[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash was swept up in the sway and grunt of the dark army, caught by the stench and heat of orc bodies pressed beyond the endurance of mortals to fulfill their captains’ commands. The torchlight glared in his eyes and swirled oily smoke at him. Grash coughed and reeled in the press, clutching for some familiar hand or support, but he was alone in a sea of enemies. That was the most dangerous time for him, for he was surprised and unthinking, wavering with shock and terror. A sudden blow from behind sent him flailing to one side, and a rough voice roared at him in the Black Speech to be more careful. A hairy hand with ragged yellowing claws seized his shoulder and spun him about. Grash just had the presence of mind to duck his head and pull his hood over his eyes. He could not see the face of the orc but he could feel the creature’s foul breath upon his face. “Watch where you’re going, maggot, or I’ll lick your heels with a whip!”

Grash had spent his life taking such abuse from these creatures and knew well how to deal with it. He shuffled as though cowed, and casting his voice into the rough register of an orc replied, “We’ve been marching for days, and I’m tired. Still, what the Eye demands we must give it, mustn’t we? Always the poor orcs are the ones as must pad it all out, while the captains and the higher ups get to wing it to the Gate. I’ll make it there, and be in time to skin a few rebels before you ever arrive!” He followed this with an ugly laugh. The orc slapped him on the back hard, in approval, and moved off.

The movement of the army was carrying Grash in the wrong direction, so he began trying to work his way back toward the path. He could not head there directly, for that would have been to march in the wrong direction, but by slowing his pace and slipping between the hulking forms of the orcs, he was able to make slow progress. The sky was lightening more and more as he went, and soon the protective cloak of night would be gone. He could pass for an orc in the dark, but in the dawn – even such as only came here – he was sure he could be found out.

He was nearing the beginning of the path, when a feeling of chilling terror came over him. His heart seized and he felt his breath come up short as he stumbled against the wall of the ravine. There was a pounding in his head like the beating of vast wings, and there came through it a cry of such malice and horror that for a time his mind and eyes went blind. Grash felt the army about him shudder as the flesh will at the touch of something dark and unknown, and without looking up he knew that one of the Dark Lord’s screechers had come upon his winged mount. There was a blast of foul air as the great beast passed over head, and the ravine echoed with the croak of the monster. Grash cowered against the wall, waiting for the Nazgûl to leave, but the blast of the beast’s wings grew and there was a murmur of dismay from the army. Grash looked about and watched as the vast form of the beast settled onto the ground in the midst of the army, which parted like insects fleeing a predator to allow it passage. A towering, nightmare form detached itself from the beast and moved forward toward a small group of orcs who moved forward to speak with their captain.

Grash was turning to go, when he caught sight of a pale and terrified face upon the fringes of the crowd. It was the Man, Jordo. He was locked in position, unable to look away from the Nazgûl lord, and in his abject fascination, he had allowed his cloak to slip away from his face somewhat, thus revealing him for who and what he was.

For a moment that lasted less than a heartbeat, Grash stood torn between two competing desires. The path to freedom lay an easy dash behind him. The coming of the Nazgûl had drawn the army’s attention and he could easily make it to the path unobserved. But before him was Jordo; it was only by the slimmest of luck that Grash had seen him before the orcs, who were more concerned with avoiding their dread lord, but the terrified youth had only seconds before he would be revealed. When he did act, it was without thought, and had he been asked to explain his decision, Grash could not have been able to put it into words. Forsaking the path, he rushed toward Jordo. He reached the youth easily, and putting his arm upon his shoulder sought to turn him about and bring him away, but at his touch the Man cried out and spun as though struck. Grash hushed him quickly, but at the same moment he felt a cold wave come over him and without looking he knew that the Nazgûl had noticed them both, and pierced their disguises.

