The dead were buried and the company continued its march. As the sun sank in the sky, we finally reached the Black Gate. It was a massive stone wall, constructed between two mountains. As we neared, the stone wall slowly split in two and opened as two huge doors via some unseen mechanism.

The landscape became more bleak as we marched further into Mordor. Grass, what little grew, was thin and brown; trees were nonexistent except for gnarled, ugly trunks. I hated this place. Even if Mordor and Lord Sauron was our greatest ally against the hordes of Gondor and the Daemons, I hated this place. The bleakness, the savage orcs, the Eye continually watching all... and something utterly alien. Some almost visible shadow covers the Black Land, bending Men to Sauron's will. I haven't been told this, but I can tell. I can see it in men's faces, the occasional smiles or flashes of optimism gone.

The day after we entered the Black Land, we arrived at the camp, a sprawling mass of Men. Easterlings armed with pikes and axes, Variags of Khand with their horses, and the scarlet-armored Haradrim with their gigantic mûmakil milled about the maze of tents and people. As I looked for an unoccupied tent amongst all the general disorder, I saw something flying overhead, a Man-shaped thing draped in black robes riding some twisted black creature, an impossible combination of bird and beast that bore an uneasy resemblance to the mythical dragons. Was this the nameless horror of rumor, a Nazgûl?

After I picked out a tent, I inquired among the other soldiers as to when the next ritual of Lord Sauron took place. The Men I spoke with told me the worship was every third day, one being tonight. With the sun already low in the sky, it was to begin soon.

It was not purely reverence for Lord Sauron that moved me to become interested, though the Eye of Sauron, that phantasm which never sleeps, was all the proof of his power that I needed. There was a certain curiosity of mine, a desire to know more about the Necromancer, that drove me to attend this meeting. That vague shadow over Mordor made it seem unwise to speak very much about Lord Sauron, so the only way to obtain any knowledge was to attend the ritual.

The worship area was outside, a huge exposed rock being used a platform. Around the area were several statues carved out of the same dark gray stone. A wolf carving, three feet tall, stood perfectly still with bared fangs. Another carving stood nearby: the shape was a cruel mockery of a Man's, the leathery-looking wings that replaced arms repulsive to look at. Somehow most terrible of all, however, loomed the most Manlike of the statues. It stood eight feet tall, looking like a Man clad in armor and wielding a scepter.

I wondered what those idols could represent. Sauron seemed likely to be a jealous Lord, so how could the worship of other gods continue in his own land? I may have spent a great deal more time examining and theorizing about those hideous shapes, but then more Men began to arrive for the ritual of Sauron. Easterlings, Variags, and Haradrim arrived in masses, forming a vague semicircle facing the platform stone. My old conception of the cult of Sauron dissolved in that moment, from some close-knit group giving sacrifice to Lord Sauron to an army of faithful worshippers of the Necromancer, ready to kill or die in his name.

An aged Man walked onto the high place, draped in blue robes and using an iron staff as a walking stick. His hair and beard had already lost all color, he did not appear feeble as he walked onto the stage. The noisy crowd quieted as he walked before them.

"Behold Lord Sauron!" The magistrate raised his arms in the air, then lowered them. "Who dares oppose Lord Sauron? He is the greatest of all powers in Middle-Earth. He brings death to the arrogant hordes of Gondor; he works his wrath against the Daemons."

The priest of Sauron raised his staff into the air. His staff took on an unnatural light, a cold blue shine of no natural origin. He shouted several words in some alien tongue and a barren tree near the crowd burst aflame with red and orange tongues of fire. I stood watching in amazement. I had seen the magic of Sauron before, but this time was no less wondrous or unnatural than the last, maybe more so. I watched fixated as the flames reached upward against darkened sky.

The priest once again lifted his staff toward the sky. A harsh blue-white light exploded in front of the wizard with deafening thunder that left the ears ringing. Once the dust cleared, it was apparently that lightning struck the rock he stood on in front of him.

Both Azire's splitting of the statue and the combustion of the tree could be achieved through mortal trickery. Lightning was a force of nature, completely beyond the control of man. Indeed it was a mystery, and mysteries were the sphere of gods. My desire for knowledge, the same desire that led me to learn the horrible truth behind the gods I used to worship, drew me toward the mysterious Necromancer that held unbreakable sway over Mordor.

"Our god is a god of power!" yelled the man in blue. "In his name, you will bring the cowards of Gondor to their knees. However, Lord Sauron is a real god, and unlike the stone statues you once bowed before, he demands real sacrifices."

The crowd began to whisper as a party walked up beside him. Two were tall men in Easterling armor, holding their battle axes at their side. The third was an orc, its hands bound but its mouth shouting curses at the soldier and the crowd.

"In exchange for victory, over the enemy and over death, he demands blood!" The priest pulled from his robe a dagger, its polished blade and serrated edges all too visible against the darkening sky. "Lord Sauron, take this sacrifice!" He shouted an admonition in the strange tongue, and I joined the rest of the crowd and shouted it back.

The priest steadying the orc's head with one hand atop it, then in one swift motion the dagger sliced open its throat. The corpse fell to the ground, blood still flowing. The crowd went silent as the deed was done, but when the orc fell they began to cheer and yell all manner of things. I too was joyous, for I had just given a great sacrifice to Lord Sauron. The fact that an orc was dead mattered not; orcs were not Men, little more than living weapons and fodder for the Dark Lord's war machine.

The celebration quickly grew more chaotic. Variags brought out mead by the barrels and the true revelry began, a scene of disorder and fright so much that words are inadequate to convey the absolute chaos the camp fell into. Through the drinking and singing and brawling I forced my way toward the platform, half elated with the chaos and freedom, half terrified of it. When I reached the edge of the crowd, I saw the blue wizard that presided over the ritual leaving the disorder and retiring toward the tents.

"Wait!" I called out to him. He promptly stopped and turned around, looking at me. I felt a reverence for this old man, one who wields Sauron's magic like a warrior wields a sword. "Tell me," I implored him. "I want to know more about Lord Sauron."

"The secrets of the Dark Lord are many and ancient. To tell them all would take too long. Can you read?"

"Yes, the Easterling and Daemon letters."

He walked into a nearby tent. In a moment, he emerged with an ancient, battered green book he set into my waiting hands. "Read deeply."