taken his family far from the layering walls of the White City was he comfortable enough to begin teaching his adoptive son, Joban the history of their people.  The sister of Harinthros, Shek’shema had died while birthing Joban, and his father had perished in the war.  “We come from a proud and diverse land, my son.  But here in the west, we shall again build ourselves into a new people.”

  The boy asked, “How shall we father?”  For Joban only knew what he saw; himself as a child and a mother with two babes in arms.

  “More shall come, and so here is where we will wait until they do so.”  The father smiled, “For the House of Nu’yaldim shall prosper from the ashes of Harad, my son.”

  Shimkah, his wife asked, “How do you know this?”

  “I had a dream wife: I saw as from a raven in flight, a single queen ant traveling a great distance through a parched land.  She went into the earth and emerged as a mighty mound of tens of thousands that swarmed forth, and they were us.”

  Joban asked, “A dream?”

  Shimkah replied, “Our hope.”

  Harinthros persisted, “A promise.”

  “My son, in three months time you will be twelve years old and shall be viewed as a man in the standing of our people.  Joban, in truth you have seen and done far more in your lifetime, than many men of my own generation -- be proud, my son that you have endured much.”

  “Gratitude, father.  I am honored you have taken me as your own son, Harinthros; I beg please, tell me of how my father died,” Joban said with respect.

  “In the cries of battle before the very Black Gates themselves.  Su’bojan, your father was slain by a horseman’s sword.  Be not vengeful in this matter Joban, but know that the world has changed.  Indeed, even now have we been shown proof of that change, and the hospitality of its new King has given us our rebirth into better days.”

  Truthfully, “I know, father.”

  “Come,” Harinthros changed the subject, “let us prepare for the day you shall recite the words that have been inked upon your arm.  Later you shall add your own tattooed words upon your back, of all the journeys you have taken in life.”

  “Father why do we do this, and what if others of our people do not come?  What shall happen to us then,” Joban asked sincerely?

 “We do this to remember and be remembered,” Harinthros answered the boy, “They shall come, and if not we shall remain here for their arrival until they do, and practice the lore of our people in remembrance.”

  “Yes, father.”

  Being that they had settled near a forest’s edge the father instructed his son to sit awhile upon a large rock.  As he demonstrated how to make a campfire Harinthros began speaking, “Never forget where you come from.  Do not allow others to pull you down or insist that you are not ‘better like them,’ but be true to honor your own name.  Safeguard and honor your name, for that is all a man truly has.

  Piling fags about a ring of stone and striking flint into them, he continued, “For all the gold and silver or ten thousand herds can never replace the wealth of one’s good name which is his reputation, my son.”  As the day became dusk and the new embers grew into a roaring fire Harinthros smiled, “We are from the Land of Harad.  Vast and desolate it may be or broad in its untamed jungle-stretches we remain her children in our hearts, for that mother is in our blood; and in your blood, Joban of Harad.

  “Tens of ten thousand strong we once were in the days of Harlos, the first lord of our House whose grandson is now our great grandfather.  Listen now, to the Skin Tale and learn the reason for your ink, my son; remember and pass it down to the sons yet to come!”

  The boy listened to the old man’s tale and of how to tell it to others as well.  Harinthros looked deep into the flames of the campfire, even as the evening stars began to show themselves.  In a strange voice, he began, “Listen, my sons and your daughters do not neglect the teachings of your father’s deeds who came before you.

  “Many long years ago in the vast jungle depths of southern Harad called, Mus’kualla; monsters once roamed in secret.  For in ‘the dark heart of the world’ {which is what that name means}, birdmen called Yantuks once lived and flew over its wild foliage, all the while seeking whom they may devour.  Therein, also roamed the fierce beast-like creatures no man has ever fully seen, nor lived long enough to describe those things called Zealtons.  For death was always in the wake of those two creatures.

  “One day, ages long ago a band of seven from a nearby village ventured into those haunted woods and spied a sight never witnessed before or since.  There, in a clearing, two of the vile creatures were in the waylays of mortal blows one against the other.  They beheld the Yantuk and Zeta entangled with claws and beak, wings and tails amid the twisting trees and vines, as fear and wonder overcame those watching men.  Bound up in their struggle the party of men could only watch in horrific awe as the fierce creatures sought the life of the other.  A brutish sword-welding Zeta and a sharp-taloned Yantuk fought like great enemies.  For a long time did the very ground rumbled and suffer as it quaked beneath their crushing bulk and blaring screeches like thunderous cries.

