Another Man's Trash by Uvatha the Horseman

Chapter 6 - Petty Cash

Chapter 6 - Petty Cash

At first light, Saruman and Urzahil hiked down the promontory. Smoke rose from Orodruin like the coils of a snake. They crossed through the Elvish camp to reach the foot of the slender bridge.

Saruman was about to climb the steps to the main gate when a tremor shook the ground. He froze. "Before we go in, I'd like to take another look at the foundations."

He retraced his steps to the point where he'd stood the day before. The path had almost disappeared, and only a few feet separated him from the drop to the plateau, a thousand feet below. Urzahil trailed behind, hugging the wall and looking unhappy.

Saruman peered below the western wall. The corner of the foundations had sagged at least two feet since yesterday, and the slab seemed to have thinned and extruded around the edges. Not good.

"What do you see?" asked Urzahil.

"Nothing worth mentioning," Saruman said, avoiding his eye.

Above their heads, a crack ran across the face of the wall. The stones had begun to pull apart, leaving a gap between the blocks wider than his fist. The Fortress was settling and beginning to disintegrate. They didn't have much time.

"What about that crack?" asked Urzahil.

"Don't worry about it. It was there yesterday." Not true. The crack was new, but Saruman didn't want to scare off his expert guide.

They hiked back to the main gates. By the time they reached them, Saruman was sweating from more than the sun.

Inside, Urzahil lifted a torch from a bracket. He spoke a few words, and it burst into flame. He really was a magician in his own right, at least in terms of having mastered a few basic spells.

They passed the double doors of the audience chamber. Beyond it, the finely-made torch brackets were replaced by bundles of reeds, and the plaster walls by the entrance gave way to rough stone. The smell of new wood stirred a memory that hovered just outside conscious thought.

"Why does the high-quality workmanship stop after we pass the audience hall?" he asked his guide.

"Everything an ambassador might see on the way from the front gates to the Dark Throne was made to impress. Everything else has to wait until later," said Urzahil.

"I'd like to see Sauron's study first. You said he kept things there that were too important to store in a vault? Take me to them," said Saruman, strengthening the persuasion spell.

They passed the grand staircase and plunged deeper into the fortress. A little further along the corridor, a door lay on the flagstones, torn from its hinges and smashed to bits. Inside the room it had once protected, handfuls of gold reflected the torchlight and solitary coins trailed into the hall.

Urzahil waved his hands in the air. "That is so wrong. A week ago, every coffer was neatly stacked, and every coin inside had been counted and entered into a manifest. We knew exactly what we had, and the records were in perfect order." He seemed to be more upset over the destroyed paperwork than the loss of the gold.

"This was the Treasury?" asked Saruman. It was staggering to think how much treasure must have been kept here originally.

"No, petty cash. The Treasury is in the sub-basements."

They turned a corner and surprised a dozen Orcs sitting on the floor. They were eating a meal, breaking bones and sucking out the marrow. One of the larger Orcs jumped up and drew a blade. The edge flashed silver-white in the torchlight. Saruman just about wet himself.

Urzahil descended on the Orc captain, shaking his finger like an angry schoolteacher. "Do you take this corridor for a mess hall? I thought not. What's your number? Return to your post. Now!"

Their leader shuffled off, looking chastised. The others hoisted themselves to their feet and followed him.

"Did you use the spell on them?" asked Saruman.

"It wasn't necessary. Those particular Orcs know who I am. They're used to taking orders from me."

The bureaucrat has hidden depths. For the first time since Saruman had decided to become a Ringlord, he considered asking Urzahil to be his second-in-command.

Urzahil led them further down the corridor. Leather-bound volumes lay in the hallway by an open door. Urzahil approached the door and froze.

Saruman looked over his shoulder. Whole shelves had been emptied. Heaps of books lay beneath them, some with their pages ripped out, some torn to pieces. Trails of black showed where pots of ink had been spilled on them.

One whole wall of books was just gone. The floor in front of the bookcases was empty. Urzahil backed away, shaking his head. "This is bad. This is very bad. Those were sacred texts about Melkor, the first Dark Lord. They were our only record of what happened at Utumno and Angband."

"Is this the work of Orcs?"

"Orcs wouldn't have defiled sacred texts," said Urzahil.

They left the library without searching it. "Shall we go to Sauron's study?" Saruman asked.

Urzahil walked in silence. Around the next corner, man lay slumped against the wall. He wore formal robes similar to Urzahil's. His throat had been pierced by an arrow. Urzahil knelt beside the body and touched his face.

"You knew him?" asked Saruman.

"We weren't friends. More like rivals. But we worked together and I never thought anything bad would happen to him." Urzahil sat back on his heels and stared into space.

In the distance, they heard the tromp of heavy boots and the sound of a war chant. Orcs. "I'm sorry to rush you, but this would be a good time to use your Orc-Be-Gone spell," said Saruman. The chanting started up again, closer than before. "Let's get out of here."

"You don't understand. He wasn't killed by Orcs. This is an Elvish arrow."