Letters from Dol Guldur
Challenge: Threats
Minas Morgul, Year 2941 of the Third Age
Shortly before the White Council attacked Dol Guldur and Sauron fled in secret to Mordor...
There were Nine who had rejoiced in Sauron's defeat, for at last, they thought, they were free of His tyranny. After the downfall of their Master, some of their number journeyed to deserts of the South; others to the broad river plains of the East; and a few went to the steppes of the North. — "The Triumph of The Shadow," The Circles Vol. 1, Chapter 39
The hexagonal chamber was large, its stone walls plastered and painted a soft shade of ivory; a border of raised vines trailed along the top of the well-appointed walls. Despite the paint and plaster, the famed luminosity of Minas Morgul shone through, softly illuminating the ivory walls with the subtle glow of imprisoned moonbeams. The domed ceiling was painted the colors of surf and sky and featured scenes of ocean sprites splashing and playing among the turquoise waves. Tall, arched windows looked out over the Morgul Vale, which was dusted in a light covering of snow and bathed in moonlight. A fire crackled merrily in the large hearth, and although it lessened the bite of winter, it did little to ward away the preternatural chill which hung over the chamber. Despite the mild climate of Ithilien, the Morgul Vale had a tendency to be unseasonably cool. Still, even in the most bitter of winters, not a single blossom in the poppy meadows or the royal gardens ever wilted, for the arts of sorcery allowed the flowers - and many other living things - to live long past their season.
Tapestries upon the walls depicted scenes of mighty ships with sails as white as snowdrifts; a lush, mountainous landscape surrounded by the waters of the crystal sea; and bucolic scenes of shepherds watching their flocks in the rolling green fields. When one were to gaze overlong upon these works of textile art, a peculiar feeling would come over the beholder, and he would smell the tang of salt in the air, hear the cries of the gulls in the distance, and see hazy visions of an island paradise from ages past…
An ornate desk sat to one side of the chamber, and a figure, kingly and brooding, sat in an ornately carved chair of mahogany, reading a letter in the dim light cast by a silver candelabra. His hair was as dark as the ebony and silver device which adorned his standard, and his eyes were the color of the shimmering sea. Tall he was, and handsome; his regal bearing brought to mind the grandeur of ancient days, a kingdom lost beneath the roiling sea. His muscular form was draped in kingly robes of midnight blue brocaded with thread-of-gold and thread-of-silver and adorned with precious gems; a long, sweeping mantle of snowy ermine and black velvet was held about his shoulders with a brooch in the shape of a crescent moon; a silver crown adorned with sparkling diamonds sat atop his head. A golden band too intricately designed to be wrought by the hand of any Man rested upon his finger. The Ring resembled a circle of leafy vines which twined around a large diamond of extraordinary brilliance; the adamant resembled a fiery white star, a searing rainbow of colors reflecting from crystalline facets mysterious and enchanting.
Another man of similar appearance sat in the chair in front of the desk, a wine goblet of finest crystal held in his pale hand. Though there were many bejeweled rings upon his fingers, an icy blue opal cacabon set within an intricate silver band seemed to stand out from all the rest. The undulating design of the band was reminiscent of ocean waves, and the cloudy surface of the opal was an enchanted pool swirling with tiny flecks of red and gold. The man's style of dress was almost as fine as the King's, though instead of possessing the reserved, stately grace of the monarch, the garments of this lord imparted a rather foppish air. He wore a long tunic of bright emerald velvet adorned with many knightly chains and bejeweled medallions; a short mantle of fox furs was draped around his shoulders, the bushy tails dangling over his fine cloak of umber. A jaunty green cap rested at a sideways angle atop his head, sporting a ridiculously large ostrich plume from Far Harad which bobbed with the slightest movement. If he and the King were both birds, the King would be one of the Great Eagles, and he would be a strutting peacock.
