[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The cords that bound his wrists had been woven by orcs, and the malice of their makers had gone into them, burning Ambarturion’s wrists. The cart jolted and tossed them about as they ground toward the evil tower, and Ambarturion wished once more that he could give way to the dreams that crowded about his memory. But with every turn of the cart’s wheels he could feel the distant power of the Enemy growing closer. The Eye had not yet seen the prize that its distant claws had brought it, but it soon would – and when it perceived the value and might that had escaped the careless and witless eyes of the orcs, that Eye would send its most dreadful servants to claim him…

It occurred to Ambarturion that perhaps in its own way, the urûk had been able to recognise the distant reflection of the light of the Valar that shone from the eyes of the Elf. Although Ambarturion had never beheld those who dwelt in the West with his own eyes, he had dwelt for many centuries with the Lady Galadriel, from whom there came always and forever the shine of the Two Trees in their days of glory, when there was no fear in the dark. The thought of the danger that was approaching her drove him into a frenzy of apprehension, and time and again he felt the despair that would conquer him well up within like a great black wave and only the greatest effort would keep it at bay.

One-eye’s parting words came back to him: may your death be slow and painful. Indeed it would, more painful than even the orc could imagine, but it would be welcome if it came before he were broken by the Eye – reduced to a gibbering and terrified shell, whispering all of its secrets into the black ear in desperation for its own release. The torments they had endured to this point, while terrible, were as nothing when compared to what awaited them before the Dark Throne. Ambarturion tasted once more the foul bitterness of the memories that Coromswyth had tried to hide from him when she had sent him her message of hope. The orc’s harsh hands and grasping mouth were upon him as clearly as they had been upon her, so fresh was her own revulsion. He could not quite believe that she maintained hope of their release after what she had learned of the ways of the orc in that brief time. Ambarturion had not seen the eyes, but he had felt the presence of their woodland kin in the earth and in the air. Hope it gave him, but not of deliverance, for their kin were too few against these orcs, and he could sense even at this distance that they were a disunited band of young and inexperienced scouts. His hope was thus guarded and constrained – he hoped for a distraction, for something that would keep the orcs’ attention from the wagon for but a few moments.

The ropes that bound him no longer cut into his flesh, for he had been straining against them with all the might of his many centuries’ growth. It had taken most of his strength, leaving him weakened and drained, but he had managed to loosen them to the point where he could snap them at a thought. But he dared not do so now, for they were surrounded and unarmed. Were he to free himself he could, perhaps, escape on his own, but that would be to leave Coromswyth and Megilaes to reap the vengeance of their captors. Better to wait and see what the Elves of Mirkwood could manage.

He felt of a sudden the hot breath of an orc upon his face and he looked up into two beady, yellow eyes. They were the eyes of a snivelling, cowardly creature, the likes of which he had slain in the hundreds. These eyes, however, were filled with a cunning not usual to the race. The orc produced the small flask of miruvor and held it above his face, taunting him. So unexpected was what he said next, that it took Ambarturion a moment to accept the truth of his ears. You help us. We help you. Was this orc actually proposing to bargain with him? For a moment, however fleeting, Ambarturion considered breaking his bonds and slaying the beast with his bare hands. Instead, however, he said, “How will you help us, orc? Will you slay your companions, set us free and convey us with safety to our own land? Why not promise as well to lead your folk to reject your Lord and join the Light for the safety of Middle-Earth and your own redemption thereby?” He laughed mirthlessly and spat with distaste. “Take your lies and your petty taunts to one who will be moved by them, orc!”

Instead of hitting him or spitting upon him or slinking away in defeat, the orc looked about him with what appeared to be stealthy cunning. He looked back at the captive Elf and peeled his lips back from yellowed and sharpened teeth. “Elf is stupid. Does not see how we help each other. I not fight for Elves. But I not want to die. We attack Elf-Witch’s forest then we die. Elves kill us. But not if we save you, yes? Maybe, we let you go, then you tell Elves in Forest to let us go.”

Ambarturion could not believe his words. He did not for a moment believe that the orc was in earnest; this could only be part of some elaborately cruel prank that he felt in his lowness the very height of mirth. But Ambarturion saw a way to perhaps convert his small hope into something more. “Cut my bonds,” he said, knowing full well what the response would be.

“No!” the orc said. “Not now. Maybe later.”

“I will not do anything for you until you have proven yourself in earnest. If you will not cut my bonds, cut the bonds of my young companion. He is unconscious and presents no threat to you. But his bonds, and give him the drink in that flask, and perhaps I will tell my kin not to slay you.” He watched as the creature turned this over in his small mind, and while Ambarturion was careful not to let his eyes rest upon the orc’s blade, he knew it was there. The instant the orc drew it and moved into the wagon to cut Megilaes’ bonds, that was the moment in which Ambarturion would snap his bonds.

Outnumbered and unarmed he did not stand a chance. Outnumbered and armed, on the other hand, even with an orc’s blade, was another story altogether…