Chapter 2

Mornaundumë went outside for a good venting of her anger. She ran to her black, brave stallion and drew her fingers roughly through the thick mane, cursing wildly. It was not Shagrat but she who would get the ultimate blame. Cirith Ungol had recently been given to her as her first trial. If she was sufficient enough at keeping out the enemies of Mordor from the watchtower she would be moved on to higher, better garrisons. But it was here, Ungol, where she had stumbled in her considerable rise to power and Mornaundumë knew what followed. She knew how quickly disgraced officers fell back to becoming just some more light entertainment to the troops or worse, an example to be made of for the Mordorian army. Mornaundumë beat her fists helplessly against her steed. The horse whinnied in sorrow for his master, feeling her fear and anger.

It was then when Mornaundumë could just taste the bitterness of defeat, when out of the ever darkening sky, a Fell Beast screeched at the commands of is master and came wheeling out of the sky, to swoop low round the tower of Ungol and land neatly outside its garrison.

The Nazgûl, one of the mighty Ringwraiths, a master of Mordor, stood up high in his stirrups sniffing the air, head flickering from side to side. Mornaundumë felt her horse grow impatient by her side. She hurriedly muttered snatches of the black speech to calm him and the stallion's initial fears subsided. Mornaundumë herself took a deep breath, and then gave her full attention to the Ringwraith so as to he could see her. The head paused its snake-like swaying and underneath the ragged black hood there came a sharp intake of breath.

It struck Mornaundumë odd then, that herself, an active commander from the haunted city, would find the local occupant that frightening up close and personal. Fear surrounded this Mordorian equivalent of a spy in the sky like a dark unseen vapour. It was this unspoken fear that these demonic Nazgûl cast about them that was keeping her in line and she bitterly knew and resigned herself to it. Mornaundumë hated that understanding; the hand that rested on the hilt of her sword lay quivering in a suppressed combination of uncertain emotions. But her fear overruled her anger and her sword never left its scabbard. The Black Rider, spoke to her in his piercing whistling screech.

'Commander of Minas Morgul...woman... make your report.'

For a moment, Mornaundumë thought she wouldn't have the strength to answer. But eventually, her precious pride pulled her through.

'From the beginning? A halfling as you know, has recently been taken captive along the Ephel Dúath of our western borders. He was immediately confiscated of all weapons, and is now imprisoned here in Ungol.'

Mornaundumë licked her dry lips before continuing, gazing upward she tried to meet the Nazgûl's stare,

'There is a halfling, I have reason to believe, that carries a certain 'revelation' of the War of the West with him. An elvish weapon, I have been told. Well, of course, I have had our prisoner searched for such an item, but...'

Suddenly Mornaundumë paused. At the mention of this certain 'revelation' the Nazgûl had gone very still. His rattling breathing had quickened. And before she had time to react, the Ringwraith in one fluid movement had dismounted his steed and was striding straight towards her, tattered robes billowing with every stride.

'Thou have the halfling imprisoned here? I have come to collect him...'

Mornaundumë lost the thread of her thought. The fear was coming at her again, and this time it was going to consume her. She took an involuntary step backwards. Trembling, she gritted her teeth as her hand inched toward to her sword.

'My Lord! Surely you would want...news of the results that were gathered from the prisoner's interrogation before you would take him away...'

''Ach! The Great Tower can gather all from the mind of him that needs to be known. Should it take even the slow torment of years, to get us our answers then so it shall be. But for thou, do thy service, woman of Mordor! Bring before me the prisoner, so my journey need not be wasted!'

It was pure terror that stopped Mornaundumë's mouth. Dumbly she nodded. Slowly she turned back towards Cirith Ungol, and in a last attempt to keep her pride, walked solemnly back into the garrison. Though she would have liked nothing better in that moment than to have run. Run out of Mordor, run away far into the west, to have run and run, and never have looked back.