[doug*platypus]

Character Profile

Name: Gimilzôr of Harad.

Age: 34 years.

Occupation: Commander of a troop of foot soldiers in the Army of Harad.

Appearance: Average height and build. Dark brown skin, black curly hair cut short. Ugly scar running from temple to chin on the left side of his face. Grins often, but has several teeth missing.

Equipment: Armour of bronze plates covering torso, bronze helmet with cheekguards, no crest. Short double-edged sword, spiked shield. Can also fight with scimitar, spear or halberd.

Background: Born in a rural setting, Gimilzôr was conscripted for military duty as a young teenager. He found his calling in the army, eventually becoming the equivalent of a modern-day Sergeant, in charge of a troop of infantry. Gimilzôr is his given name in the common tongue of the Haradrim. He no longer uses the name he was given in the language of his own tribe. He has returned several times to his people and his village when on leave, but much prefers the honour and excitement of being a commander in the infantry.

Personality: Gimilzôr takes great pride in his position in the army, and in his arms and armour. His motivation in the attack on Gondor is duty and love of battle more than any deep-seated resentment towards the Men of the West, although his demanding gods require that the infidels of the North be destroyed by his people one day. He will remain loyal to his superiors as long as he perceives they are brave, following orders and fighting for the glory of Harad. As a soldier he respects his comrades and enemies alike, but has a mean streak, and can be unnecessarily violent or sadistic at times.


The Army of Harad

Gimilzôr raised his head and looked around, as a fresh scent came to his nose. The acrid stench of fire momentarily gave way to a new smell. A pleasant one. He thought for a second and then it came to him. “Pomegranates!” he thought, and smiled. With a nod to one of his soldiers to oversee the now burning village, he strode off in the direction of a nearby hut.

Stooping low, he entered, sword in hand but not at the ready. The veteran commander expected no more resistance from this particular settlement. Not anymore. That was the key, he knew. Arrive in formation, impress the villagers with military precision. Give your orders: in this case for every able-bodied local man of fighting age to assemble in the square. Find the rebellious types and make examples of them. Then, usually, there would be no futher problems.

His eyes strained to accustom themselves to the gloom of the hut. The first room was empty except for a few caskets of food, a bare table and some simple wooden implements. On the table was a fine wooden platter holding perhaps a dozen pomegranates. Grabbing one, Gimilzôr was suddenly aware of a slight movement and noise in the next room. The voice of a woman. Fruit still in hand, he narrowed his eyes against the dark of the interior and stepped through the low archway. Inside he found her, hidden almost completely in the corner by her long garments, wound in many folds around her body. Her face was uncovered, and her gaze was strangely resolute even as she trembled with fear at this man who had come unbidden into her home, naked weapon in hand.

Gimilzôr then noticed that she shielded a young child, a boy of perhaps seven or eight summers. Too young for the long march back to the capital. His lord demanded the armies of the Harad be filled quickly. Before the moon was full some two weeks from now, Gimilzôr and his troop must be back with fresh strong recruits, at least one for every ten men in every village he encountered. As well, there were supplies to be thought of. Tribute to be given by the villagers, or rather taken by tax-collectors or the army. Gimilzôr turned his attention back to the mother, still trembling in the corner while keeping a protective arm around her son. The woman’s face was a beautiful dusky brown colour, uncommon even this far north. She spoke as the soldier regarded her, a string of words that he could not understand.

“Quiet!” he shouted in the common tongue, not expecting her to comprehend. She kept babbling and did not obey.

This was but a peasant, a worker of the fields, and she would know only the language of her simple tribe. Gimilzôr had learned enough of the language of the capital to get by in the army, to communicate with his men or his superiors, who came from vastly different backgrounds and far regions of the Empire of Harad. Although he had been born as another villager in a desolate place much like this one, he was now commander of a troop of foot soldiers in the most feared fighting force in existence. He could speak in the common tongue, he had seen the glory of the capital and its temples, and he could wield sword, shield and spear. He wore armour of brazen plates, a fine bronze helmet and an ring of gold in his ear, and was now far above the likes of these peasants.

He pocketed his fruit, grabbed the woman’s wrist fiercely and pulled her to her feet. When she tried to pull away, Gimilzôr looked her straight in the eye with pure menace, as he pointed his sword towards the child. There was no lack of understanding this time. The woman silenced herself immediately, holding her hand up for her son to do the same. They were both too shocked to weep as she followed Gimilzôr into the first room. Still clutching the woman’s wrist, he led her to the table. Then, forcing several of the caskets and the platter of fruit into her arms, he pointed to the door. As she walked out, he pulled the pomegranate out of his pocket and chopped it neatly in half with his sword. Juice flowed out and into the deep cut he had made in the table. With a grinning face, Gimilzôr picked up both halves in his hand and put one up to his full red lips. Sucking the juice, he casually strode out the door. He was pleased with his latest capture, who was now standing mutely outside the hut. She would earn him great praise from his commanders when he turned her over to be a servant. If, that is, she survived the long march with the cruel soldiers of Harad.

