The Hope of the Haradrim: The Fortress of Barad-Dur – March 16th
Zamaril, General of the Army of the Third Province of Harad, arrived at the tower of Bard-Dur at the third hour after sunrise, precisely as requested. His armies encamped to the south of the tower were in good hands with his chief lieutenant, El-Adahim, and he was prepared to receive the personal instructions of Lord Sauron the Great regarding the battle plans for the next stage of the war against the rebel army of the West. The final pieces were in motion, and all leaders needed to be of one mind to fulfill the indomitable will of the One Whose Eye Sees All.
Zamaril pulled up his steed at the long, steel bridge stretching from Barad-Dur to the plains of Gorgoroth, looking with disdain upon a large Black Uruk who approached him, menacingly. "Who goes there, and what be your reason for coming to Lugburz? Speak quickly!" the lumbering guard growled.
"I am Zamaril, General of the Third Army of the Haradrim," the rider said crisply. "I have a summons here from the Lord Sauron himself; hinder me at your own peril." He unrolled a small scroll with the mark of the Red Eye prominently displayed.
The Uruk guard snatched the scroll and scanned it and the rider up and down, finally chuckling. "I beg your pardon, your excellency. I should have reckoned you were a favorite of the Tower to approach the Forbidden Bridge so boldly. Welcome in, welcome in." He motioned to the large trolls holding fearsome halberds on either side of the entryway to step aside.
Without making eye contact with the guard, Zamaril pulled on the reigns to direct his horse to enter the fortress. "But a word, your excellency…" continued the Uruk, stepping in front of the Harad leader. "We 'foul creatures' will be fighting alongside your men against the filthy Tarks. Our blood is just as good as yours in this War, and I think you'll find the Dark Lord shares my views on the matter."
Averting his gaze, Zamaril spurred his horse to side-step the guard and begin the journey across the bridge. The Uruk roared with mocking laughter that even the sharp sounds of horse hooves echoing on the bridge could not drown out.
Built into the side of a craggy mountain, the fortress of Barad-Dur and the Tower of the Iron Crown, seat of the Lidless Eye, were not only terrifying wonders stunning all who beheld them but also visual reminders of the unassailable power of the Lord Sauron, greatest of all beings in Middle-Earth. Climbing impossibly high into the clouds, the teeth at the top of the pinnacle of the fotress were barely visible, yet still a foreboding menace on all within the shadow it cast. The strength of brick upon brick, stone upon stone, iron upon iron making up the foundations that supported the tower assaulted the senses of all who entered, reminding them to abandon all hope of resistance of the power that had erected this impregnable citadel.
The bridge stretching from the plains of Gorgoroth to Barad-dur was five miles in length, so Zamaril had plenty of time alone with his thoughts as he approached the city and a decisive audience with the Dark Lord whom few had seen and lived to tell the tale. Zamaril's mind drifted, as it often did, back to his tents, his wife and sons, and his daughter, Hatani, no doubt waking up to feed the young Mumakili even as he traveled this fateful overpass. His was a familiar story to anyone familiar with the history of the Haradrim; constantly pressed between the irrepressible power of Sauron and the inconstant resistance of the Men of Westernesse who had settled in Gondor, the men and women of Harad lived their lives longing for liberty to choose their own future for both children and community. For Zamaril's entire 40 years on Middle-Earth, the choice had been clear: Lord Sauron had the upper-hand, and the Haradrim chieftan and clan who satisfied His demands would stand the best chance of seeing their children live to old age. Zamaril held neither affection nor particular animus for the enemies of the Dark Lord. He responded to the summons to war out of a grim resignation to see the venal stratagems of Sauron accomplished in order to allow as many of his men as possible to return home and live out their days with their wives and children in as much peace as the powers who ruled them would allow. Zamaril had spent his days as chief of his province and general of their army negotiating with troll, orc, Nazgul and Black Numenorian alike, offering enough satisfaction to win grudging respect and enough cautious advocacy to win a small level of independence for his tribe. Today's journey was simply the next step in this life-long battle – albeit, the most significant step any member of his people had taken since Zamaril's father's own trek to Barad-dur more than half a decade earlier.
