Prologue
Tûmûg surveyed the fortress of Khargûkor from the balcony of his great tower. The stronghold was blanketed in snow, and Tûmûg could see hundreds of soldiers drilling, countless human slaves carrying crates of supplies, and dozens of Caragors pacing in their enclosures. The wily beasts had not yet been tamed, but Tûmûg had recruited Tûmhorn Beast Slayer to remedy that situation. His old beastmaster, Goroth Fat Head, had been redeployed to Núrn. Tûmûg would miss the old glob, he was much more loyal than most of his other subordinates.
"Lord, there is a messenger from Fort Morn," a voice called from behind.
Tûmûg turned and saw Pûgrish, his seneschal. Pûgrish was a scrawny, dark green Orc dressed in finery. Behind him was a weary-looking Orc with a scroll in his hand. Tûmûg took one last glance at his domain before entering the tower. The messenger nodded subserviently before speaking in a whiny voice.
"Lord Tûmûg, there's been an uprising in Sharkhburz. It is being led by the filthy Gravewalker, and the Shriekers have given orders for a host to gather at Fort Morn to crush it. They think it is limited to the island, but they want you to commence an inspection to ensure the garrison here is loyal," the messenger said without pausing for breath.
Tûmûg was most disturbed by these developments. Of course he had heard rumors of the Gravewalker, a supposedly unkillable man from Udûn, but a full-scale insurrection was a blatant threat to all of Mordor. Goroth must have been dispatched to Núrn to join the host, he reflected. Although there were always schemers and traitors trying to advance their standing, Tûmûg doubted there was anyone within his garrison who held sympathies for the Gravewalker. He was well known to have killed many Orcs and Uruks, which made Tûmûg even more curious as to how he had managed to gain the loyalty of Sharkhburz in the first place.
"Let your master know I will immediately do as he commands," Tûmûg replied.
The messenger looked about ready to collapse after his journey, but immediately began scurrying to deliver his response.
"Give that Orc some grog before he travels, or he'll die of exhaustion," he said to Pûgrish, who went looking for the sawbones.
Grisha downed the mug of grog and gladly accepted another grog ration in a Caragor wineskin. He thanked the green-skinned seneschal before turning to his two guards, who looked quite annoyed at not being offered any grog. The lazy dûgs could wait until we reach Fort Morn, Grisha thought.
It was nearing nightfall as they reached the outpost before the mountain pass.
"Let's stop here and have some of the Caragor steaks we saw this morning," Grisha ordered his two guards as they walked into the outpost.
Strangely, there were no Uruks to be found. The dim embers of a campfire and muddled footprints in the snow were all that remained of the outpost's garrison.
"Eh, we want something to eat!" one of the guards shouted, but nobody responded.
Did they all go hunting? Grisha thought. He looked nervously about at the stone fortifications around them. Grisha suddenly realized how exposed they were, in an open area. One of the guards yelled out and fell to the ground with a crossbow bolt sticking out of his knee. Grisha looked up and saw a dozen figures on top of the fortifications, several of whom were carrying crossbows and javelins.
"Take them alive, we need sacrifices if we want to wake Tar Goroth!" shouted a slim Orc in a cloak.
Grisha recognized the Orc as Zog, the outpost leader.
"What foul treachery is this? I am on orders from the Nazgûl!" Grisha called to him in the vain hope the mention of Sauron's most able servants would dissuade these traitorous bastards.
"I heed masters no longer, for I have mastered the secrets of life and death," Zog calmly replied.
Several Orcs wearing cloaks lowered themselves via ropes and surrounded them wielding mean looking cudgels. The injured guard covered himself with his wooden shield while Grisha hid behind the other guard, a portly Uruk who now had his shield and spear drawn. A crossbow bolt thudded into the Uruk's shield, and the point had punched through. Grisha shivered as they backed up against a wall. Two Orcs advanced on them while three others kicked the injured guard's shield from his grasp and beat him into unconsciousness.
His guard suddenly lunged, knocking one of the frail Orcs to the ground. He quickly stabbed him in the chest before turning to face his enemies. A javelin hit him in the hip, and he nearly collapsed. An Orc slammed his club down on the guard's arm, causing him to recoil and drop his spear. Grisha kneeled, his guard following suit.
The Orcs quickly disarmed and bound them with rope cuffs. The unconscious guard was shaken awake and forced to drink the grog Grisha had taken from Khargûkor. Damn thieves, Grisha thought, aware his life was rapidly approaching its end. Their captors looted the corpse of their slain comrade before leading them away. Several minutes later they arrived at a hidden cave, within which was a burning campfire and a wooden handcart.
"What's going to happen to us?" Grisha asked.
"Shut them up," one of Zog's acolytes said, and soon the prisoners were gagged before being unceremoniously tossed into the cart. The acolytes quickly destroyed any evidence of their presence before leaving with the handcart, heading through the mountain pass into the plains of Gorgoroth.