Day 0 - Waiting
Ever since the Plague claimed its first victim a week ago, the leadership of Dol Guldur met every day, to plan how they would fight it.
Akhôrahil, the fifth Nazgûl and an able physician, slipped into the room and took his place at the table. Caring for victims of the plague kept him so busy, he was almost always late to these meetings.
Akhôrahil saw his Master at the head of the table, his face covered by a steel mask. For as long as they'd been in Dol Guldur, his Master kept his identity hidden. He concealed his face, spoke in a whisper, and forbade any of them to speak aloud any of the names he'd ever used. To the rest of the people in the fortress and the village below it, he was the Necromancer, a masked figure with no other name and no past.
His Master's gloved hands were steepled as he listened to a clerk giving a report. Akhôrahil turned his attention to the speaker.
"We finally figured out how the plague got into Dol Guldur. The first victim was a boy who worked in the stables. His duties included buying grain and produce from local farmers. The next two victims also went outside the fortress walls. One hunted deer in the forest, and the other was courting a girl in the village."
The man finished his report and got up to go. After he left the room and they bolted the door behind him, their Master pushed back his hood and removed the mask he always wore in public. The only people still in the room were Nazgûl. Sauron didn't need to conceal his face from his most powerful servants, who already knew who he was.
Akhôrahil spoke next. "It's possible the plague will infect everyone within these walls.
"Everyone who's mortal. I don't think the Nazgûl can get it," said Sauron.
Akhôrahil wasn't so sure. He wore a cloth over his face whenever he was working on the ward as a precaution against contagion.
"And I never get sick," said Sauron.
Akhôrahil thought about the fever that came through a few years ago. Sauron went to bed in the middle of the afternoon and didn't come downstairs at all the next day. But of course, I'm familiar with his habit of improving the truth, Akhôrahil thought.
"I heard that," said Sauron, glaring at him.
"What news of the plague can you tell us?" asked Khamûl.
"So many have fallen ill, we had to move the plague ward from the Infirmary to the Great Hall. But even though we have enough space now, we don't have enough healers to care for them," said Akhôrahil.
If they were going to cope, they would have to run the ward with the efficiency of a military operation. Akhôrahil stood before the Council and explained his plan. The healers were setting up apothecary's workbenches at regular intervals throughout the ward where they could prepare infusions, elixirs, and salves to fight the plague. Each workbench would be stocked with medicinal plants, a charcoal hearth for boiling and distilling, and all the tools of the herbalist's trade.
They were also setting up cupboards at central locations for the patients' linen. A large supply of sheets and nightshirts would be needed because Akhôrahil planned to have them burned after they were used.
"Make them as cheaply as possible. I'm the one who's paying for this. And if you think I'm rich, think again," said his Master.
Akhôrahil presented his best idea last. The healers would write down everything about a patient, fever, symptoms, fluids taken, medicines administered, and a general impression of how they're doing.
"That sounds like more work, not less," said Sauron.
"It's more up front, but it saves work in the end. Every shift change, it takes the healer a while to figure out how each patient is doing. But if there's a written record, they can learn everything there is to know about a patient in a few minutes," said Akhôrahil.
"Couldn't you just group all the patients with the same symptoms together? Then you'd know their condition based on their location in the ward," said Sauron.
There was a knock on the door, and the Chief of the Nazgûl entered the Council Chamber. He was tall, and the heavy wools and furs he wore made him look even bigger. He'd just come from Carn Dûm, his fortress in Angmar. In the far north, especially at high altitude, bare rock and ice persisted even in summer.
A steel crown sat upon his brow. This was the first time Akhôrahil had seen him wear one. Most of the Nazgûl had been kings in their own right, but their Chief, the younger brother of a king, became one himself only recently, when Sauron sent him into the far north to establish the Witch Realm of Angmar.
Sauron crossed the room and embraced him warmly.
"Er-Mûrazor! How long has it been, fifty years?" said Sauron.
"Closer to a hundred," said the Witch King.
"You're earlier than expected. You must have left the moment my summons reached you."
"Things were quiet in the north, so I was able to get away promptly."
Sauron sat down at the foot of the table, and motioned the Witch King to sit at his right hand.
"Tell me everything. How is your mission going?"
Khamûl, a gifted military tactician, moved to the foot of the table and sat with them. This just turned into a military strategy session. Maybe I can slip out unnoticed, thought Akhôrahil.
"Carn Dûm dominates the North. The three splinter realms of Arnor have fallen, vanquished by the Witch Realm of Angmar," the Witch King said. "Gondor no longer has a northern ally,"
"I did well when I made you the Witch King of Angmar," said Sauron.
"Mairon, may I ask a small favor from you, as a reward?"
Akhôrahil cringed. He couldn't believe the Witch King had called their Master by his given name, as if they were friends.
"I'd like to be known by my title from now on," said the Witch King.
"I should call you, 'The Witch King of Angmar'? That takes a long time to say."
"Angmar, then," said the Witch King.
"Done. Now tell me about your second mission. The one that's more secret, and more important," asked Sauron.
"I regret to report I've learned nothing. Isildur and his sons left Gondor carrying a great heirloom, but as far as I can tell, they never reached Arnor. There's no local story that tells what happened to them. They vanished somewhere along the way. There's no reason to think the heirloom ever made it to Arnor," said Angmar. [1]
"Sometime soon, I may have another mission for you," said Sauron. "The Great Plague devastated Osgiliath last year. The King of Gondor and both his sons died from it, along with half the city. Osgiliath was so weakened; their watch on Mordor was relaxed, and then abandoned.
"When I judge the time is right, I want you to capture Minas Ithil and occupy it. It controls the road leading into Mordor, and once we have that, we can regain control of Mordor itself.
"You're in hiding. Won't that draw attention to you?"
"Not if I play it right," said Sauron.
[1] At that moment, the Ring was in the Gladden Fields near Dol Guldur. It wouldn't be found for another 825 years.