A pair of servants hovered in the shadows, ready to fill their master's goblets with more wine lest the two high lords suffer from want of the fruit of the vine. Given the King's love of drink and the fact that his foppish friend was, in all honesty, a hopeless sot, such a predicament would be a dire one indeed... especially for the servants, who would bear the brunt of their lords' anger. Clad in robes the color of midnight, their hoods hanging low over their bowed heads, the two servants resembled phantoms more than they did pages. Perhaps they were indeed wraiths, tortured and accursed, their spirits bound to bodies whose life had been leeched away by the poison of the Morgul Blade. Or maybe they were just reanimated corpses, driven by the will of their masters and kept preserved by dark magicks lest the stench of rot upset guests in the King's palace. Or perhaps their identities had a much more mundane origin: living men who worked for the Nazgûl to support their families in the lower sections of the city. One never knew about those in the Order of the Silent Servants. Be they living or undead, they were as quiet as the spectre of Death, and just as efficient.
The mood of the man clad in emerald green and fox fur seemed perturbed and restless, as though some great matter weighed heavily upon his mind, and he nursed his goblet like a babe at its mother's breast. Ever did he look towards his King, whose noble face was contorted into a scowl as he studied the missive before him. This was the third or fourth time that the King had read the letter, and with each rereading his mood became even more foul. The air in the chamber seemed thick and heavy, weighted down with a blackness not seen by the eye but felt most acutely by the spirit. Several times did the lord in green open his mouth to speak, but hesitated, licking his pale, dry lips nervously. At last, after much deliberation, he cleared his throat, the noise resounding like thunder in the quiet chamber.
"My lord, do you think it prudent not to respond to His summons?" The voice was tense, hesitant, edged with fear. "This is the third such missive that we have received from Dol Guldur this winter, and its tone is the most urgent yet." The man nervously rubbed the opal cacabon with the pad of his thumb; stroking his Ring always gave him a feeling of tranquility. "Three missives, my lord... Three is a number of great portent. I fear there will not be a fourth letter, only the most terrible of retribution."
"Lord Udu, for almost three thousand years, I have been answering His missives with the briefest of replies, or none at all. A letter from Dol Guldur is as annoying as the constant buzzing of a horsefly. It is my earnest hope that giant spiders overrun the place, and fill the halls of our illustrious Master with reeking offal." The King snorted derisively, his gaze flicking up to stare at his confidant. The Seventh Nazgûl was one of the Morgul Lord's closest companions; their friendship dated back to the Second Age and had begun on a land which now lay within the domain of Ulmo. The King put great trust in Udu, and he was often quite candid in his conversations with the Seventh, sharing confidences and complaints with him that he did not share with any of the other Nazgûl.
"But, my lord, this is a direct command from our Master," Udu replied, too upset even to chuckle at the image of Dol Guldur teeming with spiders as large as horses. "He insists that we travel to Mirkwood. He urges us to come as quickly as we can, for He says that there are vital matters which He must discuss with us in person. We must go to Him as soon as possible…" The wraith's voice became strangely singsong and his gray eyes glazed over, as though the letter penned in Sauron's hand had bewitched him.
"Lord Udu, come to your senses," the King commanded brusquely, rising to his feet to glare down at the Seventh Nazgûl. "You act as though you are about to fall into a trance and run wildly through the city like one of the walking dead, your arms outstretched and your lips muttering gibberish."
"My lord, forgive me." The spell broken, Udu wiped a shaky hand across his brow and downed his goblet in one swallow. Almost instantly, a Silent Servant was by his side, refilling his cup. "As I read that letter, I heard His voice once again in my mind, compelling me to do His bidding."
"Though Sauron is far away in His forest tower, He is still just as dangerous as He would be if He brought an army before the gates of Minas Morgul," the King stated dourly as he began pacing before the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "Try to resist His influence! Remember that He cannot fully command our minds unless He is wearing the Ruling Ring, and that little golden band has been lost to time."
"My lord, I…" Udu drank from his goblet like a dying man in the desert drinks water from an oasis. "Yesterday I had a dream where the city was in flames. All around me were the anguished moans of dying men, the screams of women as they were raped by enemy soldiers, the frenzied cries of wounded horses left mortally wounded and masterless, and the harsh squawking of carrion birds as they fought over the feast laid out before them. The air was filled with the stench of smoke and blood and death. Yet I could do nothing... I was bound in chains, powerless. Someone had taken my Ring, and all I could do was watch helplessly as everything I knew was destroyed." He felt tears beginning to sting his eyes and looked down into the crimson pool within his cup. 'Twould do no good for his King to see him weeping.
