General Ghâshbúrz crossed the alley between the infantry tents and continued his way towards the pavilion in the middle of the camp. He did not enjoy the company of the Mouth of Sauron nor the Nazgûl, so he had developed a habit of taking long walks to the perimeters of the camp when the weather conditions permitted it. It was the only way he could spend time in his own company since the arrival of his unnerving guests from Mordor.
When the outlines of the command tent loomed in sight as he circled around a cliff, Ghâshbùrz understood that something was wrong. The fellbeasts were gone, all but one. The blackest and largest of the beasts stood behind the pavilion, staring at Ghâshbúrz with it’s small, beady eyes as he approached it.
The military camp was eerily silent. The few orcs Ghâshbúrz saw standing or walking about were all trying their hardest not to look Ghâshbúrz in the eye or in the direction of the pavilion. Most orcs were, Ghâshbúrz assumed, hiding inside their own tents. The ones outside were either walking briskly to be somewhere else or standing on guard duty.
Ghâshbúrz could have stopped someone and asked what was going on, but it was not fitting for a general to ask such things from common soldiers. Generals were supposed know everything that was happening inside their own camp, or at least fake it if they did not. Ghâshbúrz had no alternative but to continue walking towards the doorway of the pavilion that loomed ahead like the gate to Mordor.
”Get in, General.”
The rasping, distorted voice did not sound happy, but then, what would a ’happy’ Mouth of Sauron sound anyway? Would even his own mother have known the answer to that question? Ghâshbúrz found it impossible to imagine that the shriveled, decaying creature in the tent had ever been a small and helpless suckling feeding off it’s mother’s teats, but once upon a time it must have. That is how all two-legged creatures began their journey from the womb towards their graves, even orcs.
Ghâshbúrz felt the edge of fear as he always did in the presence of the Mouth of Sauron. The nameless Black Númenorean smelled of corruption and rotting death. His flesh around his mouth was white and bloated and reminded Ghâshbúrz of a body of a dead fish washed along the shoreline.
Suddenly Ghâshbúrz realized that the pavilion seemed emptier than before. The Nazgûl never spoke, they were always hiding in the shadows and in the dark corners of the tent, but they had never left it before. Not since they had arrived, as far as Ghâshbúrz was aware. But now there was only one left, and the spiked crown of steel above the deadly gleam of his eyes gave away his identity: The Witch-King of Angmar, the Lord of the Nazgûl.
”Where are the rest?” Ghâshbúrz asked.
”Gone”, the Mouth of Sauron snarled. ”They have left.”
Ghâshbúrz stared at the decaying old face and the spiky helmet covering most of it.
”Gone?” he repeated. ”Does that mean that it’s time? Are we marching to Imladris?”
”No.” The Mouth of Sauron hissed like a snake being poked with a stick. ”The Nazgûl are returning to Mordor. And so shall we all. I stayed behind to give you my final order in person. You are to prepare the army for a long march to Mordor.”
”Mordor? We are not marching to Imladris? But what about the invasion? The assassination of Elrond?”
”General Ghâshbúrz, there will be no assassination. No invasion. Everything has gone awry.” The Mouth of Sauron paused. A horrific grimace distorted the pale, translucent features of the Black Númenorean. ”Our agents in the Trollshaws will be left behind to tie up all the loose ends there. Maybe they can still achieve some small victory for the Dark Lord. But there is nothing more for us to do here. We must go back.”
Ghâshbúrz stood still a moment, staring at the corpselike face, what little of it was visible beneath the huge helmet. He smelled the reek of death, smelled the corruption. The fellbeast outside let out a blood-curdling, ululating shriek. The horrific, cold sound kept echoing from the Misty Mountains for so long Ghâshbúrz began to wonder if it would ever stop.
