Overlord in Middle-Earth

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a blood-red glow over the rugged hills surrounding the Tower of Shadows. Mordred stood at the edge of a forest clearing, his mind still reeling from his encounter with Gandalf the Grey. The wizard's warning echoed like a drumbeat: the orcs were rallying, uniting under a new warlord, their numbers swelling with the promise of vengeance for their defeat at Mount Gram. Whether they aimed to reclaim the mountain or storm his fortress, Mordred knew he couldn't afford to wait for them to strike first. He needed to confirm the threat with his own eyes.

He summoned a small scouting party: twelve Green Minions, their sleek, shadowy forms blending seamlessly with the twilight, and ten Brown Minions, their stocky bodies clad in crude armor, gripping hammers and swords with eager anticipation. The Green Minions were perfect for stealth, while the Brown Minions provided muscle in case things went south.

"Move silently," Mordred commanded, his voice low and edged with steel. "We're heading east of Mount Gram. Find their camp, their numbers, their plans. No heroics, no eating anything you find, and no starting fights unless I say so." He glared at the Brown Minions, one of whom was already swinging its hammer at a nearby bush, muttering about "smashing practice." The minion froze under Mordred's stare and shuffled back into line.

The Green Minions chittered softly, their glowing eyes glinting with eagerness, while the Brown Minions grumbled but obeyed. Mordred adjusted his black cape, the weight of his new armor grounding him, and led the way into the darkening wilderness. The mysterious ring he'd found during the last scout—a glittering band etched with faintly glowing runes. Its purpose remained a mystery, but Gnarl was working on it. For now, Mordred's focus was the orcs.

The journey east was perilous, the terrain a labyrinth of rocky outcrops, tangled underbrush, and narrow ravines. The Green Minions moved like phantoms, their claws barely disturbing the leaves as they scouted ahead, while the Brown Minions trudged behind, their heavy steps crunching on gravel. Mordred's senses were razor-sharp, his golden eyes scanning the shadows for danger. The air grew heavier as they neared the region east of Mount Gram, a scarred land littered with rusted weapons and bones half-buried in the dirt, remnants of ancient battles.

After hours of cautious travel, a Green Minion slunk back, its voice a hushed whisper. "My lord! Orc camp! Big, big camp! Lots of orcs!"

Mordred crouched low, signaling the others to follow suit. They crept to the edge of a ridge overlooking a sprawling valley. Below, illuminated by flickering torchlight, lay a massive orc encampment. Hide and wood tents stretched across the landscape, their crude banners flapping in the wind. The stench of unwashed bodies, roasting meat, and burning pitch filled the air. Orcs—thousands of them—swarmed the camp, their guttural voices echoing as they sharpened blades, hauled supplies, and brawled among themselves.

Mordred's jaw tightened as he estimated their numbers. At least three thousand, possibly more. His own army, even after summoning new Green Minions with the life energy from Mount Gram, numbered fewer than a thousand. The orcs outnumbered him three to one, and Gandalf's warning hinted that more tribes could join, swelling their ranks further. He spotted groups of orcs arriving from the east, their armor bearing unfamiliar markings—newcomers, likely drawn by the promise of blood and plunder. This was no disorganized mob; this was an army gearing for war.

One of the Brown Minions, unable to contain its excitement, gripped its hammer tighter and whispered, "Smash orcs, my lord? Smash now?"

Mordred shot it a withering look. "Not yet. We need information, not a brawl." The minion pouted but obeyed, loosening its grip on the hammer.

A Green Minion crept closer, its voice barely audible. "Big orc in middle. Boss orc. Shouting loud. Very angry."

Mordred peered through the darkness, his eyes locking onto a towering figure at the camp's center. The orc warlord stood head and shoulders above the rest, clad in crude iron armor adorned with skulls. His voice boomed, rallying the orcs with promises of vengeance and glory. Mordred couldn't hear the words, but the intent was clear: this warlord was no mere brute. He was cunning, dangerous, and driven to crush the Lord of Shadows.

"We've seen enough," Mordred murmured. "Back to the fortress. Quietly."

The minions obeyed, though one Brown Minion tripped over a root and nearly rolled down the ridge, only to be caught by a Green Minion's quick claws. Mordred suppressed a groan. How these creatures survived their own clumsiness was a mystery.

