Chapter Two: Brutal Red

"Here they come, " Ornendil, one of the lieutenants of the White Company, announced as he stepped into the clearing illuminated by the large campfire. The three men gathered around the blaze rose, hands on the hilts of their swords. Two more rushed out of the Company's small cabin at the edge of the lighted clearing.

All six waited expectantly, listening intently to the grunts and scuffling not far from where they stood. Ornendil and three others wore the indistinct garb of the rangers of the White Company, meant to blend in to their surroundings and survive years of work and weather. The fifth was a nicely attired though somewhat awkward youth. The sixth was the man whom the boy served, the lord who owned the land beneath their feet.

When the warning came, Faramir, son of Denethor, and his squire Bergil mounted their horses and sped from the manor house to the ranger outpost at the edge of Faramir's lands. Before leaving, Faramir threw a knee length brown cloak over his garments to conceal the two elven knives belted over his fine lawn cote. Generally, he donned the symbol of authority for the independent principality of Ithilien only for official occasions. But this unusual event might require him to mete out justice. So he pressed the golden circlet of the Prince of Ithilien lightly down on his head.

"I'm waiting," Faramir spoke loudly to project his authority into the darkness. The sounds of struggle still continued in the distance. Faramir rested one hand on a knife and cocked his head to the side as a signal. He strode to the edge of the clearing and was nearly bowled over. Three gasping rangers bounced into the clearing, dragging two orcs bound together in what appeared to be a net. They were followed by Legolas Greenleaf, son of the Elven King Thranduil, who strode up to the orc prisoners with a look of self-satisfaction on his smooth, gleaming face.

"I killed four of them," Legolas said, matter-of-factly.

The entrapped orc prisoners grasped at their bindings and then rained angry, incomprehensible words upon their captors. The net that imprisoned them seemed flimsy, scarcely strong enough to hold a school of trout. Yet these two struggled and screamed as though the netting seared their flesh.

"And these two are the ones who have been pilfering your orchards?" Faramir asked.

"We were making camp for the night when we heard their racket, stupid orcs," the ranger Sergeant Larnach explained and directed a kick into the captured orcs. A hand with long jagged nails reached out and tried to grab Larnach's foot. "These two were wounded and making a racket," Larnach growled, leaning over his prisoners. "Prince Legolas was on their trail. We caught 'em easily."

"I'm glad that you brought these two here instead of killing them," Faramir said . He could not see the prisoners that well, bound as they were by the elvish netting. They seemed a tangle of limbs and snarling teeth. They also stank. "Aim your arrows at these two, men," Faramir commanded the White Company rangers. "Legolas, let's have a look at these heroes."

Faramir withdrew one of his knives, a Yuletide gift from the elven friend beside him. The two carefully cut the netting, avoiding the angry, flailing hands of the prisoners. With one swift move, human and elf tore apart the netting, which dropped neatly at the feet of their captives.

Sensing that they were free, the two orcs immediately sprang forward and then halted to avoid the points of Faramir and Legolas' knives at their throats. One of the prisoners lost his balance and fell. The ranger lieutenant Ornendil leaped over him, aiming an arrow at his chest. The second orc straightened up and glared haughtily at Faramir, as though Legolas had some nerve to disrupt his attempt to collect his dinner.

"Rather fond of elven oranges, aren't you," Faramir taunted the arrogant fellow. "Prince Legolas here says half his crop is missing. I never took your lot for fruit eaters."

The defiant bloke remained silent, but Faramir caught a light in his warm brown eyes. Those eyes were an uncanny bit of attractiveness in a pasty white face "enhanced" by metal and bone piercings. Instead of ears on either side of his head like most two-legged beings, the creature had flopping pink ears, poised atop his head just like a pig's. Despite the ears, this particular orc was hardly the most hideous of his kind that Faramir had ever seen. He was tall and muscular, and looked to be well-fed.

"You understand me, don't you," Faramir continued. He withdrew the point of his blade and stepped back a foot or so. Fastening his eyes onto the orc's face, he applied the same intense stare that he used for interrogating human miscreants in the law courts of Minas Tirith. The orc flinched and turned his head, though he maintained his silence. At that moment, Faramir thought he felt a strange insight into the creature's mind. It never occurred to Faramir that orcs thought about anything besides "fight" and "kill."

