[Kransha]

The elf was everywhere, those eyes, those unmoving, unflinching, eyes that pierced, peering readily into the dark, marred soul of Thrakmazh the Mighty. His shadowy mind was infected by that viral strand of light, snaking through his veins. He could not understand, could not fathom why it had affected him like this. In his right hand he held the tapered Elvish weapon, clasped tightly to him now. The metal, finely crafted and as cold as northern ice, was as searing hot to him as the fires of Orodruin. It burnt his flesh, charring the skin from his bones, but no visible wound or physical pain was there. Instead, his head throbbed painfully, as the beating of war drums pounded upon steadily, and his hand, the limb that held the undesired blade, ached without end. He stormed hurriedly into the orcish camp, his pace continuing to increase, his head turned down and eye affixed on the sword that galled him so.

He could not exterminate the visage the plagued him like sickness. He’d killed so many, so many of all kinds. In his rage, he’d killed orcs, he’d killed Elves of the dark and light forests, men of the north, men of the east, so many creatures had fallen, and he’d dismissed their fate as device to further his own career. It was his destiny, his power, that was important here, not the death of others. He had to be victor, regardless of others’ fates. But it burnt him so, the blade in his hand, burnt his hand and his mind and, as he dashed through the camp, with orcish eyes now curiously following him, he suddenly slipped and wobbled, crumbling onto his knees, and the blade of the Elf clattered onto the hard ground. He grasped his sword-hand suddenly and roared murderously to the earth, causing all surrounding orcs to turn and dumbly take notice of their captain’s unknown plight.

His troops must have thought him insane, utterly devoid of sense, as he knelt on the earth, clasping his uninjured hand as if it had been poisoned by the vilest venom. They cocked their heads and brows at him stupidly, watching their captain in a state between pity, confusion, and disgust. They moved back cautiously from him, inching away as Thrakmazh continued to breathe his raspy breaths and pant, a well of incendiary flame having taken up residence where his eye had been a moment before. Some substantial energy wished now to burst from beneath his stony flesh and pour out onto the ground, take root therein, and draw all life from everything within the vicinity. He roared and snarled, growled and grunted in the fashion of a troll, not making coherent sounds but simply producing gratuitous noise that deeply injured all hearing, functioning ears with the great volume. The orc, the wiry fingers of one blackened hand curled and tightened around the now-white flesh of the other, pushed himself to his feet, his chest heaving wildly and cyclones ablaze and whirling in his eye.

“Cursed be the elves!” He cried, his booming voice great and maddened by dark possession, “Cursed be Elves and men and trees and light!” In truth, his men may have agreed, but were, in fact, severely intimidated by this crazed endeavor of his, roaring like a raging dragon, Thrakmazh soared downward and upward again, his fingers lacing around the hilt of the foul weapon of light. He pulled it up, throwing his form up onto two feet, and sped forward, driving the blade forward at the waiting air and whatever was unlucky enough to be in it.

A second later, an anonymous orc, gurgling and twitching slightly, crumpled into a bleeding heap on the ground with a gaping hole in his upper chest, already reddened by dark blood the spilled out and off the wound. He writhed spasmodically for a moment more before stiffening and going still. Thrakmazh looked down, panting still, at the unfortunate orc who he’d just slain. He looked up, a gaze filled with blood-lust and insanity on his grotesque face. The other orcs did not cringe, though. They looked bewildered, angered, and focused on Thrakmazh, stepping back again to distance themselves from him. No doubt they wondered what bizarre inclination had cause Thrakmazh to kill one of his own kind without provocation, but Thrakmazh knew. In his immense and irrational paranoia, Thrakmazh knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that this orc, like so many others, was false and traitorous. He did not know how he knew this, but he knew all the same. In reality, unattached from Thrakmazh’s muddled brain, the orc had not been false or traitorous, but he was dead now, and Thrakmazh One-Eye, as his men well knew, never made mistakes.

He had been right all along, and now he understood. The elf, the nameless being, would not die at Dol Guldur, for something, no matter how trivial or minute, would falter and allow his escape. But, that was why he had to continue on his path. The wicked, traitorous men must be slain, the wretched orcs who would abandon him must be slain, and soon. He would root out all those who could not serve the Dark Lord and he, not them, would gain favor in his eye. First, though, he must sew the seeds of dissent. The orcs could never be trusted, even his own kind could not, but the men would be traitorous. Herding, Herding could do it. The fool was already deep enough in his own mire of hate. That was it! Help Herding kill Cenbryt, or turn all against him. That man was outnumbered, and would fall with ease. If Herding, assisted and encouraged by Thrakmazh, slew or defeated Cenbryt, he would be weakened and leave opportunity for Thrakmazh to show his caliber. Then, the men too would follow him, and orcs and men would all be loyal. He would overthrow the Golden Wood, he would overthrow the woods of the north, he would hurl down the power of the elves, alone as leader unquestioned, and that filthy elf scum would rot in waiting, hoping in vain to slay him while Thrakmazh slew many with his own blade.

The irony of the fact was lost on Thrakmazh as he turned, his eye half-closed, and stepped over the fallen orcish body, not looking at his dismayed soldiers. He stalked off slowly, but readily towards the other side of the army’s camp, past the last orc abodes, toward the tent of Captain Herding where he’d been so often before. If Herding was to be an adequate accomplice in this scheme, there had to be at least the illusion of trust. He would persuade Herding of the benefits of Cenbryt’s death, and enlist his aid with ease. Even now he saw the tent, larger than most others, swaying gently in the mild breeze, before him. But, he also saw two figures, two recognizable, familiar figures, entering the tent. At once he knew one to be Cenbryt and the other his devout follower. A malignant grin forming on his lips, he slowed his pace and neared the tent, stopping as the two entered, and waited, turning his ear to the tent’s walls to hear their discourse.

He only caught a few words. By the time he’d aligned himself with the tent and snuck near enough to it to hear the noises from within, the conversation was already almost over. He picked up the word “elves” with tremulously quivering ears, and then “settled” and a number of other heavily accentuated syllables, but naught else. From the vague sound of Herding’s voice, though, Thrakmazh detected just as much tense dislike as before, but a more graduated amount of the same in Cenbryt. Suddenly, a new idea formed in his mind, an idea that drew on the unexplainable paranoia that he himself was suffering from. Neither Haradrim like the other, this was certain. Herding would be ready to battle Cenbryt, but the job would be made easier still if both captains put their all into the rivalry. Thrákmazh, though not trusted, could still do what he could to turn them against each other. Even if Cenbryt did not trust Thrákmazh as far as he could throw him, he would not be so foolish as to ignore dire warning. He would tell Cenbryt of an imaginary plan, Herding’s plan to overthrow him on the eve of battle and turn his own men against him. He would persist, and proclaim that he distrusted Herding as much as Cenbryt. A perfect lie, indeed.

Grinning undetectably, Thrakmazh began to edge away from the tent as Koran and Ehan exited. They did not take immediate notice but, soon enough, Thrakmazh had slithered alongside them. Koran, looking almost comically bitter, turned slowly to him. “You.” He said darkly, almost snapping at the orc who stood, hunched over, at his side. “What do you want?” Thrakmazh’s smile widened pleasantly as he spoke in response, feigning concern. “Why so hostile, Cenbryt? Has something happened to make your mood so sour?” Koran simply looked away, though his follower, Ehan, glared at Thrakmazh over his captain’s shoulder.

At last, heaving a small sigh, Koran replied quietly. “No, nothing.”

The uruk nodded studiously. “Good…for I fear what I have to say will.”