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‘Look!’
Snikdul raised his one eyebrow (the other having been lost long ago in an unfortunate encounter with an enraged Dwarf and a flaming pitchy brand) and nodded ever so slightly toward the men across the way. Gromwakh flicked his eyes briefly toward the Southrons’ fire, noting the composed, fixed mask on one of the men’s faces as he turned back toward the cooking of his own meal. The man’s movements were deliberate and calm, making the Orc shudder even more than the deep loathing that had flashed briefly in the man’s eyes.
‘They hate us,’ rasped Snikdul. ‘The stinking sons of sand rats!’ His long, knobbly fingers curled about the hilt of his blade with a hard grip. Others of the Orcs echoed his action, brutish hands bringing weapons to the ready. And one, feeling the bloodlust rise, brought his club down with a resounding thwack on one of the unfortunate cellar rats as it struggled to escape the sack which held it.
‘And that’s just what’ll be happening to you louts if you let your clubs and blades do your thinking,’ hissed Gromwakh as he kicked the mashed carcass into the fire. ‘They hate us alright . . . him especially, if looks mean anything . . . Nothing more than vermin to him. Just as soon see us dead, I think. Give any of ‘em half a chance and they’d kill us as easily as they’d stick the nasty Elves.’
The man had turned away from his brief perusal of the Orcs, his attention now seeming to be fixed on the young man near him. The yellow eyes of the Orcs about the fire narrowed to feral slits in the dark faces, a banked red fire licking at their edges as they gazed toward the Southrons.
A loud yelp from one of their own pulled at their awareness, drawing their focus away from the men. Several of the company sitting a short way off had been playing a game of skill – making wagers on who could make the most stabs and the quickest with a knife between his own splayed fingers. Extra points awarded if one did not cry out with the certain misses that always accompanied the game. The unfortunate contestant had lost, yelling out as he’d cut himself for the sixth time, and his fellow players hooted in glee at his misfortune.
Gromwakh laughed along with the others, even as he threw a rag to the losing Orc. The air of tension had dissolved for the moment, leaving the band of Orcs in what passed for good humor among their kind. The bleeding digits were slathered with some noxious smelling dark paste and bound with strips of the grimy rag. Another of their company had pulled out some dice, irregularly carved cubes of knucklebone with varying numbers of dots on the crudely smoothed surfaces. Pain was put aside as the losing Orc’s fingers curled round the dice and rolled them against the broad trunk of one of the trees. Two good throws and then a loss – the ‘bones, as they were called, passed on to the next eager player, and the next, and the next.
At his back, Gromwakh could feel the looming presence of the men across the way. We will have to be careful if we are to make it out of this one . . . he thought to himself. Men and Uruks both breathing their foul breath down our necks . . .
Then it was his turn. The dice passed into his hands. He rattled them together to the growing yells and jeers of the others. With a grunt he released them, his head cocked to one side as he watched them bounce off the tree in a rough arc . . . willing what little luck he might have to direct their outcome . . .
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