Upon finally reaching the gates of the city, Zamaril was again questioned, then finally admitted. He raised the hood of his cloak against the penetrating gazes of the miens of Balrogs and three-headed vulture-like creatures carved on the doors of the city and sculpted into its walls. He ignored the jeering looks from every face walking the streets of the first level of the fortress as he made his deliberate way down its stone pavements. Finally, seeing a man among the crowds of orc-folk, he called out, "You there! Can you direct me to the door of the Mouth? I am on an urgent errand from the Dark Lord."
"Surely, your excellency," said the soldier, the lower half of his face covered by a black cloth emblazoned with the pattern of a red-toothed smile. "Indeed, the Mouth of Sauron himself dispensed me on just such a mission, to find you and guide you to your entry point. Follow me."
As Zamaril surveyed the streets, he marveled to find Bard-Dur absent of all orc and troll filth that often polluted the camps of Sauron's armies on the plains of Gorgorath. He was glimpsing evidence of the relentless Mind that created and sustained this fortress and guided its inhabitants under one purpose – to dominate the world of men. Any disorder and chaos would be dealt with quickly and mercilessly. Leading soldiers from a land that had fallen under the Lord Sauron's sway, Zamaril well-knew Sauron's penchant for order, structure, and discipline; a nation willing to abide by his rules and answer his exorbitant demands received his favor and his provision, accordingly. Zamaril did not believe the trade was worth the price, but, again, alternatives to the arrangement were neither plentiful nor plausible.
Coming to a large wooden door on which the red-toothed smile was also etched, Zamaril dismounted, and, after giving careful instructions to his guide on how to stable his animal, he waited for the masked doorkeepers to provide him entry then stepped confidently into a dark throne room.
"Ah, Zamaril," said a voice from the shadows. A tall figure emerged, robed in dark clothes, wearing a two-prongedhorned edifice upon his head, and displaying long, reddened teeth jutting upwards from slavering jaws. "I am the Mouth of Sauron."
No words of welcome or greeting, simply a statement designed to inspire awe or perhaps reverence. Zamaril understood this was not a moment in which his own pride was worth considering, so he offered obeisance, kneeling before the imposing visage, and placing his curved sword in his palms upturned. "It is our honor to respond to the summons of the Lord Sauron and to consider the words of His Mouth as our sacred commands. My sword is at your command, my liege."
A soft, pleased intake of breath escaped the Mouth. "Your reputation as a commander proceeds you, Zamaril.," he intoned imperiously. "Your faithful service to the Lord Sauron and His chief lieutenant has not gone unnoticed. It is because of this that you are invited today to gain audience with The Great Giver of Gifts and One Who Sees All." The Mouth of Sauron gestured to a lounging couch draped in Haradrim finery, attended by an acolyte also wearing the mask of the red mouth. "Please, sit and take refreshment. We will ascend to the throne of Sauron within the next hour."
Suddenly, there was hammering at the outside door, accompanied by frenzied utterances Zamaril recognized as those common to the orc-kind. "What is it, slave?" demanded the Mouth, his voice dripping with peril.
"Your worship," trembled one of the door wardens. "There is an orc at the door named Shagrat from Minas Morgul who demands audience. We have tried to dissuade him, but he insists he has information you will want to know personally."
"For daring to interrupt me in my time with our honored guest, I will have both his life and yours as forfeit if this encounter is unfruitful" the Mouth stated emotionlessly. "Send in the Morgul filth."
Having heard of the contention between the Mouth of Sauron and the Witch-King of Angmar, Captain of the Nazgul in regard to the favor of their Dark Lord, Zamaril expected the disdain with which his host treated the arrival of a slave from the Nazgul's castle. He was, however, surprised that the Mouth of Sauron would allow his audience to be disrupted by such trifles. But, he remembered the rumors spreading through the armies camped now around Barad-Dur that the Witch-King had suffered an unexpected defeat in Pelennor Fields. No doubt this was part of a play by the Mouth of Sauron to usurp some of the power of his rival.
