Year 1 - The Eve of Battle

Er-Mûrazor[1] climbed the spur of rock at the edge of the Cirith Gorgor, a gap in the Encircling Mountains and the only route through which a large force could enter Mordor.

He reached the peak of the ridge and looked north to the Plain of Dagorlad[2]. The plain was dotted with lights, the campfires of the enemy. Overnight, the camp had almost doubled in size, reaching further west than before, and almost touching the marshlands.

How had their forces grown so fast? Perhaps Elendil, the King of Gondor, had joined Gil-galad, High King of the Elves. If Men and Elves had combined forces, Mordor was in serious trouble.

Er-Mûrazor stood and stared for a time, then turned and clambered down the slope. He went directly to the Command tent, his personal quarters as well as the headquarters from which he directed the armies of Mordor.

A guard lifted the tent flap for him.

"Good evening, General. The others are inside, waiting for you."

Within the tent, his advisors clustered around a makeshift table covered with maps. An oil lamp hanging from the tent poles overhead threw light on scrolls depicting Udûn, Cirith Ungol, and Dagorlad were held unrolled with small sandbags at the corners. Lead tokens in the shape of foot soldiers, archers, and mounted swordsmen represented the armies belonging to each side, black for Mordor, grey for the Elvish forces. A senior tactician moved tokens from Udûn through the Gap into Dagorlad to show how Mordor's troops would fall upon the Enemy tomorrow.

They looked up when Er-Mûrazôr walked in and silent."

"I climbed the ridge just now and looked down on the enemy encampment. It's twice the size it was this morning. It appears the Men of the West have joined the forces of Gil-galad. I estimate their combined strength to be at least 100,000."

"And ours is 250,000. We still outnumber them," said the most junior of his captains.

"That's 250,000 semi-trained foot soldiers against 100,000 professional warriors. It's not good," said another.

"We*re starting from a position of weakness. How can we shift the balance? "asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"We have the high ground, that's got to be worth something," said a battle scarred warrior.

"There's marshland above Dagorlad. Can we split the Elvish forces in half and drive them into it?" asked a young lieutenant.

It was a shame Khamûl wasn't here. He was a gifted tactician, but was guarding the pass above Minas Ithil, western entrance into Mordor, just as Er-Mûrazor was defending the northern entrance.

A dispatch from Barad-dûr lay on the edge of the table. It hadn't been there when he left. Over the last few days, the dispatches had come more and more frequently, a measure of his Master's rising anxiety.

Er-Mûrazor broke the seal. The words were in his Master's careful handwriting, giving instructions on every aspect of the war. There was no detail so small that his Master was willing to delegate it to another. When Er-Mûrazor finished reading, he took the letter to the brazier. He meant to lay it on the coals, but on impulse, he put it with his personal papers instead. Hoping no one had noticed, he returned to the table.

Er-Mûrazor made his decision. The surest way to win a battle was to strike first.

"Before first light, we'll pour through the Gap onto Dagorlad and attack them while they sleep."

On the map, he showed his commanders where he wanted them to be at the start of the attack and what they should do once they were through it. The attack would begin hours from now.

Sometime past midnight, the oil lamps sputtered and died down. He dismissed his captains for the night and urged them to get a few hours' sleep.

After they left, he had a final look at the weapons he would be using tomorrow. His two-handed broadsword had been sharpened recently, but there was still a notch in the blade. It was an old weapon he'd used it in battle before.

He pulled his dagger from its sheath, a Morgul blade forged with sorcery, and deadly poisonous. Er-Mûrazor touched the symbol imprinted where the blade met the hilt, the hallmark of Mairon Artano, the High Smith. It was among his most prized possession because Mairon[3] had made it for him.

If he lay down now, he could get three or four hours of sleep. Er-Mûrazôr peeled off his outer garments and dropped them on a camp chair. He sat on the edge of his cot and pulled off his boots, then lay down in his shirt and hose. Most men would have stripped to the skin before going to bed, but Er-Mûrazôr had never done that, his natural modesty prevented it.

Gil-galad was out there now, on the plain of Dagorlad. It was possible to win this battle, but it required the Enemy to make a mistake. Several mistakes. Er-Mûrazor knew he might fall in battle tomorrow.[4] He didn't fear it, death in combat was an honorable end.

He stared into the darkness. The strangest regrets came to him. He'd never been with a woman. He didn't know why, he was the black-haired son of the twelfth king of Númenor. Either his athletic build or his high rank were enough to turn a girl's head. A marriage had been arranged for him once, but the political winds had shifted before the ceremony could take place.

