Ah, right, I knew something was missing last time… I do not own Lord of the Rings or its characters. This work is meant only as a tribute to J. R. R. Tolkien's genius. Or something like that.

(no, we're not missing a chapter, the last installment counts as ch 1, because ff .net)

Chapter II, Of Dark Lords and Darker Servants,

X-X-X-X-X

The rest of this building, whatever it was, seemed no different from 'my' room. The same dingy stone, looking ill-kept and frightfully old, the same old arches and uncanny lack of mortar.

Like the Incas. Quite like them. Fitted nicely and lasting for centuries.

But, I wasn't in South America, was I? It didn't seem likely.

Eventually the floor in front of me was interrupted not by a wall, but by a railing, the floor falling away beyond what my eye could see. The ceiling, however, continued as usual for at least as far as I could see.

The sound of voices, from below, distant, (how far did that drop go?), interrupted me.

Whoever was speaking sounded male, though beyond that I could not tell. Cautiously I approached the edge of the floor, concealing my hollowed frame behind the railing and looking down at the figures below.

"Yes, my lord, we'll make sure no one escapes these 'alls," And didn't that sound encouraging, "Or even approaches 'em in the 'irst place."

The speaker was clearly as much or more a mockery of humanity than I was, his face deformed and his head lacking all but a few strands of hair. Missing teeth, grime, and scars all over added to his menacing appearance.

The one spoken to wore a dark cloak, and I only saw his back, but with him, I assumed the gender, I felt a kindred spirit.

...Or something like that. He seemed much more trustworthy.

The foul creature departed, and his retreating gait struck me oddly. A singular word identifying him rose forth in my mind: Orc.

But not all orks looked like that, I knew. In some fantasy novels they were pig-like, or green, or both. And often larger than a man.

From here, though, the hooded figure seemed much taller, so I assumed the ork was of the shorter variety.

This was, undoubtedly, a Lord of the Rings orc. Unless my eyes deceived me.

Assuming they hadn't, that meant I was either watching some sort of make-up festival, or some creepy mad scientist had either bred or turned humans into that thing.

Freakin' freaky. Was that why my body was out of order and my eyesight was as motion-blurred as a really overdone video game?

"Status."

As expected, it wasn't that kind of cheesy development where I could just pull up a status screen and learn everything about myself. That would have been convenient.

Race: Frankenstein

Ability: None.

Titles: The Man Who Died to Right His Lunchpack.

Abnormal States: Recently Frankensteined.

Yup. That about sums it up, I think.

Movement caught my eye as the hooded figure suddenly turned towards me, his piercing gaze at once horrifying and… natural. With his fingers, not dissimilar to mine, he motioned for me come down.

That face though. How could I obey such an ugly thing? But how could I not?

Was it not natural? He'd said to go down. Why was I hesitating?

Silly.

How unlike me.

Before I was even aware of it, I'd leapt over the rail. The thirty feet passed in less than two seconds, my mind finally catching up as I crouched low to disburse the force from my fall, right hand touching the ground before me as I finally stilled.

Up close, my image of the man, or was it a man, before me changed little. Hallowed and partially transparent, like me.

Hello brother. Yes. That did sound right, somehow.

"I see you have awakened, Akhôrahil."

I struggled to find a response. And, when I did, the voice was not my own, and the words came slowly, "Yes."

Word, I guess. So lame. Shouldn't I at least gather information first?

"What… are we?"

Whatever I was, it was clear that he was was one too, and inclusive language like 'we' was more likely to get a response. See, aren't I a genius? Even great heroes don't have my skills.

"We are Kings."

Oh, so we're kings. Of kingdoms or chessboards, I wonder?

"Where then is my realm?" I asked, the vaguest hint of temper in my tone.

"Stolen." He, no, it, spat.

Then I am not a King at all.

"To take it back, The Master marshals his forces. Soon the traitors will burn and all realms will pay tribute to him."

So that's how it is. On a journey to retake my lost kingdom. Cool. Too bad I don't have one. Never did. Sorry, just

your average teen student here.

So, whoever this guy was, Freaky Face, yeah, Freaky Face was nuts.

How commensurately helpful. Truly.

Saying thanks for the info here seemed awkward, but leaving also seemed outrageously rude.

But asking for information from the clinically insane was ludicrous.

So, I just stood there like a perfect dolt. Just standing, staring at the elegant ceiling and commenting to myself about how dreary everything here seemed.

