Elffled tightened her grip upon the heavy platter to keep her fingers from trembling. She stood paralyzed in the servants' doorway, the great hall looming before her as an insurmountable obstacle. The noise of the crowd beyond roared in her ears, dozens of conversations, bursts of raucous laughter, and the clatter of eating utensils blending together into one unbearable sound. The urge came over her to run away, but she felt rooted in place, as though her feet had been nailed to the floor.

"You can do this."

The soft voice cut into her dismal thoughts, and Elffled turned to see Rufina at her side, platter in hand. She felt comforted by the sight of her friend, but her terror was no less great.

"There are so many people," Elffled whimpered, her eyes glazing over. She wished her sister were with her, or better yet, that her sister would take her place. Elfhild was brave enough to perform upon the stage; serving guests at a feast would be an easy task for her. However, she was working on the opposite end of the hall, and Elffled would see little of her until their duties were over for the night.

"Fortunately, you will not be serving all of them," Rufina told her reassuringly. "Only the first three tables on the left side of the hall will be your responsibility. After you deliver your platter to the first table, you will return to the kitchen and get the next one. When you have served all three tables, you are to stand along the wall and watch your guests with the eyes of a hawk. Ensure that their goblets never run dry, and that any wants they might have are swiftly addressed."

Elffled sighed with resignation. "I will try."

Clenching the platter in her white-knuckled hands, she stepped over the threshold into the din of the great hall.

While Elffled had been assigned kitchen duty many times on the journey to Nurn, her tasks generally involved preparing meals and scouring pans. The few times she had been tasked with serving her fellow captives, she had stood beside the enormous camp cauldrons and doled out the allocated amount of stew or gruel into each bowl which was presented to her. There were no tables to attend, and the hungry masses came to her, rather than the other way around. She did not have to worry about trying to please anyone, for the captives were considered the lowliest of slaves in the eyes of the overseers, regardless of whatever wealth or rank they held before the war. Most of the people in Esarhaddon's hall were nobles or merchants, however, and she had to be appropriately deferential and anticipate their needs before they even realized what they were.

It was not all the bowing and fawning which concerned her; after being a slave of Mordor for months, she was quite accustomed to that. No, it was the heavy weight of responsibility and expectation which weighed down her spirit and filled her with terror. For a time on the journey, she had served Esarhaddon and his bodyguards their meals, but this hall was filled with dozens of Esarhaddons, and men and women who were even more powerful in the hierarchy of Mordor. If she made even a single mistake, she would incur the wrath of the guests in her charge, as well as Esarhaddon, whose house she was representing.

At least she was not serving the high board. She took solace in that comforting thought.

While the celebrations at Esarhaddon's villa were held to commemorate the arrival of the merchant's youngest son into the world, the babe was far too young to understand the honors that were being bestowed upon him. Therefore, the festivities were more about Esarhaddon's love of grand spectacles and lavish banquets, and his desire to show off his wealth to those of lower status and impress those who held greater influence than him. Since his most important guest was Governor Veryatur, a Black Númenórean, Esarhaddon decided that the food, music, and entertainments at the feast should be reminiscent of coastal life and the sea.

Umbarian culture was not alien to Esarhaddon. His wives Kulianna and Tiranna – the mothers of Abaru and Kabtu – had been of Haradric and Umbarian descent. Several of the melodies which he had instructed the musicians to play had been favorites of theirs, and a wistful sentimentality washed over him as he thought of the two women who had been taken far too soon by the grim spectre of death. While the Haradric merchant did not care much for fish, he had purposefully chosen sturgeon from the Sea of Nurnen as one of the main courses in the hopes of impressing Governor Veryatur and his family. The sturgeon was poached in a sauce of spiced red wine and garnished with mashed figs; a decadent dish for decadent tastes. Companion dishes included a barley pilaf seasoned with herbs and topped with toasted almonds; roasted eggplant with garlic and sesame; leeks glazed with vinegar and honey; and a variety of other accompaniments which were perhaps simpler but no less delicious.