Grash seized Jordo’s arm and whispered to him desperately. “No speaking. Be quiet. I talk with Screecher. You must pretend to be slave. Do not look at it!” They felt the presence of the Nazgûl come upon them like a bad dream, and Grash turned to face it. The cloaked figure loomed over them, filling them with dread and loathing of their very lives, but steeling himself Grash advanced to meet it. When he got to within an arm’s length of the form he fell to the ground and prostrated himself before it, crying out in the Black Speech, “Forgive me, forgive me, my Master! We have been slow in coming, do not take us to the Tower! Please, please, let us go on and serve the Lord as we might!” He kept up in this manner, crying as though he were in agony, pleading with the dread captain of the army.

A thin voice that cut like a blade came from within the folds of the cloak. “What are you doing here?” it demanded. “You are not part of my army. Speak now.”

Grash forced himself to look up into the void of darkness where a face should be. He could feel the creature’s formless eyes upon him as he responded. “We were sent to serve the garrison upon the high path. We were sent by the guard at Cirith Ungol. The orcs, they are needed at the Gate, and we are being sent to watch the paths. We will watch them well. We are loyal slaves to the Lord, loyal and good. We will help the orcs. Bring water, cook food." He kept talking, using his words as a mask to shield him from the will of the Nazgul, which he could feel pressing into him like a spear, slowly but surely penetrating his flesh and twitching about in his innards, looknig for the truth. Grash knew better than to pretend to be someone he was not; he could not lie to the Dark Lord's most powerful servants. But he did not have to lie. He had spent his life as a slave of Mordor, and it was as a slave of Mordor that he now spoke. He buried deep within him the new ideas and dreams of freedom, and companionship. He kept away from thy prying, torturing will of the dark one the image he had glimpsed of the tall Man with the star at his brow. Grash kept talking as he had been taught to speak, as the orcs had forced him to speak. He knew the part he was expected to play, knew it so well that it had almost become not a part in the Dark Lord's malicious play, but his own identity. He slipped into the persona of the pathetic slave as though it were a second skin, and he wore it about him, proudly displaying his servility to the Wraith.

The pressure being exerted on his will grew as his listener felt the presence of the areas in Grash's mind that he sought to keep hidden. Rather than fight the Nazgul, Grash gave way even more, filling his mind with the empty babble that now fell from his mouth like vomit. He cringed and squirmed upon the ground, pretending to be the animal-thing that his slavery had almost made him. But through it all he held on to two ideas: two images, really, so carefully concealed in the core of his will that to reach them the Black One would have to break his spirit. This was in its power, easily, but Grash hoped that he could forestall his opponent's interest long enough to survive. The first image he clung to was of the brief glimpse he had received of that far green land, beyond the walls of this country. He held on to the picture of leaves and sun, and felt upon his withered cheeks the gentle caress of a distant wind. The other image surprised him in its clarity and power, but he did not have the time or energy to wonder at it. In his mind's eye he beheld the face and mein of Darash. Her stern eyes and slightly crooked mouth lent him the strength he lacked.

“Enough,” the voice cut through his thoughts like a razor, and Grash felt his innards shrink away. There was a silence as the Nazgûl regarded the slaves before him. They were insignificant worms like all his Lords slaves, and yet there was something about them that had sent a warning into him. But he was distracted by other matters. There were reports about of spies having breached the mountains and descended into Mordor. The garrison of Cirith Ungol had been destroyed. An army marched toward the Black Gate beneath the banner of the West. And, the unthinkable, his own King had fallen before the walls of the Gondorians, brought down by the insulting hand of a woman, and Halfling. The gibbering of the slave upon the ground had grown wearisome to him, and without a word he turned his back upon the sniveling form and moved back to his captains.

Before the orcs could recover from their own terror, Grash sprang to his feet and taking Jordo by the arm, urgently pulled him toward the path. As they reached its beginning there was a clamor of horns and the army began to move onward once more. Grash pushed and pulled the youth up the first flights of the path, hoping that the others had made it through safely.