Gothrak: Strategist of Mordor
Posted: Thu Dec 11, 2025 2:10 am
Chapter 1
The night was black in over the plains of Gorgoroth, no star shone through the fumes of Mount Doom or the furnaces of Barad-Dur. Further away from the Dark Tower, at the gates of the
Morannan, or down along the roads that touched Nurn, armies of different were busy: orcs were forging and sharpening their blades, easterlings were repairing their armor, and haradrim were performing rituals for good fortune, while Black Numenoreans studied plans or practiced sorcery.
Mordor was awake.
Within the outer walls of The Dark Tower, amidst the dimly lit torches along the iron halls, before the cold drafts that whispered through the windows and doorways, a lone captain knelt and waited on the black stone floor. A tall, gaunt, but still young man, clad in dark robes and iron mail, his helm resting before him. His name was Gothrak, one of Mordor’s Black Numenorean lords, though a lesser leftenant, he would be known by some
as “the shadow strategist.”
A door of obsidian slid open with a cool breeze, and a pale light lit the hall. From the doorway came another man; tall and grim, and robed in sable. The Mouth of Sauron; the Lieutenant of Barad-dur, herald, and voice of the Dark Lord himself. He greeted Gothrak with a grin. “Rise, Gothrak! Son of Barthat…” His voice smooth yet sharp like steel.” You’ve been summoned to fulfill a task of grave importance!” Gothrak rose, bowing low with an eager flare and a competent grin. “Command me, my lord. I’ve seen many pieces gathered near and far, our armies already stand ready to march.”
The Mouth still smiled, but it was without warmth. “Ready? Yes, but so far disordered. As we speak, the legions of the eye already are vast, and in vastness lies chaos. Our lord strives for order. Among others, you will help bring them to order. Our hosts must move swiftly, but strike with precision if we must remove any and all resistance before the great war.” He gestured, and a parchment unrolled before them, drawn in black ink upon the stretched hide.
Twas a map of the regions between Mordor and Gondor. It showed Osgiliath, the former capital of Gondor, once bridged, now little more than ruins straddling the Anduin. “Here–” The mouth said
“Here is where we shall break the back of the west. The garrison at the west bank must fall, not a single man of Gondor must remain to defend it before we move onto Minas Tirith.”
Gothrak briefly observed the map with intrigue. “Osgiliath–” He smirked. “Such a lovely city it must’ve been. The former jewel of Gondor, now a ghost town, half sunk, half rotted in time. Yet it’s the key to one of
Gondor’s main defenses.” “The Eye knows it well.” The Mouth added. “To take the crossings would give us a straight path to the White City itself. This will be a chance to prove your worth, Gothrak, now it’s your turn to
lead.”
“I will not fail!” Gothrak said in an honorable manner, though in his heart he knew what failure meant in Mordor; success meant survival, not honor. “See that you do not!” Said the Mouth, before he turned. The door closed behind him, and the door was silent once more.
Later that evening he rode south to the Morgai, entering a secret pass into Minas Morgul. There in one of the chambers, he met Mauren, one of the Morgul scouts, and his companion, Uthurg. “Mauren I presume?”
The boy bowed before him “You wish to see me, sir?” Gothrak presented himself. “I was tasked with leading a campaign in Osgiliath sometime this week.”
He handed Mauren the parchment, the boy looked over the map as he did. “I need you to give word to Morgul for our first plan of attack, and I need your help to spread word. I will assume command of the orcs of Udun, while you ride about; rally our eastern allies from Rhun, Southron cavalry from Near Harad, and some beasts from Nurn.
Bring them to my command after tomorrow, and I’ll bring them together, make them one mind. One will.” “The Will of the Eye!” Mauren remarked in amusement. “Exactly!” Gothrak commended him
“There is a rumor though–” he said softly “The rangers from Ithilien have been lurking on the east banks. Can you confirm this?”
“I can.” Mauren sighed “Recently the rangers have indeed started resettling in the eastern city. Led by one Captain Faramir, one of Denethor’s sons.”
Gothrak stood still for a moment, torches flickering over them both while Uthurg watched from behind.
In that pause, Gothrak could hear the roar of trolls, the clang of forges, and the guttural songs of orcs from the outer walls of the city. Gothrak went to a window that looked out to the vale that led west.