The King had stopped his incessant pacing to listen intently to Udu's dream. "My friend, that was indeed a terrible nightmare!" His deep voice was filled with sympathy. "Yet you have always been plagued by dreams of dire portent, horrible fantasies in which you see your own death. You worry needlessly, my friend; your evil dream was just that - a dream - and has naught to do with this missive from Dol Guldur." The King paused, his strained face relaxing into a smile. "Besides, despite being a Númenórean of royal blood, your foresight has always been notoriously incorrect." He chuckled good-naturedly at his friend.
"Let us hope that it remains so." Udu laughed weakly as he downed another goblet. Again the Silent Servant was quickly by his side to fill his cup up to the brim. How many goblets had he consumed? Five, six, seven? He could not remember. Ah, the benefits of immortality. A man could drink as much as he liked and pleasure his mistress from the gloaming until the wee hours of dawn. Unfortunately, happiness was not always included in the bargain...
The King paused for a moment to gaze outside at the peaceful snow-covered valley below, the Morgulduin glinting in the moonlight like a satin ribbon of thread-of-silver. In truth, he was far more concerned about Udu's dream than he let on. For some time, a darkness had weighed upon his heart, but he tried to ignore it, blaming it on the responsibilities of rule and the heavy weight of the crown. Whenever Sauron stirred, the Lord of the Nazgûl felt himself growing anxious and found that his thoughts turned towards matters of defense against the threat which lurked in Mirkwood. For centuries, the King had maintained a delicate balance of freedom and fidelity. Though he always had been civil and courteous in his dealings with his old Master, and never allied himself with Sauron's enemies, still the Morgul Lord wanted to be the ruler of his own kingdom and the lord of his own domain instead of just another one of the Dark Lord's many vassals.
Besides desiring to retain a semblance of freedom, or at least deceive himself with the illusion of independence, the King harbored a bitter resentment towards the Dark Lord dating back to the Second Age. Sauron had promised the King the kingdom which would have rightfully been his had a certain unscrupulous monarch not changed the laws of succession so that his daughter might rule as queen. His mind filled with dreams of kingship, the young Númenórean prince had eagerly listened to Sauron's council and accepted a powerful Ring as token of his allegiance. Yet the prince would never sit upon the throne in Armenelos, the sceptre of kingship resting atop his lap. In fact, the faithless Maia was responsible for the downfall of his kingdom and the deaths of thousands of his countrymen. True, Sauron had never intended for Númenor to perish under the waves, but the Morgul Lord still blamed his Master for the destruction of the land and the people which he had once held dear.
"I thought after His defeat at the Battle of the Last Alliance, we were finally done with Him," the King spoke at last, his words filled with the bitterness of the ages. He had resumed his pacing, striding back and forth in front of the window like a sentry on guard duty. "The great Lord of Mordor, His body destroyed yet again, was forced to flee in shame, His armies routed, His Tower destroyed, and His land in ruins. I remember the council that I called upon the battlefield amid the chaos of defeat... With the Ruling Ring in Isildur's possession, I decided it was best that the Nine scatter to the far ends of Middle-earth, lest that conniving little upstart figure out how to use the Ring to command us.
"With no Master to demand our obedience and no Lord to whom we owed our loyalty, the Bearers of the Nine Rings were free to pursue our own designs, to become kings and lords in the lands which we claimed for ourselves. In the frigid north I founded the kingdom of Angmar, while Khamûl returned to Mordor and became the Sultan of Nurn. The others went to Rhûn, Khand, and Harad, often ruling over the descendants of the people they had ruled in the distant past."
"Those were good days in Angmar," Udu remarked, his voice slightly slurred as he raised his goblet in a nostalgic toast to days long past. "Whenever I think of those days, I remember a girl named Mairead from one of the hill tribes… She had the most charming mole on her inner thigh… Ahhh… now that was a woman…" His heart warmed by pleasant memories and too much wine, Udu sighed contentedly and stared into the distance, a lopsided smile plastered on his face.