Suddenly, the orc snarled and revealed something else incongruous, a set of healthy gums and whole teeth. Before he could make a move, however, Legolas's ready arrow appeared but inches from the orc's eye.

"What is your name?" Faramir demanded. He gestured for Legolas to lower his arrow. The insolent orc remained silent. "What's his name, then?" Faramir gestured to the second orc, still sprawled on the ground with Ornendil hovering over him.

The prone orc squeaked.

"Speak up!" Ornendil threatened.

The prone orc sputtered with effort, "Don't tell 'em, Shak."

The standing orc groaned, "Looks like you already did, fool. That fool's name is Murn. What do you think you can do to us?"

"That's for me to decide," Faramir said as he gestured to the rangers. "Get that one up."

Ornendil stepped aside, still aiming his arrow while the men hauled the prone orc Murn to his feet. This one had huge shoulders in proportion to his head and outsized arms with hands dangling to his knees. His skin was the color of pea soup. The orc's ears were oversized and pointy, but at least they were in the proper place on his head, unlike his companion.

With knife positioned close to the white-skinned orc's throat, Faramir said, "This is Legolas, who charges you and your gang with stealing and destroying his orchards."

"Over the course of months," Legolas added.

"My name is Faramir, son of Denethor. I'm prince of these lands, and I carry out the King's Law."

The tall orc, evidently named Shak, still feigned disinterest, though Faramir sensed the creature's unease ever since his name was revealed. "Joke of a prince," Shak declared insolently. "We all know who you are, Brutal Red. Sneaking up on orc kind and killing us in our sleep." He spat at Faramir's boots.

Faramir didn't know whether to slug the orc or laugh out loud. Instead, he fingered the leather casing at the base of his neck that held in place the long, red-gold hair by which the orcs evidently identified him. How did one treat with such creatures? He had interrogated orcs in the past, but few seemed to know enough words of Westron to understand him. That these two understood him set them apart from the ranks of Sauron's minions that used to terrorize Ithilien in the years of the Ring War.

As if reading Faramir's thoughts, Legolas whispered, "The green one's not from Mordor."

Faramir nodded his head, but he directed his words to Shak: "The Morgul road has been closed for years. Yet our lands have been harassed by your kind the past few months. Where do you live?"

The tall orc's eyes blazed. "Everywhere. Nowhere. And here," he growled softly. "Right in your home lands, Brutal Red." He spoke the last name as though they were the height of insult.

"These lands are closed to orc folk, " Faramir said. "Count yourself lucky that I stand in judgement of you here in Ithilien. If I shipped you off to Minas Tirith, the king would not deal with you so gently.

Then Faramir said in a deceptively easier tone, "You seem a thoughtful orc, Shak. Surely you must know that Gondor signed a peace treaty with Near Harad three years ago. Now homeless orcs found wandering in Gondorian lands can have refuge in Near Harad, providing that they work in the fields or mines and not cause trouble. Larnach, have your men escort these blokes to the southern marches."

Larnach, Ornendil, and the other rangers stared at Faramir in shock.

"As I have ordered," Faramir continued. "Bind them again, and turn them over to the Haradrim border guards. The King's Laws apply to everyone in Gondor these days, even vagrant orcs. I can't imprison these two for stealing fruits and vegetables."

"Aye, my Lord Prince," Larnach nodded slightly in deference to Faramir and then conferred with the other rangers. Faramir then stood guard while Legolas gathered the torn netting . The two orcs huddled together without struggling as they were bound again. Nonetheless, Faramir could see the pain on their faces as the rope was tightened about their oddly-colored skin.

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After the rangers of the White Company departed, Faramir and Bergil rode home slowly, accompanied by Legolas on his dapple grey gelding.

"So when do we set out after them," Legolas asked.

"Let's give them until tomorrow morning," Faramir chuckled, pleased that the elf had once more sensed his plan. "Then I'll have them followed. Can you lend me a few good trackers?"

"I was going to follow them myself," Legolas offered.

"Don't," Faramir cautioned. "We don't know where these characters came from or if there are more of them. We both need to be here in case the kin of the blokes you killed decide to take revenge. The White Company has long known there are groups of orcs hiding in Ithilien. I want to find out where they come from and how they came here."

