Chapter One: The Fire Before the Storm

Chaos is cruel.

Disorder is death

Anarchy is a tumor on the face of Arda. Those spawned from its seed are naught but corruption to stripped from the diseased flesh.

Mordor was infested with the children of chaos before I arrived. Orcs and Men butchered each other for a lordless realm. Armies rotted across the Plains of Gorgoroth. Demons haunted the forests of Nurn. And each worm writhed and squirmed in the pile, fighting for a fleeting glimpse of the sun at the top of their mound of filth. This was the world that the Valar left after the War of Wrath, a world of struggle, of disorder, of death.

And as Mordor suffered without a master, the world suffered too without a lord. A lord with the will to demand order. A lord who could strip away the festering flesh and guide it back to health. A lord who could crush the servants of chaos under his iron heel.

A lord like me.

Mazuk: I

The stench of an unwashed horde seeped under the thin wood door that separated Mazuk from his raging audience. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, letting the miasma fill his blood with their manic energy. He let the air linger in his chest for a moment then slowly pushed the air out through clenched teeth. The Chieftain needed to keep his mind sharp and his body in constant tension. That was the only way to keep their attention and their energy focused on their leader and not each other's throats. He had practiced and perfected the kind of showmanship his people demanded on these occasions: the rousing speech, the contemptuous snarling, the display of his physical prowess, and the bloody execution for the finale. One wrong word or one sign of hesitation could send the entire hall into chaos or, even worse, lead to his premature removal from his office. Readying himself, he pressed his powerful hand against the door but was stopped from opening it by the presence of a spindly figure that appeared beside him.

"Chief," the hoarse voice seemed at odds with its whispery constraint, "Ya' know what happened with this bugger? What he did?"

"Yes." Mazuk forced no power into the word, though it still resonated with a baritone rumble.

"Ya' know it wasn't…" he was stopped by a sidelong glare from the chief's ember-red eyes, "Ya' already decided on the sentence, I'm guessin'?"

The Chief nodded.

"Good."

The Chief moved again to open the door, but a clammy hand on his bare shoulder stopped him.

"We need ta' talk." he sounded gravely serious, "I'll be at ya' place. We'll figure out our next move then. Put on a good show, Chief."

The hand released his shoulder and Mazuk took another breath before he moved. He was not in the mood for a trial. He was never in the mood for a trial. They put too much fire in his blood and not enough clarity in his head. He hated them, though they kept the young warriors happy and in line. A necessary inconvenience.

Mazuk drew in a final breath and threw himself through the door and onto a platform that overlooked the vast Great Hall of A'vykot. The scores of manically excited orcs that filled the hall were cast in harsh firelight, looking more like an army of chaotic demons and wraiths than living beings, though he knew that the most terrifying of these figures was himself. Mazuk stormed onto the center of the stage, lifting his voice into a dreadful roar that drowned out the din from the crazed crowd. He stood over seven feet tall, a dread deity looming over his worshipers. His face was contorted into a snarl and he wore a crown of Caragor fangs over his black braided hair. The firelight made his ashen skin gleam like copper and the many scars that covered his toned brawn stood out like crags on a plain of sharp dunes. Mazuk looked down and sneered. At his feet, an orc, an unimposing figure with an youthful face, was chained to the ground and his mouth was stuffed with a filthy rag.

"My sons, who am I?" Mazuk thundered, turning his attention to the crowd.

"MAZUK AR'UDARUG, THE HOLY CHIEF!"

"By that name I stand before you! We Uruks live by one Law! One Law that was given to me by the great A'vocyr himself!"

"FIGHT LIKE AN URUK!" the congregation shouted in unison, "KILL LIKE AN URUK! DIE LIKE AN URUK!"

"Good! That's my boys! I know that each and every one of you would live, fight, and die by that law, but this coward, this filth at my feet disobeyed it! While his brothers fought and died at West-Field, he fled from that band of spider-worshiping man-filth! Our crops burned! Our women and our broods were slaughtered! His brothers were butchered! Yet this red-blooded wretch has the gual to live! I ask you. what kind of death should this miserable pile of shrak get?"

"Flay 'im from the stones up!" and "Boil him alive and give us some shrak soup!" were among the answers that broke out of the storm of suggestions, though Mazuk pretended to take an interest in the muffled screams of the prisoner. He yanked the rag from his mouth, ripping out a few teeth along with it, and made a show of listening to the sniveling wretch.

"Please, mercy!" the prisoner sobbed, "I beg ya' Chief, mercy!"

"You hear that boys? He wants mercy. Any other night, I'd let all these true black-bloods have their way with you, but tonight I'm feeling merciful. I'll give you one last chance to prove your worth, maggot!"