Later, at a Yule banquet, a girl caught him alone. She had touched his cheek, and his hair, and her lips brushed against his. He hadn't kissed her back, but he hadn't pulled away, either. It had only lasted a moment, and it was the sum total of all the experience he had.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The battle of Dagorlad resulted in the loss of almost the entire army of Mordor. The remnants that survived fell back through the Gap into Udûn. The forces of Gil-galad pursued them and slaughtered most of the survivors, then pressed on an surrounded Barad-dûr itself.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Er-Mûrazor stood in a hallway deep within Barad-dûr, staring at the closed doors to the council chamber. It couldn't be put off any longer. He took a deep breath and stepped inside. Heads swivelled in his direction. There's the general who lost our army.

He drew himself to his full height with his chin lifted, and kept his eyes straight ahead. Earth, swallow me up.

People near the door squeezed aside to make a path for him. He shouldered between them to reach the foot of the table, where a map lay unrolled, its corners held down with weights. It showed Dagorlad, the scene of the disaster. He cringed.

Mairon's highest-ranking advisors and stewards occupied every place around the table. Minor officials, aides, and scribes stood against the walls behind them. Er-Mûrazor clenched his teeth. He'd rather stand before this company naked than explain how he'd lost the battle, but it couldn't be avoided, a generals was required to make reports.

Mairon sat at the head of the table. His reddish-brown hair hung over his face, concealing his features. He didn't invite Er-Mûrazor to sit.

Er-Mûrazor studied his Master. Mairon looked different than he did before he was killed. After Númenor was destroyed, he returned in a new body, but he was no longer beautiful. He could still shift shape, but the only forms he could take were monsters. In human form, the best he could be called was plain. It didn't matter, to Er-Mûrazor, Mairon would always be beautiful.

"Tar-Mairon… "

"Just tell me what happened." His Master looked at him, his face still, his eyes cold.

Er-Mûrazor described how the armies of Gil-galad and Elendil defeated them at Dagorlad. The survivors retreated into Udûn, where they should have been safe within Mordor's natural defences, but Gil-galad's forces followed and wiped them out.

His Master stood up and leaned on the table, his weight on his hands, fingers splayed, and the glint of gold. Er-Mûrazor dreaded whatever came next. At the very least, there would be screaming abuse, at worst, an order for his arrest. He held his breath and waited.

Without a reproach or even an acknowledgement, his Master turned on his heel and left. The door slammed shut behind him.

Er-Mûrazor stared at the door. The tension before the battle, the intensity of combat, the horror of their losses, it all came back to him at once. Anger rose in him like a living thing. He yanked open the door and ran after Mairon's retreating form.

"Don't you walk away from me!"

He caught up with his Master and seized him by the arm. Mairon tried to shake him off, but Er-Mûrazor slammed him against the wall. Er-Mûrazor screamed at Mairon, his nose an inch from his Master's.

"We were overwhelmed! There was nothing I could do!"

Mairon stared back, his eyes without fear. Er-Mûrazor tightened his grip. His thumbs sought out a nerve, high up under the arm, and dug in as hard as he could. Mairon gasped, and the pupils of his eyes narrowed into slits.

Unhand me.

The words rang in Er-Mûrazor's head, although Mairon never moved his lips. Er-Mûrazor released him and stepped back, still glaring. Mairon didn't meet his eye, he was looking at something behind them. Er-Mûrazor turned around. A crowd had formed in the hallway and stood motionless, watching them.

Mairon put a hand on his shoulder. "Come with me."

All the fight had gone out of him. He allowed himself to be led. Mairon took him into a tavern that was part of the dining hall, nearly empty in mid-afternoon, and steered him to a booth. "Wait here."

Mairon returned a minute later with two cups of wine and set one in front of Er-Mûrazor, red wine and citrus in the style of Númenor, his home. Mairon slid into the booth opposite, jostling his knee. Chills ran up his spine.

"Talk," said Mairon.

"I already gave you my report."

"Tell me everything else."

Er-Mûrazor looked into his wine cup, trying to frame his thoughts. He didn't speak right away, but when he did, the words spilled out unbidden, and wouldn't stop. Mairon sat and listened, and for the first time since they'd known each other, he didn't interrupt.


[1] Er-Mûrazor = The Black Prince, later known as the Witch King of Angmar

[2] Dagorlad = battlefield. Technically, it wasn't cold that until after the battle.

[3] Sauron

[4] Almost 2000 years later, Glorfindel would predict, "Not by the hand of man will he fall" but there's no reason to think Er-Mûrazor ever knew of the prophecy.