"Alas for Angmar, my second long lamented kingdom." Ignoring Udu's raunchy recollections, Angmar cleared his throat and continued his monologue, imbuing his words with the gloom of the ages. "Curse the elves of Lindon and the men of Gondor! Had they not joined in the fray, my forces would have won the battle of Fornost, and the North Kingdom would have been united under the banner of Angmar." The King's lips curled up into a smile and his crimson eyes glowed brighter. "But yet vengeance was mine when later I captured the city of my enemy, and then my enemy himself. Though it took many long years to persuade the stubborn fool of my superiority, he finally capitulated and acknowledged me as the rightful king."
"Ah, good Lord Eärnur!" Udu exclaimed drunkenly as he waved his cup in the air, the wine sloshing over the edge. "That reminds me, I do owe him a hefty sack of gold. I lost several bets to him when we were playing dice last week—"
"Udu, this is no time to bring up your gambling debts with my servant!" The King gave the Seventh Nazgûl a withering stare so intimidating that Udu was propelled into a state of instant sobriety. "I do not speak of the past because I want to indulge in fond remembrances over a goblet of wine, or curse my luck at dice and drown my sorrows in the cup. I only dredge up our history because it has bearing on our present. Our Master has not demanded our presence since the end of the Second Age. These questions trouble my mind — what is his purpose, and why has He waited until now?"
"Perhaps He is in some danger?" Udu suggested. He took a leisurely drink from his goblet, wistfully recalling that pleasant state of inebriation which he had been enjoying up until a few moments ago. "Back in 2063, I believe it was, there was a notorious incident in which a spy infiltrated Dol Guldur. Our Master was forced to flee lest the secret of His identity be discovered." The Seventh Nazgûl furrowed his brow, a troubled expression upon his face. "My king, if our Lord is in peril, then we have no choice but to come to His defense. We are bound to Him by bonds far stronger than any alliance forged between a mortal king and his vassals."
"My dear Udu, if our glorious Master were indeed in danger, He would have demanded that we send an army to come to His aid. Since He did not, I believe it is safe to assume that He desires our presence in Dol Guldur for some other reason." A thought came unbidden to the King's mind… a missive from the Dark Lord, almost a hundred years prior, in which was written an account of the capture of the dwarven king Thráin, and the seizure of the last of the Seven Rings. For a moment, he wondered if Sauron would ever seek to possess the Nine Rings… Since the Dark Lord had imbued the Seven and the Nine with His strength, if these Rings were returned to their Creator, He would regain a part of the power He had possessed in ancient days. It seemed unlikely that the One Ring would ever be found, but Sauron already had the Seven, and the Nine were easily obtainable... All Sauron had to do was invite them to Dol Guldur, and then command them to surrender their Rings. But, no, that was absurd… the Nazgûl were the Dark Lord's own servants, and they could serve their Master better if they had the freedom to wield their Rings. And, besides, their Master would never betray them so cruelly…
The King shook his head. "Perhaps I am reading too much into these missives."
"What will you do, my lord?"
"I will give Him the same answer I always have." The King let out a wry chuckle, a dry bark of a sound. "Whether His motives be for good or ill, I have no intention that any of the Nine should travel to Dol Guldur. I will respond to His summons, but regretfully inform Him that I am far too occupied here to make a journey to Mirkwood. The Brotherhood of the Nine must guard the borders of Mordor and keep watch upon the Gondorians. Though they have grown weak and complacent with the passage of time, there is a hidden strength there, for the ancient blood still runs through their veins." The wraith smiled softly to himself. "I know my own kinsfolk well. Our Master is also aware of the hidden reserves of strength which they possess, and He cannot deny the threat that they pose to Minas Morgul and Mordor. Unless Dol Guldur is being attacked, we cannot abandon our post here."
The King returned to His chair, dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write. The pen traveled quickly over the paper, for he had written these same words many times before, the old tried and true excuses and simpering apologies. Always did the King balance duty with his own designs. He played a dangerous game with his Master, and he was exceptionally good at keeping the Dark Lord in check. This time would be no different, he thought to himself. There was no need to worry, for he was safe in his city of Minas Morgul, surrounded by his friends, his Númenórean relics, his lily ponds and flower gardens, and the beautiful women whom he kept as companions to amuse him in idle hours.
NOTES
To find out what happens to the Witch-king and the rest of the Nazgûl, read Chapters 36-41 of Book One of The Circles, "The Triumph of the Shadow."