“Faramir.” He snickered casually, intrigued but no less concerned “So the son of the Steward watches over the ruined city. Then we’ll just have to smoke him out like a fox from its den.
Meet me after tomorrow as I said, I’ll take care of the rest.” Mauren bowed, and Gothrak turned to his chamber for the night.
By dawn, he rode back into Mordor. He was riding eastward along the Morgai road. His escort, a dozen other black riders bearing the insignia of The Eye.
They arrived at Durthang, an old fort overlooking one of the passes that led to Ithilien.
Orcs were already gathered, not in ranks but in clusters: brawling, eating, drinking, and gambling. One of the orcs came limping forward. “Lieutenant Gothrak, is it!?” He asked, and Gothrak nodded
“I’ve come to seek command of your regime.” “Ugborz commands here!” the orc rasped. “I’m afraid you’ll have to answer to him, sir.” “I answer only to The Eye!” Gothrak spoke aloud with a stern gaze.
“Take me to Ugborz!” The orc blinked. “As you wish sir. But Ugborz won’t like it!” “Then Ugborz will learn to like it!” Said Gothrak.
He strolled in, his black cloak trailing dust, and the commotion around him was quelled as word spread. He may be a black captain, but in Mordor, power was respected only when displayed.
So when Ugborz, a tall and burly brute came swaggering from his post, a crude helm on his head, and a mace in hand, Gothrak met him without pause.
“Who gave you leave to lead the Durthang host?” Gothrak demanded “Who asked you!?” Ugborz retorted in a smug demeanor.
“I’ve led these lads since the last siege of Minas Ithil. You think they’ll follow some man in fancy armor?” Ugborz grinned and the other orcs laughed.
Gothrak paused, then with a swift motion he drew his sword and slashed the air in Ugborz’s direction. Ugborz’s mace clattered to the ground. Gothrak stooped forward. “You will march when I command it!” He said
“And you will die when The Eye wills it!” The crowd mumbled in approval, albeit out of fear. Such was obedience in Mordor.
As night fell over Durthang, Gothrak stood upon the rampart, looking westward.
He could not see it clearly, but in his mind he remembers the map of Gondor, its rivers, its roads, its fields, and the forests that bled into Ithilien. Osgiliath was his goal, he would see before long it would burn.
The night was black in over the plains of Gorgoroth, no star shone through the fumes of Mount Doom or the furnaces of Barad-Dur. Further away from the Dark Tower, at the gates of the
Morannan, or down along the roads that touched Nurn, armies of different were busy: orcs were forging and sharpening their blades, easterlings were repairing their armor, and haradrim were performing rituals for good fortune, while Black Numenoreans studied plans or practiced sorcery.
Mordor was awake.
Within the outer walls of The Dark Tower, amidst the dimly lit torches along the iron halls, before the cold drafts that whispered through the windows and doorways, a lone captain knelt and waited on the black stone floor. A tall, gaunt, but still young man, clad in dark robes and iron mail, his helm resting before him. His name was Gothrak, one of Mordor’s Black Numenorean lords, though a lesser leftenant, he would be known by some
as “the shadow strategist.”
A door of obsidian slid open with a cool breeze, and a pale light lit the hall. From the doorway came another man; tall and grim, and robed in sable. The Mouth of Sauron; the Lieutenant of Barad-dur, herald, and voice of the Dark Lord himself. He greeted Gothrak with a grin. “Rise, Gothrak! Son of Barthat…” His voice smooth yet sharp like steel.” You’ve been summoned to fulfill a task of grave importance!” Gothrak rose, bowing low with an eager flare and a competent grin. “Command me, my lord. I’ve seen many pieces gathered near and far, our armies already stand ready to march.”
The Mouth still smiled, but it was without warmth. “Ready? Yes, but so far disordered. As we speak, the legions of the eye already are vast, and in vastness lies chaos. Our lord strives for order. Among others, you will help bring them to order. Our hosts must move swiftly, but strike with precision if we must remove any and all resistance before the great war.” He gestured, and a parchment unrolled before them, drawn in black ink upon the stretched hide.
Twas a map of the regions between Mordor and Gondor. It showed Osgiliath, the former capital of Gondor, once bridged, now little more than ruins straddling the Anduin. “Here–” The mouth said
“Here is where we shall break the back of the west. The garrison at the west bank must fall, not a single man of Gondor must remain to defend it before we move onto Minas Tirith.”