Somehow my earlier tension was gone, though I was in the dubious company of a frankenstein and no closer to escaping.

"What forces, against what traitors?" Yeah. Let's raise suspicions, so smart.

"The Master's hordes include all of the Races, and the traitors are everywhere. Ever stealing and dominating what is mine! I shall not forget the betrayal, ever. When I am avenged, when the dynasties of the betrayers are finished, only then shall I be at peace."

No offense, fellow creep, but you don't look like you'll ever be at peace.

"The Master…" I contemplated for a moment, "Then, as former kings-"

"True Kings!"

"As kings," I corrected easily, "Do we occupy official posts?"

He glared at me sternly, "When The Master grants you your new title, you shall know."

My further questioning of Freaky Face was interrupted by the appearance of seven more frankensteins.

Freaky Face seemed pleased as he gestured for us to follow him. At length, I did so, though reluctantly.

He led us from the room through several other ones, similar in make and model to the rest of the building. Finally, he brought us slowly up a winding staircase that seemed at least a couple hundred feet high, into a small room that overlooked the surrounding area.

What caught my attention, however, was not the landscape, though originally that should have been my foremost thought. Instead, what captured my attention was the roughly head-sized, perfectly spherical, crystal ball.

Freaky Face walked up to it reverently, speaking a single word, "Master."

In response, the orb seemed to light on fire, eventually settling into the admittedly unsettling visage of an eye. Or something approximating an eye. It was made of constant fire, and undoubtedly employed some form of witchcraft to hold its shape.

The eye seemed to speak, though eyes should not have such a skill, "The time has come. My forces gather, the Fortress is nearly ready. With you at their head, none shall stand against us. The blood of Númenor grows thin, the Elves leave for better shores, and the Dwarves care not. The age of Sauron has come, all shall fall before it, and Arda will be granted eternal Order beneath my scepter. The time is here! You shall take back your kingdoms, and be avenged."

Sauron. Arda. Numenor.

No mistake, someone had gone bonkers and pulled little ole me into their crazy reenactment or remake or whatever this was. Maybe I'd been frozen in carbonite for a while and this was the futuristic sense of humor at play?

Get a life people, playing pranks on poor dudes who just woke up after eons isn't cool.

Right. So, if they are nine freaks listening to a big fiery eye, that makes us the Nazgûl. If this is anything approaching a faithful retelling of Tolkien's masterpiece, we should become dark generals or some such?

No, no. You got it wrong, it's supposed to be Dark Generals. Much better.

"You shall be second only to me. This shall remain your base."

Told such, Freaky Face good-naturedly stepped back, basking in the glory of being the Dark Lord's second.

The next of us stepped forward, greeted by the eye, "The Easterling. Return to Dol Guldur. Keep the Elven King of Mirkwood busy, and keep watch for the Ring."

"Yes, Master." He bowed, and stepped behind mister second-in-command.

Again, one stepped forward, there strangely being no argument or confusion as to who should step first next. To me, it only confirmed that this was scripted.

"You shall take charge of the Black Gate. Keep watch over it and the plains of Dagorlad, and be ready for my call."

"You shall follow Khamûl to Dol Guldur."

"You shall search for news of the One Ring."

"You shall go to Dol Guldur."

"You shall take charge of Núrn, in the south of Mordor."

"You shall stay here with the Witch-King. Listen to his command."

Finally, my turn came. I presented myself before the eye, as the others had, but it, he, took a moment longer to pronounce my fate.

"You shall take charge of the Witch-King's finest. Listen to his command."

Well, better than 'Go to Dol Guldur.' Or was it? There at least I might meet Legolas.

But, well, if I was truly a Nazgul (Akhorahil?) then none of my favorite characters would respond very well to me. What a preposterous joke this was. I wished it would end soon.

At least one of the coolest characters was my direct boss. Yeah, Witch-King with his helmet on? Doesn't get any cooler than that. Movies gave him such a pathetic end though.

This was so stupid. A horrible dream. Or not. I remember dying. Or was that a dream too?

Better to focus on enjoying this little skit. If I was going to be a Dark General, I might as well savor it while it lasted. Instill some discipline into the orkish scum. Make a real army that would hold the line when Theoden charged in. Seriously, they were way too pathetic in that scene.

The flames flickered out, and the orange light of Sauron's eternal flame faded into the shadowed skies of Mordor.

Freaky Face, who I now understood to be the Witch-King, looked over us, "The Master's word is law. Go."