"That green one is a goblin-orc," Legolas continued. "I saw many of his kind in the Mines of Moria. When my folk first came to Ithilien, they reported large groups of goblin orcs on the move. My father's people were worn out from battle and didn't pursue them. Some may have travelled here."

"Begging your pardon, my lords," Bergil interrupted, "but the big white orc has got to be from Mordor. I saw a few with pig ears like him when the great gate was breached." The youth shuddered a second. Bergil was but a boy at the time. He had managed to evade the great charge of orcs on the first level of Minas Tirith by hiding on the roof of one of the buildings still left standing. "Those pig eared orcs seemed to be ordering the others around."

"Aye, the pig ears were the leaders," Faramir agreed, remembering his own horrific encounters with orcs. "That orc Shak wore a vambrace with the emblem of the White Tree of the Stewards. Did you notice that, Legolas? He must have retrieved it from a body on a battlefield. How could he have come by that and still live? Most of his kind are long dead and burned from our existance."

"Perhaps we'll find their nests this time," Legolas said. "Their ignorance should trip them up eventually."

"I don't know about that," Faramir grinned. "I wonder if the orcs scare their new recruits with terror stories of Brutal Red. My father would have been impressed, if he had heard my orc nickname."

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"Brutal Red!" Faramir exclaimed with glee and sprawled out in his great bed. "I never imagined that I brought terror into the hearts of all orcs. Me, of all people. Next time someone mistakes me for a gentle heart, I will remind him of my reputation among the orcs."

His devoted but not terribly patient wife Eowyn Eomund's daughter chortled and then laughed so hard tears streamed from her eyes. "Brutal Red. A perfect name for you. I will call you that from now on."

"In addition to "'Mir" and "Husband" and "He Whom I Must Obey?" Faramir teased.

She poked an elbow into his ribs, and then leaned over his body. One hand ran slowly along the wisping red hairs of his chest. Faramir's eyes closed, enjoying it.

"Gentleness is not a trait to belittle," Eowyn murmured. "My whole life I had longed to be gentle. Only now have I learned how, thanks to my child and my humble servant Brutal Red. "

He chuckled and then rolled his torso to the side, facing her. "I saw into that orc's mind, 'Wyn. For just a second. That I could do so was just as amazing as finding out my orcish nickname."

"What could an orc possibly have on its mind?" Eowyn wondered.

"It's difficult to say," Faramir lay back on the bed, pale blue eyes soft in concentration. "I did get the idea that this Shak was a rebel of some sort and did not participate in the War of the Ring. But he's a Mordor orc, that's certain. I've fought his kind time and again. I think, though, that he's lived outside that land for many years. He looks too healthy. My guess is he hasn't been eating Mordor food or other orcs."

She shuddered and then said, "Where could he have lived?"

"Possibly among the Haradrim. Possibly right here in Ithilien. That's why I'm having those two tailed. I want to know where they go after Larnach hands them to the Haradrim."

The fact that orcs were found on their property gave Eowyn unease, mostly for their son Elboron. "There have been no unexplained deaths in the area?"

"Right," Faramir said, "but people go missing for years, and bodies keep turning up in lands the rangers used to patrol. You know that."

She nestled against his shoulder and thought for a moment. "Yes. But why do you not think some orcs might be sneaking out of Mordor."

"Because the Morgul road has been closed for years," Faramir said. "It took us a good year after Aragorn's coronation to send a contingent of the White Company down that road. You would still have been in Rohan, 'Wyn. My men traveled less than a mile past Minas Morgul and had to stop. Huge landslides blocked their way. That must have happened during the earthquakes when the Dark Lord fell."

"Could the orcs or whoever is left in Mordor have cleared the road?"

"It's closed, covered," Faramir whispered in her ear. The experiences of four years of marriage told Eowyn that her husband would not be awake much longer. "I make sure to watch Cirith Ungol and the destroyed plateau every month, in the palantir. I have seen orcs or other orc-like creatures in the past, but it has been awhile." His voice trailed off.

