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It was several hours later when the Orc reported back to Gromwakh. Their new Uruk commander, it seemed, had very little they could use to get round him. ‘Keeps a tight rein on, that one does. Wants to impress the higher ups with his single-minded loyalty.’ Gromwakh’s brows rose in question as the messenger chuckled. ‘Kreblug says Gâshronk’s got his nose so far up old One-eye’s . . .’
The slap-slap of the Uruk’s calloused feet coming near brought silence to the small band of Orcs. Gâshronk, taking his new promotion quite seriously, had come to inspect whether all needed supplies had been gathered and his troops suitably geared up for their mission. ‘We’re leaving soon. Have you slugs got it all together?’ Muffled murmurs of affirmation eddied half-heartedly around the little group.
Gromwakh stepped forward, his companions’ eyes fixed on him wondering what he was up to. ‘Begging your pardon, Cap’n,’ he began. Gâshronk stopped before the groveling Orc and poked him with the braided leather stock of his whip. ‘Speak up, cave rat!’
‘Well, I was thinking we should get one of the supply wagons and keep the prisoners in it, bound hand and foot. Be faster, I think, than trying to drag them along.’ And safer, too . . ., Grom added silently to himself. ‘We can easily move it at a good speed, the lot of us taking turns, I think.’
Gâshronk shoved him hard in the shoulder, causing the Orc to stumble back. ‘I’ll do what thinking there needs to be done around here, you carrion!’ Letting his gaze flow over the assembled Orcs he barked out his orders.
‘Get the wagon from the Supply Master. Tell him it’s needed for a special mission. Load the supplies we’ll need at one end and leave room to throw the Elves in. What won’t fit can go in the long-box underneath.’ The Orcs stood dumbly looking from one to another. ‘Well! Get your worthless hairy backsides in gear and get going!’
Gromwakh and his twelve companions took off at a run to comply. ‘There must be something old Kreblug told you,’ he panted, running beside his information gatherer. ‘Only that he’s overly fond of stewed squirrel with bitterroot . . . can eat a whole potful if he sets his mind to it,’ wheezed the Orc as they neared where the supply wagons were kept. Grom nodded his head thoughtfully as they came to a chuffing halt.
The wagon was commandeered, not without much argument by those in charge of them. A supply of provisions was laid in, including a small barrel of dried squirrel meat and a packet of bitterroot. Grom borrowed one of the medicinal kits from the rear of one of the other wagons and stored it along with some leathery dried ground tubers beneath the wagon, and two large bladders of fresh water.
And hour later, and they were back where Gâshronk had assembled his group. ‘All ready, Cap’n,’ mumbled Gromwakh in a well practiced tone of servility. ‘Shall we load on the Elves and their effects now?’
He ducked back, out of reach of the Uruk’s whip handle, hoping his suggestion had not sounded too forward.
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