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Minas Morgul - April 1, TA 2951s
Urzahil emerged from a stunted grove of trees and rounded the final bend. High above, Minas Morgul glowed phosphorescent green in the moonlight.
He urged the bay stallion forward. Normally sure-footed, it struggled to find safe footing on the narrow path. The packhorse hung back as well.
They crossed a bridge over a deep chasm to reach the gates of the fortress. Several Orcs hoisted themselves to their feet, pointing at them and reaching for their scimitars.
"I am here at the invitation of Lord Sauron." Urzahil pulled out the letter which guaranteed his safe passage and held it out for them to see.
An Orc called to someone inside the walls. A panel of the gate swung outward, opening a gap just large enough to admit him, his horse, and the pack animal that carried everything he owned.
The gate banged shut behind him. Urzahil swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, shaky from long hours of riding.
Urzahil looked around the courtyard. Nothing had changed since he'd last been here, scarcely a month ago.
On that occasion, he'd stood in this same courtyard as a junior member of Umbar's delegation to Mordor. This time, he was coming here to stay.
The full moon was high overhead. This late at night, few people were about. He waited. Presently, Sauron's Steward came down. The man's nightshirt was not quite tucked in and his hair was rumpled.
He raised a hand, and Orcs swarmed over the pack horse, working to free the chest from the ropes that bound it to the saddle.
"Be careful with that!" Urzahil warned.
The last knot gave way, and the Orc attempting to catch it staggered backwards under its weight.
"Sauron's butt crack! What's in there, your rock collection?"
Urzahil glanced at the Steward, expecting him to scold the Orc for cursing, but the Steward never looked up from his notes. Maybe that's just how Orcs talked.
"Urzahil of Umbar. You're one of our new emissaries? Let's see, where did I put you? Third floor overlooking the main gate. Follow me. You two, bring his chest."
Two Orcs struggled to lift the chest by its rope handles, the task accompanied by a great deal of cursing. The chest held all of the books he'd collected during his time at university with barely any room left over for clothes.
Urzahil followed the Steward along a phosphorescent hallway. They went up a broad flight of steps, and after that, a twist of spiral stairs built into the wall.
The Steward pushed open an iron-bound door and stepped into the room. The light from his lamp revealed a narrow bed, straw-mattressed and covered with a coarse woolen blanket against the far wall. Beside it was a small fireplace with a table and chair, and a washstand in the corner.
The Orcs dropped his chest with a thump. The Steward dismissed them with a gesture, and they scurried from the room.
The Steward bid him goodnight. In the darkness, the walls glowed faintly green, their light competing with the moonlight streaming through the window. Urzahil lay on the straw mattress, so exhausted the room seemed to spin. In spite of his weariness, he felt covered in triumph.
He'd done it. He'd really done it. He was now officially a servant of Sauron.
When Urzahil opened his eyes, the morning was already half gone. He threw on clothes and hurried down the stairs and, after a little searching, found the Great Hall. The high-ceilinged chamber was empty, but luckily, the remains of breakfast hadn't been cleared away yet.
He took a slice of bread from the platter. It was dark with a coarse texture, and heavier than he was used to. Instead of butter to spread on it, there was lard. He was used to bread made from wheat flour. Back home, only poor people would eat this.
Get used to it. Mordor is a poor country.
After he finished eating, he went out to the courtyard and asked a heavily-armed Orc, "Where can I find the Steward?"
The Orc pointed to a tower at the far end of the courtyard. His office is four stories up, assuming that he's even there."
Urzahil climbed flight after flight of stairs. At the top of the fourth, he asked directions again. The Steward in his office. Urzahil introduced himself.
" How are you settling in?"
"I'm still figuring things out. It's all so new."
"I'm afraid you'll need a sense of humor to function here. Everything is in a state of chaos. For thousands of years, Mordor lay abandoned and empty, until a few months ago when Sauron lit the volcano to openly declare himself."