Eowyn was not ready to go to sleep. She had never thought of Mordor as anything other than a land of hate and fear. But now that Sauron was long gone, the Nazgul just a horrible memory, and their minions defeated, Eowyn wondered what was left. On the vague maps of Minas Tirith, Mordor was depicted as a vast ill-defined land, dominated in the north by Orodruin. That volcano had blown itself up, when its own molten lava dissolved the One Ring.

"I would like to see it," Eowyn said.

"Uh?" Faramir mumbled and opened one eye.

"Mordor," Eowyn continued eagerly. "I'd like to visit it. I've never seen a real volcano. I suppose it is safe to go there now. Remember Frodo and Samwise's story? They saw the volcano collapse. I never thought I would wonder or care what Mordor looked like, or what terrors and beauties it once held. But now I do. I wonder if anyone else would want to make such a journey, now that peace has come?"

Faramir, of course, had fallen asleep. Eowyn tried to do the same, but her mind kept wandering back to thoughts of Mordor. Could it ever be a place where every day people might want to go, just to see the historic sights?

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AUTHOR'S NOTES

This chapter introduces my interpretations of some of my favorite Tolkien characters. However, as you probably noticed, Faramir, Eowyn, and Legolas bear more than a passing resemblance to the actors that played them in the LOTR films. By now, if you've seen the films, you also probably suspected that the pig-faced orc general in "Return of the King" might have some relatives who make appearances in "Mordor Vacationland." This is entirely intentional. What I call, with tongue in cheek, "the Steffverse" uses Jackson's actors to portray scenes in the Tolkien canon that were never filmed. Or, in this case, stories of my own creation that are inspired by the Tolkien canon and sometimes even fanon.

Chapter Three: Out of Balance

The High King of the Reunited Lands lifted his eyes from the paper work on his desk in the Tower of Ecthelion I. Years of planning, rebuilding, and traveling, and then repeating the process again and again had taken their toll on him. He had never imagined that administering a government would take so much of his time and energy. It might be good to be king, but for Aragorn Elessar, it additionally meant a lot of work.

Though he sparred every day, his sword arm did not have the full strength of his younger years. The faintest hint of a roll protruded over his sword belt. You would think weeks on horseback would keep your midsection trim, Aragorn concluded.

I've never had food that tasted so good and in such profusion as I've had these past few years. The abundance of game, the bounty of the fields and forests, the wealth of fish in the lakes and the ocean since Sauron fell, was simply astounding. Had the elves left some wondrous gift for mortals when they departed Middle Earth?

Or was the bounty of the fields and forest an unexpected result of war? Middle Earth's population  had considerably decreased since its xenith thousands of years ago. The ruins in Eriador stood as mute testimony to a distant and far richer history. Now many less creatures, both foul and fair, walked the land than there were but five years ago.The lands supported less living beings, especially less intrinsically evil beings, to consume the food sources, allowing game, fish, and plants to thrive untouched.

Only Rivendell and its surrounding lands seemed sad to Aragorn. Since his foster father Elrond's departure, most of Rivendell's folk either followed its Master into the West or moved to other remaining Elven enclaves in Middle Earth. Aragorn routinely travelled through the former Imladris on his twice-a-year migrations from Gondor to Arnor and back, checking the state of the abandoned halls. His foster brothers still maintained residences in the region, but they rarely stayed there for any duration of time.

Even in abandoned Rivendell, the lawns and once prosperous Elven farm lands grew prodigiously without any cultivation or trimming. The grasses were knee deep on his last visit not three months ago. The horses of his large entourage had to be restrained from eating too much grass for fear they would develop colic. Deer and elk roamed freely over meadows where once the last of the Noldor hosted tournaments and games. Once upon a time, Aragorn would have hunted that game. Now his team of archers vied with each other to be the first to bring down a stag for their king.

"I still could do it," Aragorn assured himself out loud. He drew a hand through his neatly trimmed, shoulder length hair, dark brown now streaked with white. The king's handsome, sharply drawn features crinkled at the lips and even more noticeably at the corners of his eyes. Past 90 he was; he had yet to meet anyone in the Mark who had lived to that age. Nonagenarians were easier to find in Gondor and in the Shire, but most looked 40 years older than he. The thought that he would outlive them all gave Aragorn a sad pause.

The door to the King's Chambers opened as the Tower Guardsman stationed outside announced, "Lord Hurin the Tall has arrived."

