Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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Enter on Duty

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Chapter 8 - Enter on Duty

After three days of travelling, they rounded the last bend up a narrow, rocky path. They emerged from the tangled trees, and there it was, Minas Morgul, phosphorescent in the moonlight.

They rode over narrow bridge and entered the gates of the fortress. The gates banged shut behind them. Urzahil swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, his legs shaky with exertion. They were standing in the same courtyard where, two months ago, Gaerna had told them he wasn't coming back to Umbar with them.

It was late, and few were about. Sauron's Steward came down to meet them, his nightshirt not quite tucked in, his hair rumpled from sleep.

Orcs swarmed over the baggage cart, passing down bundles and bags. Urzahil saw one lift the chest and struggle with it towards the back of the cart.

"Be careful with that!" Urzahil warned.

The Orc wrestled Urzahil's chest over the side and lowered it into the arms of the companion, then let go of the rope handles the other Orc staggered backwards under the weight.

"Sauron's butt crack! What's in there, your rock collection?"

Urzahil glanced at the Steward, expecting him to react, but the Steward never looked up from his sheath of notes. Perhaps he didn't understand Black Speech? Or was that just how Orcs talked?

"Urzahil, one of the new emissaries? Let's see, where did I put you? Third floor overlooking the main gate. Follow me. Someone carry his things."

Urzahil followed the steward along a phosphorescent hallway, a broad flight of steps, and after that, a twist of spiral stairs built into the wall.

The Steward pushed open an ironbound door and stepped into the room. The light from his lamp revealed a large fireplace with a carved stone mantle, and a table with a pair of chairs.

The Orcs dropped his chest near the door with a thump and stood beside it. The Steward made a gesture of dismissal, and they scurried out of the room.

You can't see it at night, but this room has a view of the Ithilien valley," said the Steward.

Urzahil had been here just after Midsummer, when the High Valley was covered with dark purple flowers. He would enjoy seeing that again next year.

The Steward crossed the tiled floor and opened the door in the back of the room. Most of the small space was taken up by a canopied bed with embroidered hangings. There was also a washstand in the corner.

"Come find me in the morning, and we'll finish getting you settled." He said good night and left Urzahil alone. I have breaking

Half an hour later, Urzahil lay in the center of the curtained bed. With his arms outstretched, he could just touch either side. The rounded bolster reached from one side to the other, and plumped out the slim feather pillows. The walls glowed faintly green, and their light competed with the light from the full moon streaming through the window.

-o-o-o-o-o-

When Urzahil woke, daylight filled the room. The morning was half gone. He dressed and went into the outer room, where breakfast had been laid out on the table for him.

He picked up a slice of bread. 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

finely ground wheat flour. Back home, only poor people would eat this.

After he finished eating, he went downstairs and found the Steward in his office.

"Urzahil, how are you settling in?" The Steward asked.

"Your rank as an emissary entitles you to a servant who will see to your needs. Most likely it will be an Orc. I don't expect you're used to them, but they make perfectly good servants." He pulled out a list. "Of course you know that Sauron is our Master. We address him as Lord Zigûr, which means Wizard, or Tar-Mairon, which means Admirable Lord.

"The Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths, are his most powerful servants. They've served him for thousands of years, and each of them wears one of the Great Rings. They fall just below our Master in rank. You should take an order from a Nazgûl as if it came from Sauron himself, because it may have."

"How do you tell the Nazgûl apart?" asked Urzahil.

"You can't. They all look alike. The Witch King of Angmar is taller than the others, and on State occasions, he wears a steel crown. As for the others, it's anybody's guess."

The Steward leaned forward and lowered his voice.

"You need to know, it can be hard to be around the Nazgûl. They're Undead, and carry an aura of fear about them. It makes some people go to pieces. But you're a Sorcerer, right?"

Urzahil nodded. He'd had three University-level courses in Sorcery at the Seminary.

"Then you're used to supernatural things. The Undead shouldn't bother you much."

The Steward began to shuffle papers as if the appointment were coming to an end.

"Oh, one other thing. You should see the tailor as soon as possible. You'll need proper clothing for official occasions. You know, black."

"Don't people in Mordor wear black all the time?" asked Urzahil.

"The Nazgûl's robes are black, so are the soldiers' uniforms. As for the rest of us, we only where black on formal occasions. The rest of the time, we wear whatever's handy. Just make sure that you don't have on bright colors when foreign guests are there to see you. We have a reputation to maintain."

The Steward gave him in advance on his stipend so he could pay the tailor. Urzahil pressed his lips together. At the Temple, their ceremonial robes were provided to them. His stipend in Mordor was higher, but it had to cover more.

"Do you think the tailor can have my robes finished before I'm summoned for an audience with Sauron?" asked Urzahil.

"There's time. Sauron's overseeing the rebuilding of Barad-dûr. He won't be back for several days."

Urzahil's shoulders sagged. He'd hoped for an audience before the Dark Throne, or at least to be summoned to Sauron's private study. Urzahil had completely rearranged his life and traveled a long distance to be here. It would've been nice if Sauron had bothered to greet him properly.