Mazuk took an enormous battle-axe from its resting place and shattered the chains that held the prisoner in one mighty lob. The poor orc was terrified by his freedom. He, like every other orc born in the brood pits, heard the legends of the mighty Ar'udarug Mazuk. Mazuk who led his people out of the ruins of war and into their promised land of Ar'uzaan. Mazuk who communed with A'vocyr and spoke the holy words. Mazuk who slew a thousand men and a thousand elves in the Battle of Wrath and will do so again in the Last Battle before the Endless Night. Mazuk who he now had to fight for his life.

Someone in the crowd tossed a sword at the prisoner, who clambered to pick it up and shuffled into a defensive position. Mazuk raised his axe above his head and let out a vicious roar which was echoed by the blood-thirsty audience. The prisoner shrieked and charged blindly at the Chief, hoping to catch him off guard. Pathetic. He stepped out of the uruk's charge and bashed his face with the butt of his axe. The prisoner hit the ground like a sack and his nose was crushed into a bloody mess. This kid doesn't deserve this. Mazuk grabbed the uruk by the hair, dragged him to his feet, and threw him across the stage. Poor fool was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. He tossed his axe to the ground and stopped another of the orc's blind charges with an outstretched arm. He easily wrestled the prisoner to his knees and clenched his head between his powerful hands. The crowd before him billowed like a hive of infuriated insects. The poor bastards. So many generations had passed, yet the corruption of Morgoth still dominated their minds. The survivors he had dragged away from the ruins of Angband had been little more than mindless drones, living for nothing but the orders they were given. Some life and some free will had returned to them after so many years, but they were still dominated by the desire to please their master and their hunger for blood. At least they serve a kinder lord now.

"Death! Death! Death!" the crowd chanted, shaking their fists and blades in unison. Mazuk, steeling his mind from the screams of pain, began to twist and wrench the victim's head away from his shoulders. Even as his bones cracked and his muscles snapped, the orc kept screaming. He was finally silenced when his neck ripped and his head was torn clean from his body. A torrent of black blood poured from the stump, showering the front row in oily life. They lapped it up, becoming frenzied as they devoured his essence. Mazuk lifted the still-twitching head above him, drenching his face in black. He hated the savagery of it, though he had to admit, the blood tasted quite fine. He might have been the least barbaric orc in the hall, but he was still an orc who could enjoy the simple pleasures. After showering himself in the black rain, he tossed the head into the crowd, striking a young orc in the face. Before the boy even fit the ground, he was set upon by his fellows, tearing him apart for the change to claim the head.

"Let that be a lesson for you boys!" Mazuk pounded his chest and reached upwards, "The Law is unbreakable! A'vocyr will get his dues in battle or in a trail! Will you die like an Uruk on the battle field? Or will you die like this sod? Now feast by sons!"

Mazuk tossed the body into the crowd and turned back to the door before he had to watch the commanded feast. He slipped out of the hall and took in a gasp of the chill night air. Wiping a wad of blood out of his face and clearing the blood from his mind, Mazuk stalked away from the Great Hall. Even in the darkness, he could feel the Hall's shadow over him. It was the largest structure his orcs had ever built, standing three stories tall and as long and wide as any of the men-folk's great houses. It lacked any kind of artistry and was quite an ugly sight, but it was solid and it was their own. He recalled the dred glory of Angband, Morgoth's old fortress and the place of his birth. Its towers pierced the clouds and its gate could swallow a dragon whole. It was forged of cruel, rusted iron and fire bellowed out of its pits. It was beautiful in a terrible way, yet his people were nothing but slaves there. Everything was made for the glory of their god-king. They were treated with no more respect than the men-thralls enslaved during the wars. He was lucky. He was born with some free will and a body worthy of the that will. He managed by luck and will to earn enough respect to command legions. And thus he had been able to save his people from the Wrath.

Mazuk wandered up the path leading to his longhouse at the topmost peak of the sharp hill of A'vykot. How many years had it been since he had founded this city? Was it three-hundred, or was it closer to four? He glanced back at the township below him. Like the great hall at its center, it was ugly. Wooden shacks and stone huts were scattered randomly within the simple walls containing the chaos. The stables in the eastern district blew the stench of manure over the city. The moans and screams from the breeding huts in the western district were echoed and amplified by the surrounding canyon walls. Surely there were better ways to plan a city, but that was not the point. He let them carve their own path, lay their own groundwork. No thought, no planning, no cruel grand scheme. This was how his orcs were meant to live. Reveling in their own chaos.

Mazuk finally reached his home and fell into a bench in his front garden. He almost fell asleep in the waning moonlight when a familiar voice ripped him from his rest.

"Mazuk, I…Don't give me that look," A tall, gangly orc with a gaunt face and a rotten eye stood next him, "You knew I was going to wait here."