At Aragorn's word, the Treasurer of the Reunited Lands stepped into the comfortably appointed royal chambers. In response to Aragorn's questioning look, Hurin grimaced and sat down in a chair beside the King's broad desk. He then opened two brown ledgers and spread them across the surface of said desk.

"My conclusion to your proposal could not be more simple," Hurin eyed his liege matter-of-factly. "Your plans are too ambitious."

Aragorn sat back in silence to contemplate Hurin's frankness.

"Arnor lacks the natural resources, particularly the granite, for the building materials your proposed capitol requires," Hurin continued. "To carry out your plans, you would have to continue doing what you are doing--buying construction materials from the Dwarves or shipping them from Gondor. Meantime, Gondor does not have enough ships to provide all the iron, stone, and masonry that your architects call for. You'd have to build more ships, which could put strain on what forests remain after the war. Buying materials from the Dwarves puts further strain on the Treasury, though the shipping costs are much less from the Blue Mountains to Annuminas."

"And what is the state of Gondor's treasury?" Aragorn spoke gently.

"Our budget is balanced, with a small surplus that will vanish in a heartbeat if you decide to fund that building project."

And that was thc crux of the problem. When he promoted Hurin to Treasurer, Aragorn ordered that the former Keeper of the Keys tell the truth about the realm's financial state at all times.

For Hurin, being truthful was not a problem; it was his motto. Aragorn had proven himself to be an excellent and well-loved king, in Hurin's estimation.

Hurin had held Gondor's highest elected office for ten years.* Aragorn achieved his position by military achievements, the strength of his inheritance, and the power of the blood in his veins. By contrast, Hurin had served the people of Minas Tirith as an elected official for two decades. Aragorn knew how to win unwinable wars. Hurin knew how to balance large, terrifying budgets. Over the past few years, the two had developed a comfortable, well-functioning work relationship. Which could easily end with the spectre of looming budget deficits--if Aragorn carried out his plans to build a large citadel in Annuminas. Hurin was dead set against this plan and perfectly happy to tell his king why. 

"Could we fund development in Arnor if we found more areas of revenue, like opening new mines for metals and clearing more farm lands?" Aragorn proposed. "Or developing new markets for our goods? This is Imrahil's responsibility, is it not. He's as good with trade as with a sword." 

"Hmmm, Imrahil," Hurin murmured. "Unfortunately, Gondor incurred more expenses while you were in the North. Look here at the line items for Dol Amroth," his fingers brushed against several entries in one of the open ledgers. Aragorn leaned over, squinting at the details.

"Notice that Prince Imrahil has procurred much of our existing stock of already-purchased granite and timber to rebuild and improve the harbors of Belfalas state," Hurin elaborated. "We may not have a huge amount of ships, but, by all the stars of Varda, we have up-to-date facilities for launching them. I'm sorry to say, my liege, but your Gondorian princes have been on a building spree while you were in the North."

"Princes? You mean Faramir has succumbed to his uncle's tendency to overspend on works on the people's behalf"

"Faramir's been restoring the harbor of Osgiliath," Hurin said as he gestured to further entries in the ledger.

The king pulled the ledgers to where he could study them more fully, without commenting on Hurin's financial assessment.

"Fortunately, the materials he used were salvaged from the existing wreckage," Hurin continued. "Still, the Steward required workers to build the wharves and then charged the public purse for their wages. We might need to raise taxes on the people to pay for the projects these two have started.

"However, if we carry out your plans for Arnor, the budget for the Reunited Kingdom will be severely out-of-balance," Hurin's eyes gleamed as he delivered his opinion.

This requires a lot more consideration before I can render a judgement, Aragorn thought. He chuckled"I wonder if there are useful ores and minerals to be mined out of the Morgai? Wouldn't that be a great source of new revenues. Countries on our borders would pay for the materials or give us other goods in trade."

The vast principality of Ithilien was largely a forested wilderness, peppered with the remains of 3000 year old ruins. After the War of the Ring, new villages were established and farmlands cleared, mostly in the north near Emyn Arnen.  Aragorn wondered how his trusty Steward would take to the idea of mining on the borders of his growing principality. The king's mind immediately jumped to the small community of dwarves that had recently moved to Ithilien. He suspected that the dwarves would be eager to work on any mining project, if their safety was guaranteed.