 The leader of the party was one named, Minlo Shadol whispered to another, "Behold! Demons of the night have come out to fight among themselves in the light of day!"  But then -- they halted their witnessed battle at the sound of their watcher’s whispering and breaking twigs.

   At the sound of his breath, both monsters immediately ceased from their cruel and awe-inspiring  dispute.  Breathing heavily, the badly wounded Zeta bellowed out, in its grotesque speech, "Ce`zar za`resh zes`rah raz`sakh Naz`ghKh zar`cashesh!!!!"

  In answer, the birdlike Yantuk rebutted to the Zeta, "Never have we come to fall upon you as prey.”  Then looking into the wide eyes of those crouched men behind the jungle leaves it said, “But to desolate the kindred of men instead, and to forbid them from this which they are now entering such as these yellowwoods.  Shall we also fall upon Dwarf-kind if they ever they approach this way again as well, let all their kindred stench be slain asunder!"  After such screeching words were clearly heard the creatures fell in pursuit of the dead men yet to be.

 There was only one, out of that party of seven men who ever escaped alive, a Nu’yalthan by name and only a young boy at the time.  He was with his father and kin on his first hunting mission into the dark woods.  It was he, that second born son of the leader who witnessed his father’s death.  Minlos was the first to die, flayed alive, and beheaded still gripping his sword in the act of utter defiance.  One after the other were they all shredded and torn asunder as the leaves about them were sprayed with blood, all before the hiding boy Nu’yalthan; who could only watch without breathing.

  The next day, after the boy had wandered aimlessly in shock back to the mountainous caves of his kinsman could he not stop rambling his tale with quaking voice amid screams and weeping.  Because the boy was alone and his tale so filled with terror, an even larger party was formed to demand answers and seek revenge for the loss of their bravest of warriors.  They returned to the very place where the slaughter occurred.  They were armed for conflict but found only the minced remains of strung bits that had once been body parts.  High in the branches of the trees about them was the flayed skin of Minlo Shadol, the leader of that band of foolish brave.  This they knew was him, by the tattered skin of his flayed back which bore the inked markings of the bear’s paw as a remembrance of his own first boyhood kill.  Minlo Shadol had once been the Judge of all their people, yet now he would be remembered as a fallen warrior-lord.

 There were no survivors, other than the forgotten boy, and those torn remains of his father which were only enough to fill a small bag.  The pouch would be carried by the son as a reminder of his father, throughout all the long years of his life.

  “Such was the beginning of our lore, my son Joban and the reason why your own back was inked with the moon of your birth and the animal who ruled the year you arrived into this world.”

  All the while Joban had been enchanted by his father’s storytelling before the leaping flames and their shadows, the stars of night wheeled overhead.  He was still wide awake.  Only with the breaking of dawn’s early light did the boy realize he was no longer in the jungles of Harad being chased by monsters, but safely in his mother’s camp.  He saw her smiling face looking back at him as he caught sight of his two sleeping siblings.

  “Thank you, father, for entrusting me with such secrets.  May I tell the tale as wonderfully as you have to me, before these my brother and sister one day,” Joban said solemnly.

  Then his mother encouraged him with, “I have no doubt you shall my beloved.  Now off to bed and rest, for a full day soon comes.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  After resting for some time, the man took the boy into the woods, and with only an ax in hand, they went hunting.  Finding a young yew tree Harinthros instructed Joban in the art of crafting a bow, and in the making of simple snares, for catching small animals.  All the while they searched for a water source from which to draw from and quench their thirst and needs for his family.   Their lives up to that day had been scavenging for mere survival in Harad and seeking kindness from others on the city streets; yet, “here in the wilds of the world a man could be honest with himself again,” is what the father taught his son.  

  It was not long before they found a stream and filled their flasks when Joban asked, “Father when others come what shall do then?  What if they are not who you are looking for but bad men seeking to steal and have their way with our things?”

  “The gods will provide in that moment my son, for none of us have gotten this far in life without their help in preparing what to do next.  Everything is preparation for tomorrow's need.”  Then smiling at the boy proudly holding his newly carved bow-shaft, Harinthros asked, “Is it really for that cause, or do you wish me to teach you how to fight as well?”

 They both laughed and made merry in such war-play.