The construction of the tower was in full swing. Mordred's minions toiled with an enthusiasm that bordered on fanaticism, driven by the desire to create a stronghold worthy of their master. Stone blocks were stacked in neat rows, forming the foundations of the future throne room, while makeshift wooden scaffolding rose along the walls like a spider's web. Gnarl, Mordred's loyal Minion Master, oversaw the work, brandishing his gnarled staff and barking orders at the scurrying creatures.
"Move it, you clumsy wretches!" he growled, pointing at a minions. "The Overlord won't rule from a pile of rubble like some vagabond! I want this tower finished before the birds start nesting in its cracks!"
The minions, despite the scolding, worked with dedication. One, wielding a hammer too large for its tiny frame, attempted to pound a stake into the ground but missed, striking another minion's foot instead, sparking a chorus of squeals and laughter. Another, carrying a bucket of water, tripped and doused Gnarl from head to toe, earning a barrage of colorful curses from the old minion. Mordred, standing on a rise overlooking the scene, felt a mix of amusement and pride. His minions might be bumbling, but their efforts were slowly transforming the wasteland into a fortress that would proclaim his power to all of Middle-Earth.
But Mordred wasn't content to merely oversee construction. Middle-Earth was too perilous a place to focus solely on building walls—he needed to know his surroundings. He regularly sent minions on scouting missions, and sometimes joined them himself to assess threats and opportunities. That day, he decided to venture north, into regions yet unexplored. He gathered twenty of his best minions—armed with knives, clubs, and makeshift shields—and set out, leaving Gnarl to manage the construction.
The journey began in the quiet of dawn. The path led through dense forests, where thick-trunked trees with tangled canopies cast long shadows on the ground. The minions followed Mordred, their small feet moving almost silently over moss and leaves. The air carried the scent of damp earth and pine resin, with distant bird songs and the rustle of wind. Mordred, in his black armor and helmet, moved like a shadow among the greenery, his golden eyes scanning the surroundings with keen alertness.
After hours of marching, the forest began to thin, giving way to hills covered in grass and heather. The minions, usually boisterous, grew cautious, perhaps sensing their master's focus. One, leading the group, suddenly halted and pointed a clawed hand at something in the distance.
"Master, look! Mountain!" it squeaked, prompting a flurry of whispers among the others.
Mordred raised his gaze. Before them loomed Mount Gram, its jagged peaks disappearing into gray clouds, its slopes descending steeply into a valley. He moved down the hill, gesturing for the minions to follow. They advanced carefully, using natural cover—rocks, bushes, and dips in the terrain. After another hour, they reached the edge of the valley, where Mordred signaled them to stop. He crouched behind a large boulder and peered down.
What he saw made his fists clench. At the base of Mount Gram sprawled orc camps—dozens of tents made of stitched hides, surrounded by sharpened palisades. Hundreds of orcs milled about: some sharpened swords by campfires, others hauled bundles of wood or patrolled in small groups. Their guttural voices and the clank of metal echoed through the valley. This wasn't a ragtag band of raiders—it was an army, organized and ready for war.
"Orcs! Lots of orcs!" whispered one minion, pressing itself so flat against the ground it nearly blended into the grass. "We fight, Master?"
Mordred shook his head, his eyes fixed on the camps. "No. There are too many. We'd be slaughtered in open combat."
The minions waited in silence, their beady eyes gleaming with curiosity and a hint of disappointment. Mordred watched the orcs a moment longer, analyzing their movements. The patrols were regular but not numerous—a few orcs circled the camp's perimeter, staying close to the main force. None had spotted them; the distance and natural cover of the valley kept them hidden. Still, Mordred knew they couldn't linger. Every moment increased the risk of detection.
"We're heading back," he ordered quietly, turning from the edge. "To the fortress. Now."
The return journey was tense. The minions moved swiftly, glancing over their shoulders as if expecting orcs to give chase at any moment. Mordred remained silent, lost in thought. His current army—minions with makeshift weapons—stood no chance against such a force. The tower's construction was progressing, but it wasn't yet a stronghold capable of repelling an attack. He needed more minions, better equipment, and above all, a plan. The orcs at Mount Gram were a threat, but also an opportunity—if he could defeat them, his standing in Middle-Earth would grow significantly.
When they reached the fortress, the sun was sinking, painting the sky a bloody red. Gnarl met them, leaning on his staff and squinting suspiciously.
"Found something, my lord? You look like you've seen a wraith," he remarked, then glanced at the minions. "And you lot, why are you shaking like wet rats?"
"Orc camps at Mount Gram," Mordred replied, removing his helmet and wiping his brow. "Hundreds of orcs, well-armed. We can't fight them now. My forces are too weak."
Gnarl let out a low whistle. "Mount Gram, eh? Those beasts always nest there. You're right, my lord—with what we've got, they'd feed us to their wolves. What's the plan?"
Mordred gazed at the tower, its silhouette rising against the setting sun. "I need a strategy. More minions, more power. We can't fight without preparation."
Gnarl nodded, a faint smirk playing on his wrinkled face. "Patience, my lord. The tower's rising, and with it, your might. The orcs can wait—but not too long."
That night, Mordred stood on a makeshift balcony, looking north. He knew the orcs at Mount Gram wouldn't stay idle. Time was slipping away, but he was certain of one thing—he would return there with an army that would sweep them from the face of the earth. How he'd do it, he didn't yet know. But a plan was forming in his mind, its details waiting to take shape.