Aragorn stood abruptly and gestured toward the ledgers, which Hurin immediately closed. They were late for the King's Council that Aragorn convened at noon each week day in the Great Hall. The two departed the King's chambers, still discussing remedies for the financial crisis. They were followed at distance by the loyal Tower Guardsmen.

"Did you ever wonder what riches Mordor itself might hold?" Hurin said as they started for the Great Hall.

"I wonder if Elessar of the Reunited Kingdom has the right to explore Mordor for riches?" Aragorn responded briskly as they made their way. "We defeated Sauron, decimated his forces, and, thanks to Frodo Baggins, the seat of Sauron's power is utterly destroyed. We've issued a proclamation, freeing the slaves of Mordor. Faramir's had the Morgal Vale cleaned and seen to removing bands of orcs in Ithilien. However,  we have not openly claimed and annexed the land of Mordor itself. Perhaps I should have.

"I traveled the western edge of the Dark Land years ago," Aragorn continued. "A brutal black desert it was, as far as I could see. However, the ancient maps show Mordor as a huge land, some of which was probably cultivated to feed all those orcs.   Every few months, I scan the border lands in the palantir. So does Faramir. All we've seen is devastation. I wonder?" Aragorn stopped.

"Yes?" Hurin asked respectfully.

"Would you be interested in going to Mordor?"

"Me?" Hurin gasped. "I'm 50--far too old for military ventures."

"I'm not talking about military ventures," Aragorn said. An idea that had been boiling in his mind suddenly stirred him to excitement. "I'm talking about a trip. Just a simple trip. Do you think the average citizen of the realm might be curious.."

"King Elessar! King Elessar!" an hysterical male voice boomed and then was quickly silenced. Hurin blanched. Aragorn turned a steady gaze to the entry to the Great Hall. There stood a Tower Guardsman who apologized, "I'm sorry to interrupt, my lords, but this messenger has come from the Steward ."

He pushed forward a red-faced, panting man in the heavy wool cloak and tabard with the insignia of the White Company.

The newcomer lowered his head, honoring Aragorn, and then blurted out, "Prince Faramir sends me, my King. Last night orcs were caught raiding the elven farmsteads near Emyn Arnen."

"Orcs!" Hurin exclaimed in dismay. "I thought the White Company wiped out the orc stragglers a few years ago."

"So we thought, too," the messenger sighed. "We killed all but two of them. Faramir questioned the survivors, and then sent them off to the Harad border with some of my company. Prince Legolas has ordered his best trackers to follow them, in case the orcs later double back into Ithilien.

"I left Emyn Arnen with this message near midnight last night," the messenger continued. "By now the Prince and Princess would have started off for Minas Tirith."

"The old Numenoreans kept their guard on Mordor after the Last Alliance overthrew Sauron," Aragorn said as the small entourage entered the Great Hall. "They went directly into that land and fortified it. We, on the other hand, have taken Mordor too much for granted."

"Begging your pardon, my Lord King," the messenger said. "Faramir and Legolas think these orcs aren't from Mordor."

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The adversities they experienced west of the mountains weren't exactly what Lady Gothmog expected. Nasty climate, yes. Hostile Gondorians, most likely. Bad odor and filfth, sigh. She had not planned for the Morgul road to be cracked and ruined in some places. Bushes clogged the crevices that had widened between the crushed stone pavement. In other places, the road surface rolled and raised. The swords of the former slaves and her soldier orcs were put to use hewing vegetation, not enemies. But then, orcs of some bloodlines considered vegetation the enemy.

Furthermore, the crude map she carried in her pack showed Minas Morgul to be much closer to the tunnel entrance than it was in reality. Blallo and Peshtuk both agreed--for once--that the distance to the tower was 12 miles. Twelve miles over the trusty military roads back home meant a half day trip for an ox cart. Instead, their journey from the tunnel had taken a day and a half.

First, her retainers had to clear the  bushes from the road. Then the wretched oxen had to be led over the cracks, upheavals, and pot holes. As it was, the four legged brutes moved forward only when coaxed by the hand of former slave Tenuha on the lead ox's bridle. The cart driver was useless. He cowered on his bench, as if expecting a beating at any moment. Lady Gothmog grimaced to herself. She couldn't afford to beat the inept fool. She needed him whole and uninjured for the return journey.