With that, the others filed out, though I remained. After-all, wasn't it easier just to ask my boss where my workplace was rather than look around like an idiot?

"You… Something is strange about you."

Uh, nope. Not at all, mister Witch-King. I'm 100% a normal Nazgul. No need to get suspicious.

"Those who are your finest… I do not know."

The Witch-King nodded almost imperceptibly, "And your armor was destroyed. Without it, you cannot truly touch the physical world. But fear not, The Master has, in his infinite wisdom, provided a new set. Come."

He led me out of what I was beginning to understand was the tower of Minas Morgul.

From there, we walked many meters through the drab castle, some of the time spent in the open air, but never outside the walls. The orkish sentries all bowed before the Witch-King as he passed by. We eventually came to a stop at what functioned as his personal office.

"The Master's craft has no equal. None other can make such a work." He pointed duly at the armor that sat on a rack in the corner.

I recognized it instantly, how could I not? It was the armor of a Nazgul, the most terrible of Sauron's servants. The cloak that went along with the set also hung there, specially enchanted by Sauron's will so that it could interact with both the Spirit and Physical Realms.

I slowly put on the armor, it fitting more perfectly than any glove ever could. It felt good to wear this. Empowering. As if there was nothing better.

And, truly, there was not. You see, as I learned, without special enhancements, nothing could touch me, or any inhabitant, of the Spirit-world. Thus, besides the other armors Sauron had made for his Black Riders, there was literally nothing I could wear.

Not that anything could beat this. It looked cool, was obviously tough, and felt better than any clothes I'd worn before.

"Your horse waits in the stable. To your new task I shall show you now."

X-X-X-X-X

To my new task he did show me.

Though, how should I put it, wasn't this setting a little too unbelievable?

"Choose. Which do you prefer?"

Wasn't this a little… RPGish?

Before me stood three groups. First, the heavy but well-balanced Uruk-hai of Mordor, a wee bit different from your Saruman style ones as far as gear was concerned but their utility could be inferred as equivalent. Second was the Dark Lord's equivalent of cavalry. Warg-riders. Third, Attack Trolls. Armored and absolutely massive, but a huge target and mentally retarded, they were obviously for attacking castles or other static defenses. The Rohirrim or even Gondor's armies would run absolute circles around them.

Scratch them off. I wasn't into trolls, though the sheer terror they naturally inspired would be amusing for a time.

The second choice was tempting for sure. A mobile strike force, wreaking havoc… But they offended my medieval sensibilities of a couched lance charge. Wolves, wargs, rather, were simply not built for such tactics. Frankly, in a large fight against a steady formation, they were worthless. Wargs likely couldn't be trained beyond accepting simple commands they had no problem with, like "eat him..." But I digress.

In the end, if they were just average infantrymen, the Witch-King wouldn't have shown them, right?

"The Uruk-hai." Really though, this whole pick your troops' attribute thing… Who thought this up? Cheesy mastermind who can't even properly be original.

The Leader of the Nazgûl pointed his hand to the ones I had chosen, "This is your Master now," He indicated myself, "Heed his command unto death."

"Heed his command unto death!" They shouted unanimously.

"Attend to your duties, Akhorahil, and be ever watchful, ever ready. The Master shall make his move soon. The Ring shall return to its true Master. Such is the fate of this world."

Well, sending him off without a reply would make me seem rude… "May the Darkness attend your path."

"And thine."

… Oh. My. Gosh. So Lame. 'May the Darkness attend your path'etic. That's what comes into your mind when you need a line to bid good-day to the Witch-King?! I sucked.

Hmm, hmm, on to more pressing matters, yes, more depressing matters… Wait! What's so depressing about being a Dark General in command of several hundred Uruks?

I just hoped they had their own quartermaster. I was so not drawing rations for these filth.

So, what's next, speech-making? Or would I just look that one stupid idiot from Star Wars who gives a supposedly motivational speech to already brainwashed troops. Genius.

I decided it would be pretty foolish of me to embar… that is, these loyal troops did not need to hear my glorious voice to be high in morale. They were the best, right?

Still, it's bad if I leave just like this, "Meet here tomorrow morning. Your training will begin then."

X-X-X-X

Even though I said training starts tomorrow, I had no idea what kind of training to do. We were at a mountain range, as I discovered through induction, so we could climb the cliff in forced-march mode.

Still, that felt more like a weed-out-the-weak session as compared to actual training.

But what could I actually teach these orks? I knew no more of swordsmanship than they, and don't even get started on bowmanship. I guess we could ask around about crossbows and get them some of those, or maybe work on some trial-and-error engineering projects.