As good a way of saying "here I am" as I can think of, bar shouting.
"Since then, things have been moving incredibly fast. Sauron began rebuilding Barad-dûr on its old foundations. He also wants to re-establish Mordor's bonds of friendship with our traditional allies. That's where you come in."
A small group gathered outside the Steward's doorway.
"It looks like its time for my next appointment. But one more thing. See the tailor as soon as possible. You'll need proper robes to wear for official functions. You know, black."
"Doesn't everyone in Mordor wear black?" asked Urzahil.
"The robes of the Nazgûl are black. The rest of us only wear it on formal occasions. On an ordinary day, we wear whatever's handy. Just make sure you don't show any bright colors where foreign guests can see you. We have a reputation to maintain."
From what he'd observed, the highest-ranking officials in Mordor wore black all the time. Urzahil decided that he would, too.
"Will the tailor have time to finish my robes before I have my first audience with the Dark Lord?"
"Sauron's away right now, overseeing the rebuilding of Barad-dûr. You have time."
-o-o-o-o-o-
Urzahil stood on the small platform in the tailor's shop, draped from head to foot in the transforming black.
"You can try these on now. Hold this at arm's length and look at yourself." The tailor handed him a disk of polished silver which had probably begun life as a shaving mirror.
Urzahil tilted the mirror, examining his formal robes one small section at a time. The tailor had done a good job. He'd shaped the fine wool into something that set off Urzahil's height and build to the best advantage. Most of all, it was a thrill to look at his shoulder where Sauron's badge, a stylized Eye in red against a black background, proclaimed Urzahil a Servant of Sauron.
A month ago, Urzahil accompanied the embassy from Umbar to Minas Morgul. On that occasion, Urzahil saw Sauron for the first time.
The two delegations, Umbar and Mordor, sat across from each other at a long table, and Sauron sat at its head. He was hooded and veiled, much like the Nazgûl, so it was impossible to know what he looked like. But once, when Urzahil was sent to fetch something at the end of the room, he'd passed so close to the Dark Lord, he felt the heat that radiated from his body.
A week after returning home, he received a letter inviting him to be an emissary for Mordor. Urzahil's first thought was to send polite regrets. He was happy where he was.
Reasonably happy. In Umbar, he would always be "Urzahil the Bastard, a poor relation in a noble house." In Mordor, he'd be "Urzahil of Umbar." If he left Umbar, he could leave "bastard" and "poor relation" behind, unused and forgotten.
-o-o-o-o-o-
Twilight came early in the high mountain valley. When the bell announced the evening meal, it was already getting dark. Urzahil descended from his room in his new robes, proudly displaying Sauron's badge.
In the Great Hall, rows of trestle tables filled the room. Hundreds of people, mostly Orcs, packed elbow to elbow on the long benches. The sound of so many people talking at once filled the Hall with a dull roar.
At the end of the room, the High Table had been raised on a dais. At its center was an empty chair, as massive as a throne. Behind it hung Sauron's standard, the Lidless Eye in red against a black background.
Almost every chair at High Table was occupied. The Steward and the Chief Ambassador were easy to spot, but several other men were unfamiliar. There were also a number of Nazgûl, identically dressed in black, their faces invisible.
Two lesser tables flanked the High Table. A servant pointed Urzahil to his place at one of them. Like the High Table, the chairs at the lesser tables also had high backs and arms.
The Orc who filled his goblet called him 'Sir'. That didn't happen at breakfast, even though it was the same Orc. It must be the prestige of wearing Sauron's badge.
There was a scraping of bench legs against the flagstones as everyone rose to their feet. All eyes looked towards the High Table, and the room went suddenly quiet. A tall figure completely in black swept across the platform.
"Is that Sauron?" His new master was back in Minas Morgul. Finally.
The figure passed the tall throne-like chair in the center and took the one at its right hand.
"No, that's the Witch King of Angmar, Sauron's second-in-command. He's a great general, but humorless and unapproachable," said Gillis, who was sitting next to Urzahil.