While guests were enjoying the hospitality of his house, Esarhaddon would do everything possible to ensure that all would be comfortable, no matter their culture or place of birth. He had always found this practice did much to help business, especially with those who were easily influenced. Although he had arranged for the feast to appeal to the Black Númenóreans among his guests, he drew the line at dressing as a Black Númenórean himself. He felt that their ornate robes of thick velvet and heavy brocade were impractical for the climate of this part of Nurn. The flowing garments of the South were as much a part of himself as the soles on his feet, and he had chosen a newly tailored kaftan – crafted from green and gold fabric, the colors of the House of Huzziya – as his attire for the evening.

Shumeeren, however, had decided to embrace the opulence of the Black Númenóreans, bedecking herself in the sumptuous styles favored by the Mordorian elite. Her handmaiden had spent hours arranging her hair into an intricate hairstyle: two small sections of her wavy brown hair had been curled into tight ringlets around her temples, and the fine hairs which framed her forehead had been coated in pomade and laid out in a pattern which resembled waves. Half of her thick tresses had been pulled away from her face and braided into two plaits interwoven with golden cord which were wound together into a loose bun at the back of her head, while the rest of her hair hung in long ringlets down her back.

In addition to her complicated hairstyle, the First Wife had chosen an extravagant gown for the feast. The bodice was a rich brocade woven from threads of black and emerald into an ornate geometric pattern, and the full satin skirt parted like two broad leaves to reveal an underskirt as dark as a moonless night. The upper portion of the sleeves had been crafted of rich green velvet which hugged the lady's arms, while the lower half was a diaphanous silk which had been cut into a dramatic flare that draped gracefully past her hips. She had chosen a festoon necklace of emerald and gold to match her gown, and, as always, she wore her cherished pendant of the Great Eye made from carnelian and onyx.

While the other women of Esarhaddon's house dressed in finery befitting the occasion, their choice of attire was far different from that of Shumeeren's dark splendor. Anúrnissa wore her usual pastels, choosing a lavender gown adorned with a panel of silver embroidery down the front. Resentful that she had been forced to attend the feast, Goldwyn donned an austere gray dress which did little to flatter her coloring, and made her appear pale and sickly.

As Esarhaddon looked out over the assembled crowd – who were happily engaged in eating, drinking, and lively conversation – a strange mixture of feelings stirred within him. The music and merry din should have raised his spirits, and indeed his mood was light for the most part, but yet a part of him felt an uneasy sense of discontent. None of these people knew of his recent illness, of the injuries he had received at the gnarled hands of the forest wight, the nightmares which had troubled his sleep, the exhaustion which had sapped his strength. Even though the notion was completely irrational, he felt a twinge of resentment towards his guests for having the gall to remain ignorant to his recent troubles.

Such thoughts were foolish; he should be celebrating his return to health along with the birth of his son. However, it seemed that some part of the shadow still lingered upon his heart.

One hand wrapped around the handle of the wine jug and the other supporting it with her palm, Elffled leaned back against the wall. She rose up on her toes, attempting to relieve the ache from standing for so long by using a stretch she had learned in Mistress Dariya's dance class. Despite her complaining feet, she was actually having a pleasant time at the feast – a development which came as a great surprise to her. After serving her three assigned tables with no mishaps, her initial terror began to subside, and she began to breathe a little easier. The guests paid little heed to her, which made her exceedingly glad, for she preferred to go unnoticed.

With her mind no longer focused upon fears of failure and mortal humiliation, Elffled began to observe the people seated in her section, eavesdropping upon their conversations in hopes of hearing some juicy bit of gossip or tidings of interest. The first table was occupied by some of the more wealthy and prosperous villagers from the nearby settlement of Blûgund. The hunt was the topic which was on everyone's lips, especially the sudden, unexpected appearance of the great black boar which had come from the Thraqum Wood. Some of the villagers muttered that the animal was a cursed fiend from the world between light and dark, and that its appearance had been a dire omen of impending doom.

"These old eyes do not see so well as they once did, but what I beheld this morning turned my heart to ice." The miller, an aged graybeard, stared at his supper companions with cloudy eyes still haunted by the monster which they had seen. "The beaters were careless and ventured too far into that place of creeping evil."

"Superstitious nonsense," muttered the blacksmith, a burly man who was as hairy as a bear. "While that boar is bigger than most, it is still a creature of mortal flesh and blood."