The easiest thing would be to just have them run a few laps around the castle. Well, not around it, as that would include the mountain climbing exercise, but back and forth in front of it.

But Sauron didn't give me these guys so I could tell them to run back and forth and do jumping-jacks, now did he? I really didn't want to make him angry. Why? It didn't take a genius to realize that if this was anything approaching an accurate representation of LOTR I couldn't just walk into Rivendell and say to Elrond, "Hey, bro, I somehow got stuck in this 'ere Nazgul body. Mind if I stay here 'till I get better?"

Yeah, no.

If these guys were the best now, in a year they needed to be able to beat half the forces of Mirkwood, solo. Yeah, goals are important! Aim high, miss small!

Who was I kidding? These Uruks, even if they were part human, were brute beasts. Teaching them would be like getting a donkey to fly or a moose to hunt reindeer.

Flying, eh? Now there was an area where I had some skills others here didn't. General knowledge mostly, but, allowing myself half a decade, I should be able to build a motor, no? Only I wasn't a blacksmith and explaining what I wanted wouldn't be on the easy side. Lessee, a combustion chamber with holes in it in which pistons would be stuck, the energy of the burning fuel would push on them, they'd need to have springs so they'd go back and forth, and that linear motion would then be converted to rotational motion. That would spin a wheel, which would spin another wheel, or not, depending how this motor fit into the plane, spinning a propeller, which was basically just a bunch of small wings.

But, because guns and bombs weren't a thing - I needed to go see Sarumaun the Powder-maun - this plane would only be useful for reconnaissance.

Which would be fine, really. Who wouldn't be impressed by a flying machine?

Still, we first needed oil, which I had no idea how to refine into petrol, meaning what the heck was I going to burn?

...In the first place, there's no guarantee that oil is even a thing. If Tolkien didn't include it in this world, I'm screwed.

Wrong. Because this isn't the real thing anyway, obviously that's impossible. Which means this is the real world, highly unlikely, and so there's oil, or this is somebody's virtual reality joke, in which case I doubt the designers thought to include every little thing. Like crude.

Which still leaves me crying me heart out with no way to fly.

Bad. Naughty. Evil.

Even if oil did exist, unless it conveniently spurted out of the ground in the middle of Mordor, I had no way to get it.

Back to the metaphorical drawing board with my imaginary brain. Yeah. Nazgul are ghosts, not really physical, so I had no brain. How could I even think? Stop being so materialist.

Training. Training Uruks. Training Uruks so they can kill my favorite characters. Truly this sucked.

And my least favorite ones. Slaughtering Frodo would be my pleasure.

Still, I didn't need an army for that. I could just knock on his door and stick a Morgul Blade in his gut. Or could I? Nazgul were immortal, well, they just weren't alive, but Frodo was a Hobbit. He had a start day, and an end day.

And, sad as it was, I didn't know the year. Even if someone told me 'it's TA such-and-so' I wouldn't be able to really interpret that meaningfully.

Training. Yes, training, what do normal people train for?

Well, sports would be the first thing, I guess. You know, Olympics, varsity, college teams going head-to-head, and pro. They all trained really hard. Army guys trained too, probably harder. And, as any small-minded person could tell, I was looking to train an army.

Basically, what do sports teams do to get ready? Let's look at football. First, they get in shape. No issues there. Second, you cement their team spirit, make sure they know who their teammates are. Know thyself. Then, they do some basic stuff, formulate their main strategy, 'are we a passing team or a running team?'. Finally, before the game against another team, they examine the enemy. Know thy enemy. Then, they'd have some guys play as if they're the enemy in practice, give the team some mock-experience.

Walla. There you go, you win. How? Get ready with teamwork, gather intelligence, know your strengths and your enemy's play style, practice, and go win.

Now you're thinking like a Dark General.

The Uruks were in shape, they had a general idea that they were fighting together against the west for Sauron, but they had no concept of their enemy. They were strong and loyal, but as yet untested. Or, at least, that was my impression.

Ork casualties were on the high side unless they totally overwhelmed the enemy, and even then, the frontline Orks died and the remainder killed maybe a couple guys max.

Not exactly veteran troops, no? We'd have to get these guys in serious shape. No more twenty Uruks vs. one Boromir/Aragorn and the Uruks lose. That's pathetic. Horrible. Marvelously bad results for such good odds. Just bad, man, couldn't they get it together?

