A new sun rose in the East, giving the first premises of the coming heath.
The red light covered the still-asleep City of Bar Makan, in the Haradwaith, coloring the white houses with an air of fresh blood.
The only moving beings to be seen were a few birds flying high in the cloudless sky, trying to find dead flesh in these wasted lands.
Then, a sudden roll of thunder coming from the North broke the silence, awaking the City.
The sleepy guards of the doors roused quickly and horns sounded the alarm, as a group of more than a hundred riders dressed in black armour appeared on the Harad Road.
In the awoken City, thousands of men began running around the now-crowded streets, some looking for weapons, some for informations, all trying to do something.
Then, as the riders came clousers, a shout rose from the Guard Tower, full of fear and anger.
”Mordor! Mordor! The Eye is Coming!”
The shout was soon repeated in all the streets, and panic became even greater.
”Mordor! Mordor as come! The war is preparing! Mordor! Alert! The Dark Lord is calling for us!”
The riders stopped at ten paces from the doors, and their leader made one more step, looking up at the Gate Guards.
All the riders were wearing black armours, as thick and solid as the Power of Mordor was able to do, and on their black helmet was drawed the Great Eye.
All became silent. Even the birds stopped their cries, as if awaiting the message of Sauron.
”Haradrims!”, became the leader of the riders.
”The Dark Lord needs you. The Dark Lord wants you. Come and fight for your Master, or you’ll burn into the flames of Mount Doom!”.
He waited a few seconds, as if to let the information come to the brain of the Haradrims.
”To you shall I read the will of the Dark Lord.”
He produced a piece of parchment.
”To me shall the City of Bar Makan give a thousand good men, all skilled with blades and bows. With them shall come two Mumakils with the needed men to conduct them. They will be at the Black Gate two weeks after the message is delivered.”
The rider folded the parchment and put in into his saddlebag.
”When the Dark Lord calls, he expect to be answered. We will kill a hundred women or children by days of late. Be hasty, Haradrims. The Dark Lord is waiting.”
Two hours after the riders’ departure, a list of the men who would go into Mordor was to be seen on the front door of the Castle of Bar Makan.
With a sigh, Jyras Kornes looked at his name, at the far end of the list, one of the last to be called.
In his head, he cursed the Dark Lord, and all the circumstances that had lead to him going into Mordor, and the Eye knew where else.
He cursed the Men of Gondor who threatened the mighty power of Sauron.
He cursed the Elves and the Dwarves who would never come to the Shadow.
He cursed the stinking Orcs who would certainly be there, in this cursed land that was Mordor.
But the main thing that stayed in his mind was fear.
Fear of death, and fear of something more horrible than death itself.
There was one thing he had heard about Mordor that he had always fear to check one day.
The presence of the nine main servants of the Dark Lord.
He feared the Nazgul, and their leader, the Witch-King of Angmar.
But who was he to refuse the will of the Eye?
None would risk it, anyway?
The Dark Lord was mighty, powerful, tricksy.
His spies were everywhere, and his Eye sees all.
With a last desperate sigh, Jyras went to his house and, tears rolling on his head, he kissed a last time his spouse and children.
He fixed their faces in his head.
Nelleya, beautiful as an Elve.
Croyen, ten years old, almost as fast with a bow than his father.
Briya, five years old, who would certainly become as pretty as her mother.
And he, Jyras, thirty years old, who would soon become a servant of Sauron, and die because of the will of the Great Eye.