"I would not be so sure about that," the miller dourly intoned, shaking his head. "Every spear which struck the boar was as harmless to it as the bite of a gnat, and the blows which pierced its hide drew black blood which smoked and sizzled when it hit the ground."

"Inferior craftsmanship of the spears and lack of skill on the part of the hunters, I would wager," the blacksmith scoffed. "If those spears had come from my shop, they would have pierced deeper into the boar's flesh and brought the beast down before it could escape into the forest."

"Do not be so quick to dismiss the Black Boar of the Thraqum Wood, good smith."

Everyone at the table started at the solemn voice of the village priest.

"The forest lays under the punishment of the Lord of Middle-earth, and it is unwise to provoke the creatures that dwell within its bounds, lest you share in their curse," the grim-faced cleric intoned. "There are far worse things in the Thraqum Wood than the boar! I pray that none of you ever meet them."

Dread struck Elffled like a bolt of lightning, for this was her first experience with the clergy of Mordor. What sort of man would dedicate his life to the worship of the Dark Lord? She cautiously studied the priest, taking care not to attract his attention.

A man of middle years, the priest looked quite ordinary, the sort of fellow one would see in the marketplace and then instantly forget. His garments, though, gave him an air of importance, and he looked quite imposing in his hooded robe of ashen gray. Around his shoulders was a gold-plated mantle adorned with a single carnelian cut in the shape of the Great Eye, an emblem of his high office. A wide crimson sash was wrapped about his chest and cinched with a finely tooled leather belt, and a dagged kilt crafted of the same material and embroidered with esoteric symbols was layered over the skirt of his long gray robe.

The priest did not seem all that frightening, Elffled mused to herself once she had completed her survey. In any event, she had no plans to offend the man.

She turned her attention to the second table, where a number of lively conversations were taking place. Most of the guests here seemed to hail from the city of Turkûrzgoi, although one family had traveled all the way from Kuga Mos, a city which lay over a hundred miles to the west of Esarhaddon's villa. They all wore much finer garments than the villagers, a reflection of their more cosmopolitan origins.

One of the men, the head of the Turkûrzgoi Guild of Weaponsmiths, was boasting about the sheer number of swords, axes, spears, and bows that the guild had crafted since the war began, with new orders coming in almost every week. "The smiths of Nurn will assure Mordor's victory and help usher in a new golden age of Middle-earth," the man boasted, his words inspiring his companions to whoop and cheer and lift their goblets in a toast. Further down the table, two women were discussing the upcoming winter solstice festival which would be held in the city. One of the women, a baker by profession, stated that she planned to make an even greater number of treats this year, because she had run out of gingerbread the year before. "The festival brings so many people from both near and far to the city," she said in a voice tinged with both pride and intimidation. A short distance away from the two women, a scholar from the University of Turkûrzgoi was engaged in an intellectual discussion with a purveyor of relics, antiques, and oddities. "An illuminated volume of Khandian poetry was recently donated to the library," the scholar remarked. "Some of the lays in this anthology are quite ancient, with a few dating all the way back to the First Age."

The booming, jovial voice of a man quite pleased with himself drew Elffled's attention to the third table, where the lord of a small estate was bragging about his recent appointment. "While I will miss the good people of Nurn, I eagerly count the days until my family and I depart for Minas Tirith. It is an honor to take part in the reclamation of Gondor, and I look forward to serving as deputy scribe to the commander of the city."

"Do you not fear the Gondorians?" asked a wide-eyed young woman, who was obviously quite impressed by the boastful nobleman. "They are a fearsome, barbaric people, or so I have been told."

"Minas Tirith is securely under Mordorian control," he assured her with a confident smile. "Our forces hold much of eastern Gondor, from Anórien in the north to the fiefs of Lossarnach and Lebennin in the south. While the Gondorians still offer much resistance, our soldiers have established a firm foothold which they refuse to relinquish. It may take some time ere the Gondorian rebels are subdued completely, but the might of Mordor shall prevail."

"Oh, I hope so," the young woman sighed, earning a glare from the nobleman's wife, who was resentful of the attention she was paying her husband. "The Great One only wants to bring peace and order to all of Middle-earth, but wicked men attempt to defy Him every chance they get."