Two gatekeepers dragged in a tall but thinner Black Uruk, smelling strongly of blood and rot, and threw him at the feet of the Mouth of Sauron. The Mouth's thin lips curled derisively as he moved back slightly, "Speak quickly, cur, and I will make your death a quick one."
"A thousand pardons, your worship, but 'ear me! I come with news of spies, spies discovered on the Pass," the orc pleaded between ragged breaths. "See this cursed blade we stripped from 'im! And 'is dirty cloak!" He gestured to his captors, who laid before the Mouth of Sauron a blade Zamaril recognized as Numenorian in make and an elvish cloak. He smirked to himself to see the lieutenant of Sauron recoil from their presence.
"A spy at the Pass? One who eluded Shelob the Great?" the Mouth inquired, a rising anger in his voice. "Where is this spy – you captured him, surely you did not allow him to escape? You were commanded to bring all prisoners before the Lidless Eye for personal interrogation!"
"We captured 'im, your worship," Shagrat whined, "but 'e had a companion. Some kind of elf - I couldn't make 'im out clearly - but a warrior, and in my current state, the best I could do was run off to Lugburz with the booty. And, look!" with a panicked glance, the Uruk turned to the other gate-keeper. "Give 'is lordshhip the mithril shirt, for Grond's sake!"
The gatekeeper handed to the Mouth of Sauron a small shirt of glittering mail. Sauron's lieutenant turned the shirt over carefully. From deep within his throat, a noise of reluctant interest emerged. Then, he suddenly strode toward Shagrat and grabbed him by the neck. "Listen to me, Morgul Swine… you will tell me everything you know about this spy and his belongings or I will flay your flesh from your bones and leave you screaming for a merciful end in the Houses of Lamentations."
Seemingly forgotten in the commotion, Zamaril sipped on wine that had been provided for him as the terrified Uruk unfurled a tale of the discovery of a kind of half-dwarf-man in the tunnel of Cirith Ungol, having been sedated through a bite from the indomitable Shelob, a giant spider from bygone days who ceaselessly guarded those tunnels. Upon the strange intruder's capture and entry into the fortress of Minas Morgul, he had been stripped of his belongings, all of which Shagrat claimed to have brought to the Mouth of Sauron. After a fight erupted over which orc had jurisdiction of the prisoner and the items, Shagrat declared himself to be the lone survivor in the fortress. "If t'weren't for me, your worship, that nasty scum Gorbag and 'is kind would have killed the prisoner and eaten him, taking 'is treasures for their own, orders or no."
The Mouth of Sauron gave a short and bitter laugh. "Oh, I am sure you are entirely blameless in this matter, filth. A conflict that killed every soldier under your command was doubtless carried on without your bearing the faintest responsibility for it. What happened to the prisoner, scum? If you sacrificed so much to protect him, where is he?"
Now trembling, the imposing Uruk's voice became little more than a squeak. "Just as I was bringing him to your worship, a fierce warrior broke into the room where he was being kept. I didn't get a good look at 'im, but he had a bright sword… one of those Tarks, or maybe an Elf." Shagrat spit in derision. "The Warrior'd left the dwarf-man for the spider, but 'e didn't want us to have the booty. So, I picked up the belongings, every last item, and ran all the way here, even in my weakened condition."
The Mouth of Sauron stood in stunned silence. Slowly, he walked away from Shagrat, taking his seat on an ornate throne, adorned with teeth of various sizes and shapes, in the back of the hall. Zamaril recognized the tusks of his people's own Mumakil extending from the top of the throne, and he bit back the surge of resentment he felt over the good and useful animals that were likely slaughtered for this man's vainglory.
