[Child of the 7th Age]

A single Wainrider bearing a curved blade stood stiffly poised outside Ulrung's tent, snapping a sharp salute in greeting as the Easterling captain approached. No mere footsoldier, Janeer was one of the elite charioteers, a scion of an aristocratic family. "Sire, if I may speak," the sentinel nervously intoned.

"Aye," growled Ulrung in response, hastily returning the military salute, "speak now. For there will be little time for words once battle begins."

"It is only this. Your officers have heard the news. We are well pleased that you have been made second to Lord Angoroth. The fortunes of the Wainriders ride high. We will no longer bend our backs to the Balchoth or other riffraff, but can soon take our rightful place as masters of the Sea of Rhûn."

Ulrung gave no hint of approval at these words and countered gruffly, "Silence! Keep your thoughts to yourself. What is given can easily be taken away. This Angoroth, whatever or whoever he is, is no fool. He will countenance no disobedience or idle talk. Go now. Retire for the night but tell the others to hold their tongues, or I will slice them out of their mouths."

Ulrung turned abruptly and, pushing aside the lowered flap, disappeared inside the inky shadows of the tent. He threw himself into a chair beside the small table, yanked off his boots, and lit a single candle, placing his head between his hands while emitting a weary sigh. If truth be told, the same sentiments had already occurred to Ulrung. He too was sick of bending a knee to that Easterling cur, the leader of the Balchoth tribe, who had served as second in command to the great Lord. He was not sorry to see him fall. The Easterling confederation was united in its desire to see the Elves and Men of the West fall to ruin. Other than that, however, the tribes agreed on little, and Ulrung was no exception in this regard.

Ulrung did not know if Angorath was aware of all the jostlings for power that transpired between the differing tribes that hailed from the Sea of Rhûn. Their Lord was no fool. Perhaps, he knew exactly what he had done by elevating one of the lowly Wainriders to a position of power. Then, again, it was clear Angorath had greater goals on his mind and may not have been wholly cognizant of the complicated relations between the differing tribes and their leaders. To him, they were only tools to be employed.

If only he could hold on to his newly won position as chief commander under the Dark Master, the Wainriders could emerge victorious, with power and wealth untold, lording it over the other eastern tribes as well as the men of the west. If he failed..... But, no. He would not think of that. Failure meant death and dishonor, both for himself and those Wainriders who served under him. There must be no failure. Let them destroy Eregion, grind her and her filthy Elves into the ground. And if the Dwarves stood with them, they must also be swept aside.

Lying on his cot, just on the verge of falling asleep, Ulrung stopped for a moment to wonder. Why Eregion? Why is the Dark Lord so intent on striking a blow against Ost-in-Edhil? Is there something there he desires, or some reason he bears the fortified city a special grudge? It was not the only place in Middle-earth where he might want to gain a hold. Somewhere, underneath the great Lord's grim visage, Ulrung sensed an untold story, some reason for the smouldering anger that seemed to brew in Angorath's eyes. But what that tale might be, Ulrung had not the slightest idea.