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Morning was approaching, inasmuch as it could in this land of eternal darkness. Grash, who had spent his life rising with the son to work the fields and going to bed with the night to get what rest he could, had developed an innate response to the coming of day, and he could feel the Sun beginning to lighten the horizon beyond the looming shadows of Mordor. He looked up at the noisome smoke that roiled tirelessly above the heads of the mountains, searching for some sign that the black might be lightened by grey, but there was no change. Good he thought. The night of this place will hide us from the orcs. The land was not wholly dark, however, for the distant wrath of the fiery mountain lit the underside of the clouds with a lurid stain like drying blood. Grash hurriedly looked away from the reeking roof of this land and scanned the equally blood-stained stones of the courtyard for something he could use.
He had never so much as held a weapon, so he was at a loss now what to do. There were many tools of death and destruction lying about, but none of them looked remotely familiar. At length his eyes fell on a curved dagger, no longer than his forearm, that reminded him somewhat of one of the small scythes that the slaves had used to harvest the tough grains favoured by the orcs for baking their waybread. He lifted the weapon from out of the dead hand that had wielded it and tried its balance. It felt good in his hand, and he swung it a few times, his arms easily remembering the accustomed motions of reaping the crops. He smiled in an unhappy manner as he thought how little prepared he was for combat. As useless as the weapon was, though, he kept it. He soon found an orc who had been roughly his own size and he quickly stripped the corpse of its leather garments. He had never worn anything more than a light shift and it took some getting used to the weight and stifling closeness of the shirt and jerkin, particularly in the stuffy warmth of this land, but he endured it. The orc’s helm was useless for it had disappeared with the orc’s head, but Grash found another small helmet nearby that fit reasonably well.
At the sound of an approaching footstep he flinched and swung about, his hand fumbling for his knife, but it was only the Man who had first joined him. Grash dropped his hand from his belt and held it out to indicate that he meant the Man no harm. He looked at the fellow’s arms and armour and noted with some relief that at least one person had understood what he had wanted them to do. The Man smiled, but Grash’s face remained impassive, for he had never seen such a look before and had no clear idea of how to react to it. The Man’s face fell somewhat and he held out his hand. Grash moved back a step, uncertain of what the Man wanted of him. Once more the Man’s face became thoughtful, but then it brightened. He pointed at himself and said in the Common Tongue, “Aldor. My name is Aldor. You and I, we should be…friends, yes? Friends? We can help one another; stick together.”
Grash frowned lightly, not sure what to make of this. He pointed at himself and said, “I am Grash. Have no friends. Need no friends. But we will help each other. We must help each other to get out of this land.” He looked up at the sky once more, and said as though to himself, “Yes, must help to get out of this land of darkness.”
He looked at Aldor once more and tried to mimic the Man’s smile but judging from Aldor’s reaction, he did not do a very good job. He began to indicate that they should return to the storeroom when he was distracted by the sight of the two women moving about the courtyard. He was surprised to see that Darash had already armed herself and was busy gathering more weapons and putting them in a sack she had found. He scowled and was about to rush over to her to demand that she and the other woman return below and gather food, when a commotion from the far side of the courtyard drew his attention. An orc came bursting through the door of the outer stairwell. He was holding his side as though in pain and labouring, but his speed was tremendous. Quite close behind him was one of the Dwarves, a maniacal look in his eye. The orc froze for a moment when he saw so many people about the courtyard, but the instant he realised who they were he snarled and spit in hatred and rage. Stooping so low that his hands almost dragged along the ground, he ran through the courtyard to the gate.
Grash was terrified. If the orc got away he would tell other orcs that the prisoners were free, and they would come looking for them. “Kill!” he cried out. “Kill orc! Kill kill kill!”
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