Maybe recruiting some Haradrim would be better.

But, well, this is what I've got for now. Best to just live with it. Or whatever my existence could be called. Not quite living, since I was a Nazgul.

X-X-X-X-X

With my heart now steadfast in its determination, I surveyed my troops from atop my steed – an extremely well-bred horse that was not affected by the Black Breath, or frightened by the dark presence of a Nazgul.

The gear was the first thing to adjust. Swords were fine and good for going up ladders and fighting on the wall, but I wanted a force that would work best on the plain. Tightly-knit so that they would not have room to swing slabs of iron. The pike-square was my aim. An independent force that could simply stand in its place and withstand the fury of the Rohirrim.

Five pikemen deep with spears increasing in length to compensate and furnish my army with a wall of poked steel. Directly in the center would be myself, giving orders from atop my steed, and the space around me would be filled with archers and crossbowmen, musketeers were the eventual goal.

"Lay down your weapons."

The Uruks did so, though with some slight confusion in their expressions.

"First line, step forward forty paces." There were 25 rows of Uruks, each one 100 long. It was certainly well organized.

"Second, third, fourth, and fifth lines, forty paces forward."

Once everyone had finished, I nodded, "Row six, line up perpendicular to line one to their right side."

"Row seven, to the left."

There was some confusion on what to do, but with a helpful demonstration from myself, rows 6 and 7 found their places easily enough. Really, I couldn't complain, they were doing quite well.

"Row eight, line up in front of six, nine in front of seven, going on, one line at a time, until both the right and left flanks are five deep."

"Even lines up to line fourteen will be on the right, odd lines up to fifteen will be on the left."

This would leave us with four five-by-five corners that needed to be filled. Rather convenient, no?

"Line sixteen, split into four groups and stand at the corners," I rode over and signaled the dividing point of the groups, indicating where each should go.

"Lines seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and twenty, go into the square."

"Lines twenty-one through twenty-five, step forward until you come abreast with the corner groups."

Again, the was some small amount of positioning error, but from within the square, I straightened things out.

"Lines twenty-one through twenty-five, face the outside."

With that, the square was complete. It was a bit loose, however. We needed a tight formation.

"Tighten! Square!"

Cue zero helpful responses.

"Shorten the distance between you and your fellows and step back to compensate."

...The Uruks were burly and loyal, but hardly great thinkers. Getting them to loosen and tighten on command took enough of the day, that is to say, the whole day, that I dismissed them until the morrow.

X-X-X-X

Swords were versatile and easy to comprehend at a basic level, spears were incredibly cheap and, of all weapons, the most suited to formations. Halberds were, in essence, more complex spears that permitted either chopping or hooking, or both. Maces were simple, a lump of metal on the end of a short cylinder, they were supremely efficient merely because of their pure bluntness. Swords, axes, spears, halberds, arrows, they all relied on sharpness.

Maces, however, never grew blunt, if only because they never claimed to be sharp.

Thus, as an untiring undead that could fight for days, maces (and other blunt weapons) were the sensible choice.

I hadn't ever really thought about why the Witch-King used a flail, so caught was I by how impressive a figure he cut, but the guy was actually quite a thinker.

Takes one to know one. Or so they say.

Obtaining my newest choice in weaponry was as easy as finding the armory, which wasn't entirely complex. It was, however, rather on the humiliating side. Having to ask orcs for directions was impossibly embarrassing.

The all-metal mace felt light and comfortable in my hand, which I admittedly found rather disturbing.

Just how heavy was this thing?

It surely wasn't just a pound or two.

I'd surely love to give someone a pounding or two, though.

But… don't try this at home, kids, someone might get hurt.

Who even cared if an ork or two kicked the bucket anyway?

Yeah, seriously, unless the Witch-King was going to spar with me, we were down to smashing up orks.

Or, soberingly, getting beat up by orks. I had all of zero experience with any metal weapon, without even mentioning my lack of aptitude with a mace.

Still, how hard could it possibly be? It was just a stick of metal capped by a ball.

The guard orcs weren't stupid enough to give me any trouble as I left. Sometimes it payed to be a Dark General.

End Chapter 2

Author's Note: Here's chapter two, finally, thanks for waiting patiently after that monstrously long prologue (sarcasm). Anyway, let me know what you think. Leave guesses, suggestions, but know that I am the author. Just because I reject your notions or refuse to offer anything beyond cryptic answers doesn't mean I hate you.

Thanks for reading! Please feel free to review.