"You have come to report to me that, through your own incompetence and carelessness," the Mouth of Sauron began, in a soft yet deadly tone, "You lost a legion of orcs trying to protect a prisoner, whom you proceeded to lose to a SECOND spy whom you allowed to take possession of the entire fortress of Minas Morgul." The Mouth of Sauron began to laugh, with abandon, every clap of his laughter filled with hate and a promise of torture. As Shagrat shrank beneath this onslaught of cruel mirth, the Mouth of Sauron's voice changed to a tone of fierce rage as he continued. "You are without a doubt the most useless, ignorant, and rebellious slave I have ever encountered. I am, thus, not surprised that the Captain of the Nazgul selected you to lead this crucial effort to make safe the borders of our land. Have you anything else to tell me, slave?"
Shagrat glanced quickly around the room, looking for insight for where the killing blow would descend, thought Zamaril, grimly. "Oh yes, your worship. I can explain to your hunters what to look for in these spies. They can't have gone far, let me help in the effort to bring them to the Eye!"
The Mouth of Sauron rose from his throne and strode toward the cowering Uruk. "Now, you wish to help?" he demanded. "You, who have unleashed spies from the West on the land of your Master as he puts the pieces in place for the Final War that will end the accursed people of the West who persist in rebellion against the Almighty Darkness that graces the tower above our very heads? You desire to help?" In one fluid movement, before Zamaril could object, the Mouth of Sauron drew a dark blade from the folds of his robe and with a flash of black fire, he let fall the killing stroke, removing Shagrat's head from his body. The Mouth of Sauron looked over at Zamaril who had risen from his couch, challenging the Haradrim general to state an objection at his own peril. "General Zamaril… you wish to speak?"
"I only meant to inquire whether the wretch may have still held useful information, your worship," Zamaril said carefully but in his characteristically forthright manner. "I stood to offer to interrogate him further for you to attempt to harvest additional details to further our pursuit of these reported spies."
Satisfied with this answer, the Mouth of Sauron walked back to his throne. "The thought was well-reasoned, man of Harad, but it shows your unfamiliarity with this race of Uruks whom the Leader of the Nine unwisely chose to command at Minas Morgul. They are as ignorant as they are simple, as cowardly as they are inept." His visage contorted with a malicious grin. "I was able to divine in his soul that this wretch intended to make off with the mithril shirt, and it was only fear of the Great Eye that cowed him into coming before us and had nothing left to offer. Come!"
The Black Numenorian clapped his hands together and his acolytes sprang into action, preparing a belt for him to don, full of cruel weaponry and machinery, most of which were unfamiliar in size and shape to anything with which Zamaril was familiar. "Ere we ascend the tower, we will dispatch worthier servants to hunt for these futile spies," concluded the Mouth. "They will not have gone far into Mordor, and, likely as not, having retrieved his slave, this Elf Warrior returned the way he came. But, we will be sure of the truth of this matter before the morrow."
Zamaril glanced at the severed head of Shagrat as he prepared to follow his host down a stark corridor through which his acolytes were leading the way, carrying torches. Little did the Haradrim chieftan know it, but within the Uruk's now silenced brain was the one truth that might have raised suspicion in the Mind of the Dark One whose knowledge and power ruled this kingdom of iron and stone. For only Shagrat knew that, along with the spies, there had been "the Sneak": an emaciated halfling in ragged, dark clothes who had passed through the Pass of Cirith Ungol several times before - first, under the direction of Sauron Himself who believed the creature's lust for a Prize sought by the Black Hand might eventually lead His servants to the one who now bore it. Those tidings now sank into the forgotten depths of the stone foundations of Barad-dur in the dark blood trickling from Shagrat's skull.
"Come, general," the Mouth of Sauron said in a voice of soft exigency. "We now ascend to the great moment of your life, after which all else will seem emptiness. You will be brought before the Eye, into the Presence of Mairon, Lord of the Earth, and Keeper of the Power that brought men out of ignorance and on paths of both knowledge and freedom, Sauron the Magnificent. Make haste."