By noon on the second day past the tunnel entrance the Morgul road smoothed out. Leafy trees arched over the widening stone surface. The oxen decided to obey the commands of the driver now that they had some semblance of smooth pavement beneath their hooves. Far more promising.

Lady Gothmog rose from her seat. "Laky and Tenuha, go ahead some miles and tell us what you see," she ordered. "Driver, pull this cart off the road while we wait. If the enemy can hide behind the bushes, so can we. And no complaints about the bushes," she glared at the two soldier orcs.

"Why did you send them?" Peshtuk complained when the cart was suitably hidden. "They might run off."

"They are loyal to me," the Lady rose her chin haughtily," and they are human. If the enemies have taken over Minas Morgul, two human travellers are not going to attract much attention. Not like you, gorgeous." Inwardly she was less confident that Laky and Tenuha could be trusted to return. 

She needn't have worried. After a short passage of time, they spied Tenuha through the trees. Peshtuk flagged him down.

"It's just around the bend. It's huge and green and seems to be deserted. Let's go," Tenuha urged them between eager pants.

"Where's Laky?" Peshtuk growled suspiciously.

"Exploring the place to make sure there aren't enemies hidden about. Come on. You should see it, my Lady."

Lady Gothmog flicked her hand imperiously, indicating that they must be on their way.

"How do we know we can trust him?" Peshtuk grumbled.

"Do we have any choice?" Blallo spoke up for the first time in hours.

"I'm not turning around," Lady Gothmog said. Her word, of course, was final. The cart groaned as it lurched forward.

Peshtuk and the soldier orc Erm raced ahead, disappearing as the road curved out of sight. Yet before the lumbering cart reached the bend, Peshtuk was back, waving his arms.

"Wait, wait a bloomin' minute," he cried. "The place stinks of human."

"You've framed us," Blallo glared at Tenuha, who brought up the entourage rear with the soldier orc Grah.

"What? There are no humans in that valley. No human sign at all," Tenuha challenged him.

"I didn't see humans but they sure enough poisoned the valley," Peshtuk said. "Erm's on the side of the road. He can barely breathe."

"You don't seem any different," Lady Gothmog observed pointedly.

Peshtuk shrugged, "Yeah,I suppose I'm alright." He drew a finger across his nose to wipe off the mucuous that started to dribble over his upper lip.

"Then get a move on, driver" Lady Gothmog snarled, at the end of her patience.

The cart rumbled along the curve in the road. Blallo gripped the handle of the sword belted across his waist. He was ready for anything--except the scene that now stretched out before them. His memories of iridescent green fortress glowing in the vague twilight were as crumbled as the half-collapsed tower of Minas Morgul. Instead, his eyes were bombarded with brightness and glare. Stinging sun rays bounced against the silver seams in the fallen granite blocks. Brilliant blooms of red, pink, and yellow crawled across the leaves of short bushes that would not have been there five years past.

Blallo drew his arm over his aching eyes. His throat burned with a strange itching sensation. He growled, "They have poisoned the place. The stench is overpowering."

So this is the place that I had wanted as a caravanseri for our people, Lady Gothmog's mind was too busy speculating to pay much attention to Blallo's complaints. She was fascinated by the spectacular ruins. Would other Mordor folks be as beguiled with the fortress as she was? Surely, they should appreciate this ruin as a monument to their glorious history. Granted, the scent of the vegetation was pervasive but it didn't make her sick. After all, the spineless cart driver prodded the oxen onward without a peep.

"Take a drink from your wine skin," she ordered Blallo with only a hint of sympathy. "Let's move onward." Erm waited for them at the great entrance to the fortress, leaning against one of the pedestals on either side of the road.

Blallo lowered his arm, just in time to raise his wine skin and view the once terrifyingly scenic entrance. "They're gone," he lamented. "The guardian statues who watched the entrance and warned of approaching intruders. Either they toppled when Mount Doom collapsed or the Gondorians destroyed them." The wine burned his throat, but it did manage to open his constricting wind pipe enough to stop his rasping. Unfortunately, Erm was infected by the same poison that overcame Blallo. The little orc staggered forward to meet them, wheezing miserably and wiping tears from eyes nearly swollen shut.