The conversation at High Table could be overheard at the other tables, with a certain amount of effort. Urzahil tipped his head to listen. The Witch King's voice was rich with the cadences of Númenor. "… never have enough horses… planning another trip into Rohan…"
When everyone at High Table had been served, servants carried plates to the lower tables. A servant filled his cup. He raised it to his lips. Ale, and home-brewed at that. At home, he only drank wine.
"In a few weeks, you'll join a diplomatic mission to Khand, the desert kingdom southeast of Mordor. Khand is one of our traditional allies. You'll be well-received there.
"Lord Khamûl, the second Nazgûl, will lead the mission. He's from Khand, and he speaks the language."
The Steward lowered his voice. "Your role is to act as a buffer between Khamûl and the Caliph. It can be hard for mortals to be in the presence the Nazgûl for any length of time. They're Undead, and they carry an aura of fear about them. Some people go to pieces in their presence. But you're a sorcerer, aren't you?"
Urzahil nodded. He'd taken several classes in sorcery at the University.
"Then the supernatural shouldn't bother you too much."
Urzahil was grateful for how much time the Chief Ambassador was taking to train him, but he really would have liked to have some guidance from Sauron himself.
"The mission is simple. You'll deliver a message and wait for a reply. You won't have to negotiate anything."
"The message I'm to deliver?" asked Urzahil.
"You'll invite the Caliph to send an emissary to Mordor for an audience with Sauron."
"Is that how one gets an audience with Sauron? By being an emissary from another nation?"
The Chief Ambassador frowned. "I trust you won't use that tone with the Caliph. See that you don't."
Urzahil looked for the Steward in his office. It took a while, but on the third try, he found him in. "Do you know when Sauron will return to Minas Morgul?
The Steward tented his fingers. "He's here now. I met with him this morning."
"I've been here for nearly a week, and I've never seen him at High Table."
"He forgets to eat. When that happens, I send a tray up to his room."
Urzahil left the Steward's office. In the hallway on the ground floor was a Nazgûl he hadn't seen before, a heavyset one who moved as if his joints hurt. Urzahil ran to catch up with him.
"Have you seen Sauron since he got back?" Urzahil asked.
"I passed him on the stairs a minute ago. But you might want to give him a wide berth just now. He looked like he wanted to kill someone."
-o-o-o-o-o-
Urzahil hoped to see Sauron at the evening meal, but Sauron's place at High Table was empty. Later, Urzahil approached another Nazgûl.
"I need to speak with Sauron about my mission to Khand. What's the best way to find him?"
"You just missed him. He's gone back to oversee the construction of Barad-dûr."
Several days later, Urzahil saw another Nazgûl in the corridor. This one was medium height with a wiry build. He swung his arms and walked with the energy of a coiled spring.
"I've been here for over a week and I still haven't seen Sauron. Is that normal?" he asked.
The wraith was still for a time, and then appeared to reach a decision. He leaned in so close, Urzahil felt the chill from his body.
"Can I trust you to keep a secret?" He spoke in the clipped tones of the desert people of the East.
A second wraith joined them, the one that moved as if exhausted. "Indur, don't tell him that!"
Indur dropped his voice until it was barely audible. "Only the Nazgûl are allowed to know this, but Sauron was killed at the end of the Second Age. He's not coming back. In all the years since, the Nazgûl pretended to be him."
"When your delegation was here last month, Ren played the role of Sauron. The next time we have important visitors, it will be my turn."
Urzahil felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He truly thought Sauron had returned.
Except. Undead Nazgûl were cold to the touch. When Urzahil walked past Sauron at the diplomatic meeting a month ago, he'd been surprised by the heat that radiated from the Dark Lord's body.
"Liar!" Urzahil swung at Indur. The wraith side-stepped it easily.
"I really had you going! You actually believed me for a moment there, didn't you?" Indur hissed, slapping his thigh and laughing.