[Manôphazân]

Lan’kâsh emerged from his headquarters building precisely as the first edge of the morning sun breached the sandy horizon. Caught in its bloodstained rays, he looked like a bronze statue of some sinister underworld creature as he stood completely still, breathing in the last breath of the relatively cool night air. The temperature of the land about them was already rising, as if in anticipation of the heated activities to come.

In the increasing light, he could see Sergeant Benel had again efficiently fulfilled his duties. The thirty men assigned to the Harnen Crossing customs station stood at attention in a neat block of non-wavering military bearing. Most of them had originally came to the post thinking they had arrived at a place where the rules would be looser, but Lan’kâsh turned out to be a strict disciplinarian, and over several months he had beaten them into a fairly impressive unit. On this morning, he himself had changed into his good armor and put away the customs official jacket. He noted with satisfaction that none of his men were wearing theirs, either.

Behind his familiar group of soldiers stood an unexpected sight. More than 150 men stood at attention in two distinct groups. The first, nearly 100 swarthy Haradrim, were obviously experienced military fighters. Their armor and weapons were clean and sharp, so much so that growing sunlight glinted brightly off of them. The second group, on the other hand, looked to be nothing more than a convention of dirty farmers holding a variety of weapons, including pitchforks, hatchets, and at least one hoe.

The lieutenant turned to Sgt Benel and asked him quietly, “What are these settlers doing here?”

Sgt Benel, who was not tall, looked up at Lan’kâsh and shrugged. “You’ll have to ask that one over there.

The lieutenant looked up and recognized the scar-faced recruiter from the day before. He motioned for him to come over.

“Gimilzôr,” he said, “These must be the same draftees that you spoke of yesterday in the captain’s office.”

“Yes sir, they are,” answered Gimilzôr with a jack-o-lantern smile, “some of them, at least.”

“And why are they here?”

The scarred man continued grinning. “Along with my men, they are to form your company, lieutenant. It is an honor to serve” He snapped a crisp salute.

Lan’kâsh breathed quietly for several moments, forcing himself to relax. In his lengthy career he had led men of all sorts with a variety of expertise, and in his experience the absolute worst kind of man to have fighting beside you was a man who was untrained. Yesterday, the captain had said he would be given enough men to create an effective scouting force, but he had not been told that he would be anchored with a band of novices that had only recently been pressed into service.

He pointed to the neatly aligned soldiers. “Those men, they look good but can they fight? Have they fought? Or have they spent their careers scaring farmers into the Army?”

Gimilzôr nodded his head and said proudly, “They can fight alright, and they like it.” He pointed to the conscripts, who were now milling around. “And with the right leadership, those new boys will learn to like it, too.”

Lan’kâsh stood quietly again and at last said, “Then we’ll have to choose the right men to lead them. I’m sure there are some among our ranks that would be up to the challenge of putting these new rats into order.”