"Give him some wine," Lady Gothmog ordered the driver. "Come on in the cart, Erm." She personally offered her hand to the afflicted soldier. No use losing him to poison or whatever human devilry had infected him. Mordor, in general, and she, in particular, needed every male orc that still breathed. Erm wasn't breathing well at all.

As the cart continued up the path, the great gate to the main entrance suddenly swung open. The driver screamed and pulled back on the reins. The entire entourage momentarily stopped in their tracks--until a single human figure appeared from behind the massive doors. It was the tall human Laky, brown skin shining in the sun. His face gleamed with joy. On his head was a flurry of pink blooms that he had plucked from the bushes and woven into a makeshift garland. "Victory! We have arrived," he roared in celebration.

"Take that off, fool," Peshtuk ordered. "That stuff on your head is poisonous. It'll make you sick."

Laky grabbed his stomach and laughed heartedly. "Bah. These are flowers. You orc-folk are getting sick from the flowers. You can't even appreciate their beauty because they make you sick."

"They don't make me sick, Laky," the Lady growled. "Just a few of us. Now what's going on behind the door?" She descended from the cart unaided and gestured for the others to follow. Tenuha and Grah helped the stricken Erm down from the cart.

"No one is here," Laky reported. "This place is empty. Not a sign of humans, other than the flower bushes they probably planted years ago. The main building yonder does smell faintly of orc."

The others followed him through the gates into a vast courtyard. Blallo was taken aback by the fate dealt to the once proud assembly grounds. When he last ventured into Minas Morgul, this place teemed with every type of soldier imaginable: run-of-the-mill Mordor orcs, swarthy Haradrim, Sauron's pasty-skinned Uruks, even a few of Saruman's eunuch Uruk Hai. The smell of their bodies used to entice the nostrils. Piles of ammunition and offal once gathered in the corners of the walls.

Back then, it was magnificent. Now it was, well, bright and shiny and deserted and clean. The horror of it threatened to overwhelm Blallo. "More evidence that the Gondorians have been here since the fall of the Eye," he said gloomily. "They've cleared away everything, everything remotely orcish."

"The Gondorians did a good job," Lady Gothmog noted. "Spanking clean. Looks magnificent." At her side Peshtuk shuddered. The Lady demanded cleanliness in her spacious home and weekly baths for all her staff. Most of orc society considered her penchant for cleanliness downright perverted. Peshtuk put up with her perversity, only because she let him continue satisfying his unending lust for her stunning body. He took his detested weekly baths without comment, like the unconquerable uruk that he was.

Laky guided them past the ruins of the half fallen tower to the entrance to the Great Hall of Minas Morgul. 

"No one's in here," he reiterated his claim. "But maybe we should be quiet, anyway, in case some Gondorian is hiding a cranny we may have missed."

The little troop padded quietly into the vast hall. Their eyes automatically swept upward to the ceiling many feet above their heads. With the exception of Blallo, none of them had ever been in a room half this large. Or one so devoid of bodies, furniture, refuse, and arms. The floor was spanking clean. Lady Gothmog sighed in real, physical satisfaction.

"Hee Hi Ya!" Defiant cries split the air. The Lady and their entourage automatically reached for their weapons. An innocuous door they had ignored suddenly burst open. Fifteen male bodies plunged out, waving weapons and screaming threats. Then the invaders stopped abruptly. They lowered their weapons slowly and gaped uncertainly at Lady Gothmog's people. For this rag tag band consisted entirely of those dear to the Eye: goblins, various strains of orc, uruks--even a Rhune-ish renegade human, and one black Orthanc uruk. 

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AUTHOR'S NOTES

* On the position of Keeper of the Keys. This is purely my invention, especially because Hurin appears in a number of my earlier stories. The Keeper of the Keys position is similar to the Lord High Mayor of London or mayor of any other large modern city. In my stories, the holder of this office is elected periodically by the people in Minas Tirith only--not the rest of Gondor. In my story "Avoidance," I had the Keeper of the Keys facilitate the Steward's Council in addition to running the day-to-day bureaucracy of Minas Tirith.