"To achieve peace, it is often necessary to wage war." The great weight of solemnity filled the nobleman's voice. "One day, all lands will be united under the banner of the Great Eye, but first all remnants of the old order must be vanquished by fire and sword. When the tides of blood recede, a new Middle-earth shall be revealed, one free of chaos and disharmony, reforged and made great by the Master's hand."

A shudder slithered its way down Elffled's spine, and she closed her ears to the rest of the nobleman's conversation. How easily these people called for the deaths of those who opposed them, as though the only ones whose lives mattered were those who supported their dark master.

Her ewer now empty, Elffled made her way back to the kitchen to fetch more wine for the guests. She was very grateful for the brief reprieve from her duties, and as the din of the crowd faded behind her, she felt a sense of relief wash over her overwhelmed senses.

That relief soon vanished when she arrived at the kitchen, where she was met by a scene of utter chaos.

Slamming her platter down on the nearby work table, one of the serving maids ran out of the room, sobbing and clutching her stomach. Esarhaddon's head cook, a pudgy man with a ruddy face and a comically large mustache, cursed angrily and flung his arms up in frustration. Mistress Saffron, who had been helping oversee the students charged with tending to the feast, fretfully wrung her hands and bit at her knuckles.

"Curse that wretched girl and her watery bowels!" the head cook bellowed, throwing his stirring spoon at the opposing wall.

Her arms outstretched in a pleading gesture, Mistress Saffron followed the cook as he paced around the room. "You must not be angry at her, for she cannot help herself!"

"Then she should be assigned to cleaning the privy, because she is in there so often!"

At that moment, both cooks suddenly became aware of Elffled's presence.

"Oh, Fleda, there you are!" Mistress Saffron exclaimed, rushing over to her. "We need you to serve the high table." She shoved a freshly filled wine ewer into her hands.

"But – but I am only a novice," Elffled protested, her mind reeling with confusion. "This is my first time serving at a feast."

"Great, just great!" The head cook heaved out a great sigh and shook his head in dismay. "We got one soiling herself, and the other has absolutely no idea what she is doing."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures." Mistress Saffron gave Elffled a push towards the door, causing the wine to slosh around in the ewer with a few drops spilling over the side. "You must hurry, for the guests do not like to be kept waiting!"

Terror coiled around Elffled's stomach as she departed from the kitchen, and she wondered if she would end up in the privy along with the other poor wretch.

Esarhaddon was momentarily taken aback by the sudden sight of Elffled refilling his goblet of wine. Alarm bells rang their clarion cry inside his head, for novices never served the high table. Something must have happened to one of the apprentices, and Elffled had been assigned to take her place. This was a most concerning development, for the girl had never served at a large feast before.

A trial by fire, Esarhaddon mused to himself.

He certainly hoped she succeeded. Mostly for his own sake. He had no desire to be embarrassed before all his guests by an incompetent serving maid.

Along the edges of the great hall had been arranged potted plants of various shapes and sizes, all planted within ceramic containers which were painted with colorful motifs. At her assigned spot behind the high table, Elffled stood as motionless as the decorative vegetation; perhaps more so, for the leaves and fronds were stirred every now and then by a wayward breeze. Her hands were in a death grip upon the wine ewer, and her entire body tensed as though she were a soldier on the front lines waiting for the enemy to charge.

Just a short distance away from where she stood was the central table of the high board. Esarhaddon sat at the very center of the table, with the members of his family on his left. To his right sat the family of Governor Veryatur, followed by Shakh Ruzad, the village elder of Blûgund, and his wife Kaltarti.

Elffled knew that such influential personages would surely have interesting things to say, and so she tried to distract herself from her anxiety by eavesdropping upon their conversations. She was especially interested in Governor Veryatur and his wife, the esteemed Lady Belzîra. Equally tall in stature, the lord and lady both had raven hair, pale skin, and gray eyes. So similar in appearance were they that Elffled briefly wondered if they were related, for they looked like two identical copies of the same person, albeit of different genders. In their opulent regalia, the couple was a vision of magnificence.

