[Bill Ferny]

Nurn: Breadbasket of Mordor

No trees or shrubs or fens, but only fields of wheat, oats, corn, and hay arranged in perfect squares, bordered by low fences of piled stones, sharp and jagged, that the thralls of Khand and Umbar have upturned over the years through their constant tilling of the dark earth, spread from the fold of a nameless estuary over the flat lands of Nurn. As though placed by a hand of exacting uniformity, every three fields are watched over by tall grey towers with pointed battlements and manned by watchmen with crossbows, torches and black bladed bill-hooks.

Shadowy bent figures silently work the rows, faceless men and women, covered in dirt and grime, skin browned and wrinkled by the sun and wind. They are chained together in lines, making no sound save for the rattling of their fetters. Watchful are their task masters, tall men of Umbar atop black palfreys, they snap their whips out of boredom and occasionally kick a slave for jest.

For every six fields, there are hovels made of stone and waddle, arranged in rows next to stinking hog pens and putrid ammonia thick chicken houses, blacksmiths’ forges billowing brackish black smog, and windmills that pump water from the irrigation ditches to the fields. Nearby, next to a line of festering charcoal clamps, men dig holes that will be filled by sunset, and most look at the fruit of their labor with longing, a more comfortable bed than they will have in life.

For every commune there’s a stone keep and barracks for Sauron’s better off slaves, the task masters and governors who vex themselves about the exacting demands of Barad-dûr, and fret for their necks if those demands should not be met. Rows of bins and granaries stretch behind, guarded by fences and more watchful soldiers, for the thralls of Nurn always hunger for more than is necessary for a good day’s work. Stretching down the dusty road from the granaries are orc teamsters who delight in tormenting the chattel assigned to loading their wagons, or unloading their shipment of fresh slaves.

Everywhere is the sound of orcish curses and laughter, the metallic pounding of the blacksmiths’ hammers, clanking of chains, and snapping of whips, but all one can really hear above and through the din of Nurn is the hollow echo of the sallow wind.