In the village square, Gimilzôr’s troop had picked a dozen or so fit-looking young men to take with them. The best blood of this small village, he supposed. He scanned their faces, walked closer and examined their well-muscled torsoes. They would make fine soldiers, he thought proudly, once they had been toughened up. There were also many sacks of provisions, some caskets and two mules to help carry them. Several soldiers were busy about a well, filling as many skins as possible for the return journey. Gimilzôr smelled fresh, unleavened bread from several of the caskets as he walked around congratulating his men and asking about the resistance. It had been only minor. Earlier that day, the soldiers had badly beaten a man who had tried to prevent them taking grain from his store. It looked doubtful he would surive the next few nights, but that had stopped the rest of the village from fighting back and suffering needlessly. Every man that Gimilzôr had to make an example of was one less soldier for his lord’s armies. And as it turned out, only one hut had been fired. An accident in the bakery when his clumsy men had stormed in, and the fire had not spread. Nevertheless, a thin layer of smoke now gave the scene a ghostly feel.

Gimilzôr gave orders to all to begin moving out, and walked back to fetch his prize captive. He was ten yards or so from where she stood outside her hut, when he heard a shout and the rush of hooves. Turning, he saw a young man charging towards him on a small patchy-looking horse, a short sword in his outstretched hand.

“Don’t shoot!” Gimilzôr called back to the soldiers.

The fire of this man’s youth should not be wasted, and in any case he would hardly be able to take down the experienced Gimilzôr. Sword at the ready, the commander let the horse come closer. The rider started to stoop down in his saddle, ready to swing, showing his enemy too early what he had planned. Just before the horse came into range, Gimilzôr leaped away to his right, rolling on the hard earth with his sword under him. The untrained rider was not able to attack on his other side in time. Gimilzôr drew himself up on one knee as the horse was racing by, and slashed out as far as he could. The horse cried in pain as the sword slashed across its middle. Belly strap cut loose, the boy flew forwards and off his stricken beast, hitting the ground hard. Before he could recover, two soldiers were on him and had hauled him up, holding him. The soldiers were jeering and yelling, praising their leader.

Stepping around the wounded and useless horse, undoubtedly the only one in the village, Gimilzôr came face to face with the youth. His black curls bore some traces of blood, but he was otherwise unharmed. Expecting a swift death for his valour in defending his people, he stared defiantly at the man before him. For a moment he was taken aback, as he noticed the ugly scar running from temple to chin down Gimilzôr’s face. Then he recovered, his eyes burned with white-hot rage, and he spat. Gimilzôr, sword still in hand, punched him across the face viciously. The heavy pommel scored a painful wound across his black face. Losing strength and close to weeping, he sunk limply into the arms of his captors.

“Pick him up. Make him walk,” Gimilzôr instructed his men. It was high time they left. He pulled the youth’s chin so that they were looking eye to eye. “You’re in the army, now!” he grinned evilly.


A New Post

A week after returning from the outlying villages, Gimilzôr was summoned to meet his superior. He strode across town to where a headquarters had been set up, in a two-storied brick building overlooking the river to the north. His helmet was off against the heat of the late morning, and his forehead was beaded with sweat before he reached his destination. Once inside, he was shown to a small room that served temporarily as an office. His superior sat at a desk inside, fanned with a large palm frond by a woman with a light, dusky brown complexion and a downcast face. A cup of deliciously aromatic tea was before him. Gimilzôr saluted, clenched fist clanging against his bronze armour. The captain did not motion for him to sit, preferring to leave a distinction between him and the lower ranking Gimilzôr, despite the mutual respect between them.

“Eleven villages, one hundred and thirty conscripts,” he said matter-of-factly, reading from a parchment in front of him. “Well done. And my personal thanks for… the other tribute you gathered.” He indicated with a wry grin the woman standing nearby.

Gimilzôr smiled as the bonus he expected was pushed across the table to him; a small purse of coins which he took with a slight bow.

“As for your next post,” the young officer continued, “a small expeditionary force will shortly be pushing north towards the forest.” He waved casually behind him, in the direction of the river. “It will be led by an officer called Lan’Kâsh. I want you and your men to march under him. You will be joined by two relatively inexperienced sub-commanders. Jinan and Frôzhal are their names: you would do well to learn them. These two are capable, but ambitious, and may need keeping an eye on.”

At this point another man entered the room, attired also in the fashion of an officer of the Haradrim. He was tall and thin, with swarthy skin, and his hair hung down (in a scruffy manner, thought Gimilzôr) to his shoulders. The captain introduced him as Lan’Kâsh, and he and Gimilzôr saluted then clasped arms in formal military greeting. The man smelled slightly of ale, but that was to be expected in a town such as this between battles. And although he was a little unkempt at the moment, there could be no doubting the man’s experience and vigour in battle. Once Lan’Kâsh had taken a seat, the captain continued to brief Gimilzôr.

“I want you to see that your superior’s orders are carried out. Any northern settlements you find are to be wiped out completely. You have been chosen for your experience in this kind of warfare. Myself, I wouldn’t go near such a lowly assignment. Within the next month I will be leading a strong force across the River Poros to test the strength of Gondor. I expect you both to have completed your mission by then. Then maybe you will have some small share in the glory of Harad. You are dismissed, Gimilzôr.”

“For glory, my lord!” Gimilzôr cried, his eyes lighting up with the promise of battle to come.

The talk of great plans for extending the reach of the Empire had made his heart quicken. Most of his experience had been with small village conflicts, and a part of him strongly desired to be in a great battle against the Men of the West, such as those of old that he had heard tell of, when the Dark Lord himself had led the people of the south into battle. Excited like a brash young soldier, as he had not been for many years, he saluted his superiors once again, turned on his heel and walked out. Without pausing, he left the brick building and headed for his encampment, to ready his men, sharpen his sword, and pray to his gods, so that he might be their tool in bringing death to Gondor.