[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash fell against the cliff-face and tried not to look at the terrible fiery mountain that dominated this dark land. Even at this distance the light of its anger lit the sides of the mountains and he even fancied he could feel the heat of it upon his tired brow. Beyond the dark mass of Mount Doom, upon the very edge of sight, lay the thick bank of clouds that forever obscured the Dark Tower, but Grash knew it was there. Once, when he had first been brought to this place from the south, he had been through the gates of that Tower, and though his sojourn there had been brief, the memory of it left a cold thrill of terror upon him still. He closed his own eyes as he felt the beating presence of the One Eye upon the land. His entire life had been dominated by the gaze of the Dark Lord, and there were times when he thought almost that he could see it: lidless and burning, its pupil a black pit into nothingness. But there was something about the presence of that Eye that was different now. Grash could not quite understand or believe it, but the gaze of the Dark Lord felt almost…bekrash…thwarted. He shook his head, uncomprehending.

When he once more had the strength to look about him at his companions his heart fell. Dorim lay dead, and Brór, though recovering, was clearly still suffering the ill effects of his trials. Darash bled from her arm, and Aldor’s face was beginning to become ashen, as though he were suffering from a prolonged illness. Of the rest there were no major injuries, but they were all of them exhausted and shaky with fear and hunger.

Hunger – at the thought of it, Grash’s stomach rumbled and his head went light. The steady rock of the mountain beneath his feet swirled and he stumbled, and would have fallen had not the Dwarf Dwali been nearby to catch him. Grash tried to smile and thank him, but the stout Dwarf merely shook off his action with a rough nod. “’Tis nothing, lad. You need rest, after what you’ve been through. I’m glad to be out of that place, though it looks likely we won’t be getting much further.”

Grash nodded, but did not reply. He did not have the energy yet to explain that there was another way – another, more dangerous way. He was not sure how the others would react to his explanation of the other road after having been led into Shelob’s Lair. At the time of their escape, the monster’s tunnel had seemed the better option, for he had thought that while some would not escape, most would. On the other road, they would either all escape or none would – he would have to share in the fate of the entire company. Before Shelob’s tunnel, such a path had seemed the height of danger, but he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had been wrong…

His eyes fell upon Dorim and it occurred to him that had he not made the decision to try the tunnel first, the Dwarf might still be alive. He did not feel guilt or shame, but the realisation that he had played a part in the death of another left him chilled in a manner that he was unused to. Moved by some instinct for which he had no name, Grash knelt at the side of the Dwarf and touched him lightly upon the chest. A language, long forgotten, spoke through his lips. “Ataro ato nwatalú,” he said quietly. “Kwanze.” He had heard the woman who cared for him after the death of his mother say these words once, over the body of another slave, but he did not know what they meant. Scraping up what small handful of dust and dirt was available he scattered it over the body.

Brór and Dwali looked on at this wordlessly and when he stood they seemed to regard him in a new light. Suddenly embarrassed, Grash turned away from the Dwarves and found himself confronted with Darash. She loomed above him, standing as close as she was, and so powerfully aware of her presence was he, that Grash noted the strong smell of her: sweat and exertion radiated from her body, but it was not unpleasant. There was the smell of strength upon her, and a regal air that awoke something long dormant in his spirit. She held up her hand and in it was a piece of bread. She offered it to him. Grash took it and gobbled it down eagerly, then ducked his head to the woman, thanking her for it. She nodded back to him curtly, then said. “Now, man, what do?”

Grash looked about guiltily, as though the woman had been reading his innermost thoughts, and looking at her now, it did not seem impossible that she could. He shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Not sure, maybe. Perhaps there is another way out of Mordor. We shall see.” The woman looked at him as though she would pursue the matter, but she let it drop, for now. Grash pointed to one of the food sacks. “Meat?” He thought he had seen something that looked like dried flesh in it. Darash nodded and together then went to the sack and opened it. This drew the attention of several of the others, who pressed in about them, and Grash was kept busy passing out the flesh. They sat like that in silence for a time, tearing at the tough meat and trying to choke it down despite its clearly rancid flavour. It was Aldor who broke the silence.

“Where are you from, originally I mean, Grash?”

The question shocked the slave, for he had never thought of himself as coming from anywhere. He pointed away to the south. “From the slave fields. Grew grain for orcs and evil men. It was warm there, warm and wet not like this place.”

“Here, how?” Darash asked, and once more she looked at him as though she would pierce his secrets.

Grash shrugged. “Killed an orc. Orc was hurting woman slave. I killed orc with pratak.”

“Pratak?” Aldor asked.

Grash searched in his mind for the right word in the Common Tongue but could not find it. Standing he undertook an elaborate and, had he known it, faintly ridiculous mime of a man at work in the fields. Those gathered about watched on in amused fascination. “Ah!” Zuromor cried, “a hoe. You mean a hoe.”

Grash nodded. “Yes, yes. Hoe. I killed orc with hoe.” He had no idea if Darash understood his words but she smiled at the idea of the slain orc in a way that was most unsettling.