The prison camp had once been Sakaban's own army encampment outside Minas-Elion Fortress. Now, its tattered tents and crude palisades served as cages for the three thousand captured hillfolk warriors.
As Ryan Eowenríel walked toward it, thoughts swirled within his mind. He did not know what words he could speak to men who, only a day ago, had been called monsters.
Yet the moment he set eyes upon them, his doubts began to fade—replaced by something deeper.
They were chained together by heavy iron links, unable to move freely, penned in like livestock. No blankets, no shelter. The northern wind bit to the bone, and they huddled close for warmth, their breath misting in the chill air.
Their eyes—those same eyes that had once gleamed with hatred and bloodlust—were now hollow and uncertain. Gone was the savagery. What remained was fear… and confusion.
Their fate now rested entirely in his hands.
When the hillfolk saw Ryan appear, there was no hiss of hatred, no curse.
Instead, to his surprise, many bowed their heads—and some even looked upon him with reverence.
Strange. Only yesterday, they had clashed like beasts. Blood had soaked the earth between them. And yet, here and now, he saw in their gaze something closer to worship.
Ryan stepped before a broad-shouldered man, speaking in the northern tongue.
"I see no hatred in your eyes," he said. "Tell me—why?"
The man stiffened, then dropped to his knees.
"Great warrior," he said, his voice trembling, "we revere you… because you slew the chieftain blessed by darkness. You conquered the unholy one. Such courage commands our respect."
Ryan frowned thoughtfully. "Tell me more."
"Yes, my lord."
The man spoke haltingly, explaining the truth of their people.
The hillfolk lived in lands so barren that they were forced to fight beasts for food. In such a world, strength was their only law. Every generation, the clans chose their High Chieftain—the "mountain lord"—by blood and battle. The strongest warrior would win, and the priests would "bless" him with the gift of the dark gods—curses that granted terrible power.
To the hillfolk, such a warrior was divine—half man, half myth.
Sakaban had been one of these.
But Ryan had slain him—openly, honorably, before their very eyes. The symbol of fear and divinity had fallen, and a new image had taken root in their hearts.
They did not hate Ryan. They admired him.
At last, Ryan understood why these people had fallen into darkness.
It was not wickedness—it was ignorance. They had been led astray by hunger, poverty, and superstition.
Still, that ignorance made them malleable. They needed no sermon—they would follow strength.
Ryan's gaze returned to the kneeling man. "What is your name?"
"Lord," the man replied, bowing deeply. "I am Sarrath, chieftain of the Blackstone Clan."
Ryan nodded. Then turned to his soldiers.
"Give them food," he said. "Return their clothing. And gather them all together—I have words to speak."
"Yes, my lord."
…..
When the hillfolk received food and clothing, confusion flickered across their faces. But not one refused.
In the harsh North, survival outweighed pride. Dignity could not warm the flesh, nor fill an empty stomach.
Soon, all three thousand captives were gathered on the open plain, bellies full for the first time in weeks.
Ryan climbed atop Sakaban's war chariot and stood high above them. His voice carried across the camp in the northern tongue—clear, commanding.
"Some of you know me. Some do not. But all of you saw me strike down Sakaban with your own eyes."
"Now, I ask you—who among you refuses to submit? Who bears hatred still? Who seeks vengeance for your fallen chieftain?"
A heavy silence fell.
The captives exchanged uncertain glances, as if wondering—is he asking us… or himself?
Ryan's eyes found Sarrath once more.
"Do you wish to avenge Sakaban?"
Sarrath paled and fell to his knees. "Never, my lord! I would not dare!"
Ryan nodded slightly. "Then tell me this—do you wish for freedom?"
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The captives stiffened, unsure whether to believe their ears.
Then, a single voice rose.
"Great Ryan Eowenríel," cried a broad man with braided hair, "tell us—what must we do to earn freedom? If we still have worth in your eyes, we will pay any price!"
Ryan turned toward him. "Your name?"
"I am Bathrun, chieftain of the Urom Clan. Your prisoner, lord. My life is yours to claim."
Ryan's eyes were calm. "You have no special worth to me," he said softly. "If I keep you, you will drain my food stores. If I release you, you may return to raiding. Either way—you are a risk."
"Then kill us!" Bathrun shouted without hesitation. "Among our kind, the victor holds the right to do as he pleases with the fallen—even to take our lives."
At those words, all eyes fixed upon Ryan. Some filled with defiance, others with fear—most with the desperate hope that he would not accept the offer.
Ryan's gaze softened.
"I will not kill you," he said quietly. "Because I know you have families—parents, wives, children—waiting for you to return.
I do not know how Sakaban called you to war, but I am not Sakaban."
"I am angered by the blood you have spilled, yes—but I also pity you. For you were not the true enemy."
Bathrun frowned. "We were the ones who declared war. How can we not be?"
Ryan's voice rose, firm as iron.
"No—you were not. The true enemies were hunger, poverty, and ignorance!"
"This barren land starved you. The cold drove you to theft and war. Your blindness made you prey to lies."
"If you had food, warmth, and peace—would you have followed Sakaban into slaughter?"
A hush fell.
The hillfolk stood still, minds spinning. Slowly, their faces changed. They pictured what he described—and knew, deep down, that it was true.
They had not fought for glory. They had fought because it was the only way to survive.
Ryan's voice thundered once more.
"Tell me—do you wish for food and warmth? Do you wish for peace and a life worth living? Do you wish to understand the truth behind your battles?"
"Answer me!"
Bathrun was the first to shout, his voice raw. "Yes! We do!"
"We do!" roared others in reply.
The crowd came alive, their despair replaced by something dangerously close to hope.
Ryan's expression softened.
"Then hear me. I will teach you to farm these lands. I will grant you soil that bears fruit. I will teach you right from wrong. And if I do all this—what will you give in return?"
The captives stared at one another, disbelief in their eyes.
Then Sarrath dropped to one knee. "We will serve you!" he shouted.
"We will serve you!" echoed others, louder and louder, until the air shook with their cries.
Bathrun stepped forward, raising his voice above all others.
"If you keep your word, lord Ryan—if you make truth of these promises—I swear upon my life and my blood, I will give you everything. My loyalty will be yours until death!"
Ryan smiled faintly. He drew Glamdring, the Sword of Kings, and raised it high so that its silver edge caught the dying light.
"Then hear my vow," he declared.
"I, Ryan Eowenríel, swear before the gods, before the mountains and rivers, and before my own honor—
I shall accept the fealty of these captives in truth. I shall teach them to till the soil, grant them fertile land, and treat them as my people.
I will never betray this oath."
As his words faded, Bathrun knelt low, pressing one fist to his chest.
"If you uphold your vow, my lord, then I—Bathrun of Urom—swear eternal fealty to Ryan Eowenríel and his descendants.
Even should my life be forfeit, my loyalty shall remain unbroken!"
Sarrath followed, then another, and another.
Within moments, three thousand hillfolk had dropped to one knee, their voices uniting into a thunderous oath that rolled across the plains like a storm:
"We swear fealty to Ryan Eowenríel!"
In that moment, an unseen power rippled through the air.
The bond took hold—the "Oath of Loyalty" awakening in their souls.
From that day forward, so long as Ryan did not break his own vow, these hillfolk would never betray him.
Not by blade, nor word, nor thought.
And thus, amid the ruins of war, the first seed of unity between the Dúnedain and the hill tribes was sown—
a fragile seed that, in time, would change the North forever.