Gothrak briefly observed the map with intrigue. “Osgiliath–” He smirked. “Such a lovely city it must’ve been. The former jewel of Gondor, now a ghost town, half sunk, half rotted in time. Yet it’s the key to one of
Gondor’s main defenses.” “The Eye knows it well.” The Mouth added. “To take the crossings would give us a straight path to the White City itself. This will be a chance to prove your worth, Gothrak, now it’s your turn to
lead.”
“I will not fail!” Gothrak said in an honorable manner, though in his heart he knew what failure meant in Mordor; success meant survival, not honor. “See that you do not!” Said the Mouth, before he turned. The door closed behind him, and the door was silent once more.
Later that evening he rode south to the Morgai, entering a secret pass into Minas Morgul. There in one of the chambers, he met Mauren, one of the Morgul scouts, and his companion, Uthurg. “Mauren I presume?”
The boy bowed before him “You wish to see me, sir?” Gothrak presented himself. “I was tasked with leading a campaign in Osgiliath sometime this week.”
He handed Mauren the parchment, the boy looked over the map as he did. “I need you to give word to Morgul for our first plan of attack, and I need your help to spread word. I will assume command of the orcs of Udun, while you ride about; rally our eastern allies from Rhun, Southron cavalry from Near Harad, and some beasts from Nurn.
Bring them to my command after tomorrow, and I’ll bring them together, make them one mind. One will.” “The Will of the Eye!” Mauren remarked in amusement. “Exactly!” Gothrak commended him
“There is a rumor though–” he said softly “The rangers from Ithilien have been lurking on the east banks. Can you confirm this?”
“I can.” Mauren sighed “Recently the rangers have indeed started resettling in the eastern city. Led by one Captain Faramir, one of Denethor’s sons.”
Gothrak stood still for a moment, torches flickering over them both while Uthurg watched from behind.
In that pause, Gothrak could hear the roar of trolls, the clang of forges, and the guttural songs of orcs from the outer walls of the city. Gothrak went to a window that looked out to the vale that led west.
“Faramir.” He snickered casually, intrigued but no less concerned “So the son of the Steward watches over the ruined city. Then we’ll just have to smoke him out like a fox from its den.
Meet me after tomorrow as I said, I’ll take care of the rest.” Mauren bowed, and Gothrak turned to his chamber for the night.
By dawn, he rode back into Mordor. He was riding eastward along the Morgai road. His escort, a dozen other black riders bearing the insignia of The Eye.
They arrived at Durthang, an old fort overlooking one of the passes that led to Ithilien.
Orcs were already gathered, not in ranks but in clusters: brawling, eating, drinking, and gambling. One of the orcs came limping forward. “Lieutenant Gothrak, is it!?” He asked, and Gothrak nodded
“I’ve come to seek command of your regime.” “Ugborz commands here!” the orc rasped. “I’m afraid you’ll have to answer to him, sir.” “I answer only to The Eye!” Gothrak spoke aloud with a stern gaze.
“Take me to Ugborz!” The orc blinked. “As you wish sir. But Ugborz won’t like it!” “Then Ugborz will learn to like it!” Said Gothrak.
He strolled in, his black cloak trailing dust, and the commotion around him was quelled as word spread. He may be a black captain, but in Mordor, power was respected only when displayed.
So when Ugborz, a tall and burly brute came swaggering from his post, a crude helm on his head, and a mace in hand, Gothrak met him without pause.
“Who gave you leave to lead the Durthang host?” Gothrak demanded “Who asked you!?” Ugborz retorted in a smug demeanor.
“I’ve led these lads since the last siege of Minas Ithil. You think they’ll follow some man in fancy armor?” Ugborz grinned and the other orcs laughed.
Gothrak paused, then with a swift motion he drew his sword and slashed the air in Ugborz’s direction. Ugborz’s mace clattered to the ground. Gothrak stooped forward. “You will march when I command it!” He said
“And you will die when The Eye wills it!” The crowd mumbled in approval, albeit out of fear. Such was obedience in Mordor.
As night fell over Durthang, Gothrak stood upon the rampart, looking westward.
He could not see it clearly, but in his mind he remembers the map of Gondor, its rivers, its roads, its fields, and the forests that bled into Ithilien. Osgiliath was his goal, he would see before long it would burn.
