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.