"Surely this is how kings and queens must dress," Elffled thought to herself, admiring the ensemble worn by Lady Belzîra. Upon her dark hair rested a golden circlet bedecked with small stones, and gold discs hung from her ears. Her gown was a deep crimson with a brocaded design of gold leaves, and she wore a purple mantle draped about her shoulders, the edges of the garment held secure by a golden chain attached to two bejeweled broaches.

The governor wore a regal robe of dark green which had been richly embroidered with a crisscross mesh of braided gold cord around the sleeves, neckline and shoulders. Several grandiose medallions hung about his neck; there was a ring upon every finger on his hands; and around his waist was a belt of gold which had been fitted with green stones. Upon his brow rested the coronet of the Western Province, which had been presented to his house when Sauron returned to Mordor. The golden coronet had four spiked crenellations, representing the four provinces of Nurn, and a repeating pattern of the Great Eye in raised filigree encircled the band. At its center was a deep green bloodstone flecked with red inclusions, flanked on either side by smaller stones of carnelian and peridot.

While the lord and lady were both comely to behold, their son was far less pleasant on the eyes. Hyrano was tall and lanky, and his skin was fair, pallid in fact, and Elffled wondered if the sun's light had ever touched it. His dark hair was cut short and barely grazed the tops of his shoulders, and it was as straight and thin as a black thread stretched taut. He was exceedingly thin, so much so that she wondered if some loathsome parasite inhabited his bowels. Indeed, he reminded her much of a worm himself. His rich purple robes, which had been tailored to fit snugly to his body, only served to accentuate the scrawniness of his frail form.

"Shakh Esarhaddon, the laborers are just beginning to tread the grapes at my father's estate," Hyrano drawled slowly as he scratched a small blemish that had dared to erupt a ruddy crater on his beardless jaw.

"My estate boasts no vineyards, for my holdings are far too small," Esarhaddon replied, turning to look at the young man who sat beside him. "My interests lie in commerce, not farming."

"I cannot say that my interests lie in agriculture either." Hyrano put his hand over his mouth to catch a yawn. "My concerns are with more lofty matters than raising goats and sheep, or measuring the yield of grain in the fall. My involvement is in government, and I daresay that I would be as adequate a ruler as my sire. However, I do like to watch the maidens when they tread the grapes." His eyes glowed with ill-concealed excitement. "They pull their skirts far up above their knees, and their damp garments drape about their bodies until every detail of their lissome forms can be seen." Content that he had finally vanquished the blemish upon his face, he took a delicate linen handkerchief from his left sleeve and dabbed daintily at his jaw.

Revealing no emotion on his features, Esarhaddon nodded to the youth and studied him through half-hooded eyes as he drank from his goblet. "My lord, there are many joys when the time of the grape treading is upon us, but the rounded form of a woman is always a delight to the eyes."

"Oh, indeed," Hyrano squealed. "I could watch them all day long! They look so put upon, their feet tromping up and down as their bare legs take on the color of the grapes."

Elffled remembered hearing rumors which said that Hyrano was a very lustful youth who chased his lovers through the governor's villa like a stallion, neighing and snorting, and had a bed chamber lined with looking glasses. Supposedly he was quite popular with the ladies, although he refused to claim any children whom he sired as his own. She wondered how any woman could find the gangly worm the least bit attractive, and surmised that they were more impressed with his riches than they were with the man himself.

Growing bored of Hyrano's insipid ramblings, Elffled turned her attention to some of the other conversations which were taking place at the high board.

Two other tables had been positioned on either side of the central table, forming an angular semi-circle. In her quiet observation of her surroundings, Elffled had learned the identities of Esarhaddon's other supper companions. Seated at the table on the right were General Zedeal, the commander of the garrison at the Fortress of Durbûrzkala, and Torthor, prosperous olive merchant and head of the Southern Merchants' Council of Nurn. Seated at the table on the left were Erkanan, Esarhaddon's brother and the head of the House of Huzziya; Kaishal, one of the most influential salt merchants in all of Nurn and Esarhaddon's father-in-law; and Sandana, the elderly vintner to whom Abaru was apprenticed. Each guest had brought their families with them to the feast, making the high board quite a crowded place.

