Aphar moved his horse to the front of the column. The creature was wild with fear; the whites of its eyes flashing; its mouth bloodied with the force its rider exerted to control it. Behind him came the twenty easterlings that had entered Angmar with their prince, two priests of Carn Dúm flanking either side of them, and behind them...behind them came the dead, hollow eyed shells that awaited their orders with the patience of eternity and the strength of the abyss.
Five hundred foot do not move quickly and it burnt the greater portion of the day's light just to move them into sight of Mor Maudhul. Yet none of the fighters of that camp gathered to watch the troop's passing. More likely they hid themselves lest the lidless eyes fix their gaze upon them and seek to add them to their number. They passed the tall towers in silence, the watching stones that grinned down upon them from above and passed onto the blasted, and pock-marked lands of the Malenhad. There a camp was struck for the prince and his body guard....for the rest, it mattered little whether they had shelter or not. The priests whispered to the Easterling prince of secret things and told of small settlements of Hillmen....thought to be hidden, but ripe for their picking. Aphar listened; this was a thing beyond all his experience, and he was no stranger to terror...but this went far beyond, and it was a heady vintage. On the morrow they would march south to a place called Tyrn Lhug and add the men, women and children of that place to their number.
His power was growing, as he had been promised. Aphar smiled.