---

The journey back to the Tower of Shadows was tense, Mordred's mind racing with the implications of what he'd seen. Three thousand orcs, possibly more, against his less-than-thousand-strong army. His minions were fierce and loyal, but numbers mattered, and the orcs held the advantage. Worse, their warlord seemed capable of uniting disparate tribes, a rare feat for such chaotic creatures. If they marched on Mount Gram or the Tower, Mordred would need more than brute force to prevail. Strategy, cunning, and his newly awakened fire magic—unlocked by the Fire Stone embedded in the Tower's Heart—would be his edge.

As they approached the fortress, its jagged spires loomed against the night sky, a comforting sight. The courtyard buzzed with activity—minions scurried about, hauling loot from Mount Gram, repairing weapons, or, in one case, wrestling over a particularly large bone. Mordred ignored the chaos and strode into the main hall, where Gnarl awaited, his crooked grin visible in the dim torchlight.

"My lord!" Gnarl called, bowing low, his staff tapping the stone floor. "Back so soon? Did the orcs flee at the sight of your shadow?"

Mordred removed his helm, his pale face set in a grim expression. "They're not fleeing. They're gathering—an army of over three thousand, east of Mount Gram. A warlord leads them, and more orcs are joining. They want revenge for Mount Gram, or they're coming for us."

Gnarl's grin faltered, his eyes narrowing. "Three thousand? That's… troublesome, my lord. Your minions are mighty, but we've less than a thousand, even with the Green Minions."

Mordred nodded, his golden eyes glinting with determination. "Exactly. We need a plan, and we need it now."

---

Mordred retreated to his throne room, dismissing the minions who tried to follow, their eager chittering grating on his nerves. He sank onto his black stone throne, the weight of his armor grounding him as he stared into the flickering flames of a nearby brazier. The orcs' numbers were daunting, but he'd faced long odds before. Mount Gram had been a victory against a larger force, thanks to strategy and Rosa's archers. But this was different—a full-scale army, led by a warlord who could rally thousands. When would they strike? And how could he counter them?

His mind churned through options. The terrain around Mount Gram was rugged, with narrow passes and cliffs—perfect for ambushes. He could deploy his Green Minions to harass the orcs, assassinating scouts and sowing chaos before the main battle. His Brown Minions, though fewer in number, could hold choke points, their hammers smashing through orc ranks. His fire magic, though still unrefined, could turn the tide—perhaps a well-placed fireball could incinerate the warlord or collapse a key pass. But even with these tactics, the numbers were against him. He needed more minions, more power, or an ally.

Rose's offer of aid came to mind. Her Dunedain archers had been invaluable at Mount Gram, their arrows cutting down orcs before they could close the distance. But would eighty archers be enough against three thousand? And could he fully trust her? Gandalf's cryptic warning about "darker powers" lingered, unsettling him. Were the orcs being manipulated by a greater force?

Mordred's thoughts turned to the Fire Stone, embedded in the Tower's Heart. Its power had awakened his fire magic, but could it do more? Gnarl had hinted at ancient magics tied to it—perhaps it could enhance his minions or unlock a weapon he hadn't yet discovered. The ring, too, was a wildcard. If it held power, as the Fire Stone did, it could tip the scales. But relying on unknown artifacts was risky, and Mordred despised uncertainty.

Another option was a preemptive strike. Hitting the orc camp before they could fully organize could kill their warlord and scatter their forces. But with fewer than a thousand minions, it was a gamble. He could fortify the Tower instead, turning it into an impregnable stronghold and luring the orcs into a siege they couldn't win. The Tower's walls were formidable, and its traps—many designed by Gnarl's twisted ingenuity—could slaughter hundreds. But a siege would drain his resources, and if the orcs brought siege weapons or reinforcements, it could spell disaster.

Mordred leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. He needed something bold, something the orcs wouldn't expect. His minions were his greatest asset—not just their ferocity, but their unpredictability. The chaos they caused, as infuriating as it was, could be weaponized. He imagined Green Minions poisoning the orcs' water supply, Brown Minions collapsing tunnels to trap them, and his fire magic turning their camp into an inferno. But even that might not suffice against three thousand.

A memory surfaced—Giblet choking on the ring during the last scout. The minions' stupidity was a liability, but their loyalty was absolute. If he could bolster their numbers or, as Gnarl had suggested, evolve them into stronger forms, he might stand a chance. The life energy from Mount Gram had allowed him to summon new Minions, but he needed more—far more—to match the orcs' numbers.