Chapter 1

In Shadows Deep

Utter darkness filled the rocky cavern and smothered it like a funeral shroud, heavy and suffocating. Even the screams were swallowed up by the shadows and were barely heard over the cracks of nail-studded whips. The entire room stank with the reeking stench of sweat, dirt, refuse, and fear. Fortunately, Gothmog's keen eyes pierced the miasma of gloom with ease, allowing him to see in the dark as if it were noon on a clear day. His weighty footfalls shook the ground and his black steel armor clanked and rattled with every step. The orcs in the breeding pits knew better than to look up at him and prostrated themselves with their eyes fixed on the floor.

"Master, Master," they squealed.

Gothmog ignored their entreaties. The lives of the orcs beneath his feet were meaningless to him. They were like maggots fighting over a rotten carcass and he did not care for maggots. He needed warriors, who were strong, cunning, and swift. He made his way to the far end of the stony expanse where a female orc waited for him.

She was more mannish than a typical orc though her clawed hands marked her as belonging to the same lineage of her darker kin. She was stooped and walked with a bow-legged gait. Her teeth were a rotten mess of decaying molars and crooked, yellowed incisors. But if she kept her mouth closed, put on a woman's dress, and stood in the shadows, then just maybe she could pass as a woman.

"Report!" barked Gothmog.

"Yes, Master. Graza has a gift for Master," the female orc said, speaking of herself in the third person.

Gothmog remembered that the orc's name was Graza. He had forgotten. He did not care enough to remember.

"Show me," commanded Gothmog.

Graza bowed and stepped to one side, waving her hand with a flourish. Three creatures knelt on the ground behind her. They were mannish, almost perfectly so. They looked skinny and malnourished, but that could be rectified. One of them was squint-eyed and another had orcish ears, but otherwise, they looked like men.

"Stand," ordered Gothmog.

The three creatures stood to their feet. They were taller than a typical orc and rather close in stature to a man. They had dark hair and dark eyes with pale skin.

"Can they withstand the sun?" asked Gothmog.

"Yes, master. They are bred from men and half-orcs," started Graza.

Gothmog waved his hand, cutting her off dismissively. He did not care how they were made.

"And the others?" asked Gothmog.

Graza coughed and attempted to speak, but her voice faltered, betraying her fear. She turned and held up a trembling hand.

Gothmog looked past her and saw a ragged mob of grey-skinned creatures squatting in the dirt and filth covering the ground. They were naked and ugly; hideous to look at. There were two dozen of them and they were certainly orcs, but smaller and weaker. Shorter with narrow shoulders and shivering in the cold, lightless chamber.

"Send them to the mines," sneered Gothmog, snorting with derision.

"Yes, mast-" Graza's words were choked off as Gothmog wrapped his enormous hand around her neck, strangling her.

"Give me stronger warriors or you will find yourself in the breeding pits. Unless I kill you first," hissed Gothmog.

Graza's eyes bulged in panic. Her tongue lolled in her mouth and spit dribbled down her cleft chin. She was unable to speak.

Gothmog released her and the orc collapsed to the ground in a ragged heap. He pointed at the three orcish men.

"Send them to Shagresh for training," said Gothmog.

Shagresh was one of Gothmog's best warriors and a captain in his army. He was one of the few Gothmog could rely on. Otherwise, the race of orcs was failing and Gothmog knew it. Ever since the fall of Sauron seventeen years prior, he had been simply unable to breed orcs in large numbers and each new litter seemed to be weaker than the last. Gothmog had sought to remedy the problem by taking women from the race of man and adding them to the mix, but even those desperate measures did not provide a lasting solution. The women his soldiers captured rarely survived more than one or two births and the majority of their offspring were stunted, freakish things unable to wield a sword or swing a hammer. Even when suitable hybrid orcs were birthed, their strength failed after two generations.

Gothmog paused at the doorway of the cavern and examined the runes of power he had carved into the stone. They had glowed with fearsome power once, compelling the denizens within to commit all manner of evil deeds in the darkness. But now, they were dull and listless, forming an echo of the power they once held. Gothmog's own body felt the same way, becoming more and more like a prison each day rather than a symbol of his might. It was as if magic and sorcery, two wells of strength and knowledge that had once dominated Middle Earth, had run dry and grew weaker every day.

Gothmog may have been able to circumvent this problem if his son still lived, but he was dead, slain at the Battle of the Black Gates by the self-proclaimed King of Gondor. The subsequent destruction of the Ring had robbed Gothmog of his chance for vengeance and prevented him from quickly rebuilding an army from the shattered remnants of the host of Mordor.

He walked away from the cavern filled with breeding pits and down the dimly-lit, rocky corridor of his subterranean fortress. Just like all servants of darkness did when confronted with defeat, Gothmog had fled underground and sought out the deepest shadows to hide and rebuild his strength. He had used all his power and strength and every means of cunning at his disposal, yet it had not been enough. He commanded a force of orcs, orc men, and mannish orcs, but they were merely cheap imitations of what had come before. He could only count two trolls among his army, brothers strangely enough, and had been utterly unable to breed more. Many trolls had slain themselves by deliberately walking into the sunlight or falling on their own swords and those that remained were dull and witless and could only be goaded into combat through great effort.

Gothmog's nostrils caught the pungent sent of orc draught from the nearby brewery his followers had erected. From there, they mixed biteweed with the brackish water often found in stale, mountain pools and produced a foul-smelling and bitter tasting drink that served as the main source of sustenance for his warriors. The beverage was not a true replacement for regular food, but did prevent starvation and produced anger and rage within those who drank it. Gothmog felt his innards twitch in hunger at the thought of the potent brew. Such a desire should not have been possible in a being like Gothmog. Hunger was a sensation previously unknown to him, but now his physical body craved nourishment; perhaps needed it, a sure sign of his continued decline.

With a snarl of rage, Gothmog pushed those feelings aside. He would not yield to the same carnal desires as the lackeys who served him. He was stronger than that. He had not led orcs into battle for thousands of years in vain.

Gothmog stormed through the rough-hewn halls with evil thoughts on his mind. Anyone who had the misfortune of encountering him cowered before his glowering form and lay trembling on the ground until he had passed.