Unlike the eager anticipation of past southern raids, when they had been filled with longing for wealth and slaves, this expedition was shrouded in an oppressive silence, with fear and exhaustion impossible to hide.
They knew they were marching against the enemy who had just destroyed Sauron's main army beneath Carnford City. The road ahead was uncertain, and the odds were grim.
The fields at home might be left fallow because of this, and their wives, children, and elderly might go hungry before the autumn harvest. But they had no choice. The Royal Decree was as immovable as a mountain, and neither tribal tradition nor noble authority could be defied.
Even more despairing to ordinary Saurons than the fighting on the frontline was the total collapse of the domestic economy.
War was like a greedy behemoth, devouring every resource.
To raise military funds and sustain the enormous wartime expenses, the royal court and tribal nobles kept imposing taxes under every conceivable name—grain taxes, head taxes, special war levies... The burden was enough to crush the breath from people. Meanwhile, the unending warfare had severely damaged production and trade. In particular, the southern expedition's rout last year had cost them vast numbers of livestock, carts, and looted supplies, resulting in an extreme shortage of goods.
Prices, especially food prices, soared like wild horses breaking free of their reins, climbing to jaw-dropping heights.
A sack of wheat that had once fed an ordinary family for a month now cost several times, even more than ten times, as much—and even then, there was no stock to be found at any price. The markets were packed with anxious faces and desperate cries. Many families sold every last thing of even slight value, yet still could barely fill their stomachs. The black market ran rampant,