"I didn't forget, Xurug, I was just hoping that you had."

The other orc fell into the bench beside him and nursed his pronounced forehead.

"Bloody headache," Xurug sighed, "Makes this plannin' all the harder"

"Then let's get it over with. I've got a bed being warmed by she-orcs who I'd rather be spending my night with."

Xurug chuckled half-heartedly, "Don't I know… Well the fact is, we've lost most of West-Field."

"Not for long, I got those boys so riled up that they'll have it back by next nightfall."

"Yeah, but they're not goina' regrow the crops or rebirth the broods by next nightfall. West-Field was our breadbasket, and the Spider just ate all the bread. We've got to start planning an offensive to take some of their own bread."

"No." Even without the act, Mazuk's voice still rumbled with authority, "Give these orcs an inch and they'll make it a mile. I know what war can do to an orc."

"I was there too ya' know. Or have you forgotten who helped you when we evacuated and who helped you come up with that shrak-filled story about communin' with Morgo-cyr what's-'is-name A'vo-goth. What you need to understand is that the chiefs below ya' are goinga' rebel if ya' don't loosen the lead. There are three clans in West-Field, all of which are goinga' call for your head if you don't let them take the fight to the men-folk."

Mazuk wiped another glob of blood out of his hair and flung it into the dust. "I…Send them the word: they have one chance to prove that they can restrain themselves if they fight. They can go as far as the Ash-border, no further."

"Thank you, you're makin' the right call 'ere."

Mazuk stood up and turned towards his door. "I hope you're right, old friend."

"So do I," Xurug stood and turned back towards his own shack, "Get some rest Chief. I'll letcha' know what happens tomorrow night."

Mazuk, finally free of his duties as the Holy Chief of the Last Great Tribe, entered his home, poured two buckets of steaming hot water over his head, and fell to sleep beside his women just as the sun began to peek over the Last Desert.

Shelob: I

Some people claim that power is a curse. Some would take a life of mundane mediocrity over a life of godhood. Shelob never understood those people. Surely, they had never known what it was like to have the world at your fingertips. They had never felt the love and adoration of a thousand followers worshiping at their feet. They had never known the glee of playing judge, jury, and executioner. They could never imagine how much Shelob loved being a Goddess.

True, her subjects were primitive to say the least, but they were hers. Her temple was a cave adorned with inelegantly carved spiders and her own webs, but it was hers. The man that stood before her throne was nothing more than a commander of cave-dwelling savages, but his life was hers. And he had failed her.

"…and they came out of nowhere in the night! They slaughtered my men in their cots and had their way with the women we brought to farm before they gutted them. They split their children in two and hung their entrails from the trees! They…"

"They did all of this," Shelob's voice, sharp as knife and cold as a winter's night, silenced the man's rambling, "and you live to tell me? How?"

"I…I… I was up taking a piss outside the barn we used as a barracks. Me and a few other men saw them coming and…"

"And you ran?"

"N..not exactly…We wanted to warn the others, but it was too late. We only saw what happened from a distance."

Shelob's face didn't move. Her cold smile stayed frozen as she stood from her throne of webs and black stone. She knew the effect she had on mortals. The power of the contrast between her elegant, naked body and the nightmarish creature she could become at any moment. The captain stood entranced in awe at her beauty and terror, unable to flee as she strolled closer.

"I am your Goddess and you are my children," she let her voice carry about her chamber so that every one of her attendees could hear her judgment, "You, coward, let my sons die. You let my daughters be raped and gutted. You let my babes be slaughtered. You think you have escaped that painful death but you will know it a thousand times over."

With a single, sharp movement, her legs, those of her hidden form, pierced the man's shoulders. He screamed in pain as she drew him closer. She withdrew her fangs and drove them into his neck, forcing her venom into his veins. He was entwined in threads of shadow and he was hung, still living yet frozen as if dead, from the great web behind her seat of power. She reclined on her throne, casting her sharp black gaze across the chamber.

"You are dear to me, my children." Her voice was soft with warmth, yet her wrath was burning stronger by the moment, "I hunger for vengeance, and his judgment was but a morsel of what I need. Rally every sword. Rally every spear. Rally every man and woman strong enough to hold them and march on these beasts. Seed the earth with their blood. Feed upon their meat. And bring me their leader, alive, so that I may devour him. The time of the orc is over. The time of the Spiders is just beginning!"

Most people will never know the wrath a goddess feels over the slaughter of her people. Most will never know the venomous joy of seeing an army march for your vengeance. Shelob knew that feeling and she loved it. Even as she wrapped herself in robes of shadows and armor of shell, she could taste the black blood of her enemies. They would suffer for their transgressions, for Mordor was her domain and the Queen's Justice ruled absolutely.