Elffled carefully observed Erkanan uHuzzyia, entertaining an idle curiosity about the other members of Esarhaddon's family. There was a strong family resemblance between the two brothers, although Erkanan appeared to be a decade older and a foot taller than Esarhaddon. Abaru was telling his uncle about the various lessons that Shakh Sandana was teaching him about running an estate, while Kabtu eagerly waited his turn to start talking about the progress he was making in his sword fighting lessons. Elffled could not help but smile in amusement at Kabtu's childish impatience, and feel a sense of admiration at how mature and earnest Abaru seemed when discussing his education.

Her gaze turned to Sandana; here was the elderly vintner to whom Abaru was apprenticed. He appeared to be a kindly old man, though that was impossible to determine by mannerism and appearance alone. Abaru had told her that Sandana was a lover of art, music, and poetry, and this was evident by the vintner's choice of conversation topics. He was telling Kaiskal, his neighbor at the table, about the poetry contest he was organizing to promote aspiring poets in the Western Province. The challenge would be to depict the beauty of the Nurnian landscape through verse, and the winner would receive a year of patronage as the resident poet of Sandana's house. The salt merchant had little interest in the arts, however, and steered the conversation towards the outrageous profits he had been making as a result of the army's enormous demand for salt.

A spilled goblet at the table to the right of the central place of honor sent Elffled and another serving maid scurrying to clean up the mess. After all the wine was sopped up, the other maid carried the sodden cloths back to the kitchen, while Elffled returned to her station to await further orders. A few lines from a conversation between General Zedeal and Torthor piqued her curiosity, and she listened more closely to what the two men were saying.

"The attacks on the southern caravans are becoming more frequent," Torthor stated gravely. "While the wastes of Northern Harad have always been a dangerous region for travelers, the situation has gotten worse since the war began."

"The Mushma Confederation controls that territory." The general's brow furrowed as he thoughtfully stroked his beard. "It is their responsibility to patrol the wastes and keep bandits in check."

"With so many of the seven tribes' warriors fighting in the West, the tribesmen are hard pressed to protect the wild regions. These brigands are also more organized and vicious than most." Torthor's voice lowered, and Elffled strained her ears to hear what he was saying over the clink of goblets and clatter of spoons and knives. "Three days ago, I attended an urgent council which had been called by the governor of the Southern Province. During the council, an ambassador from the Mushma Confederation approached Lady Ninurisa with a formal request for aid from Mordor. The request has since been sent to Barad-dûr."

General Zedeal's eyes widened in surprise. "For the tribal leaders to request aid in the midst of war means that the situation with the caravan raiders is dire indeed."

Torthor nodded. "The seven tribes have more woes than just brigands. The death of the Mushma chieftain at the Battle of Pelennor Fields was a devastating blow, for his son and only heir is too young to take up the banner of the Black Serpent and assume control of the confederation. The chieftain's brother will be ruling the seven tribes until the boy comes of age, but not all are pleased with this arrangement."

"I, too, have heard rumors along these lines, although as a garrison commander, I am mainly concerned about what goes on within Mordor, not what transpires beyond its borders. Nurn has troubles enough without having to borrow those from other lands." General Zedeal glanced around to see if any of the other guests were listening to them; when he seemed satisfied that they were engrossed in their own conversations, he continued. "A group of thieves and outlaws who call themselves the Crimson Spurge have been stirring up unrest amongst the slaves from the western estates. However, I am confident that the Mordorian Guard will rip this Crimson Spurge from the earth and stomp out the seeds of rebellion before they have a chance to take root."

Elffled's heart pounded wildly in her chest. While the affairs of the Haradrim were little more than a passing curiosity to her, she was astonished by this talk of the Red Spurge. Who would be foolish enough to defy the might of the Dark Lord within the bounds of Mordor itself? She felt as though she had heard something which she should not have, and her stomach quivered with dread.

At that moment, Esarhaddon rose to his feet and announced that it would soon be time for the dance to begin. The sound of cheering roared in Elffled's ears as her eyes glazed over, her gaze fixed upon some nonexistent point in front of her. Walls of sound and movement seemed to close in around her, and she felt as though she were retreating within herself, far from the chaos and noise of the reveling crowd.