[Kransha]

Many days had passed since Thrákmazh the Mighty approached his fellow conspirator, a day since those conspiring were confirmed and set into swift motion. His scheme was working; his plan was coming closer to success! Herding was, perhaps, more than convinced. It would all fall into place easily. Quietly, studiously, Thrákmazh reviewed the devilish scheme: On the eve of battle, this very night, the coup would take place. Herding could imprison Cenbryt on charges of treason, and then kill him. While the wretched Southron gloated, Thrákmazh could take his chance. He would slay Herding, and Cenbryt would be dead already. The Southrons would have no choice but to follow him and, if they did not, Thrákmazh’s orcs and uruk-hai far outnumbered the southern men. Besides that, he had ranks of lesser folk, mercenaries, trolls, and the like that were loyal to Sauron and not to Harad. If worse came to worse, disposing of all rebellious Southrons would be no more than a bland annoyance, an unwelcome thorn.

The sun was now nearly set behind the trees after a long, monotonous journey through the dim sky, unlit by a great brightness. The golden vessel that Thrákmazh so despised seemed dulled, like a brilliant, shimmering metal rusted over time. Clouds billowed above, moving quickly to escape their proper course. The orc captain moved with subtle swiftness through his side of camp, eluding stray glances with ease. It would be best to get the army moving, now that night had fallen. Stars began to glisten meagerly in the high heavens. Doubtless the lot of them would be, as usual, opposed to moving in daylight, but they would do it nevertheless. Thrákmazh had to see to such things, it was his responsibility, and he knew that no orc or other creature would dare to stand in his way when doing his duty to the Eye. The camp had to be summarily roused early each day and where prepared for another day of early awakening beneath dawn’s cold sun after very little sleep. They were but a day from the Woods of Lórien and would cover much ground before the day’s gold vessel completed its slow-paced arc through cloudless skies. But, they would not rise in calm tranquility tomorrow. They would rise in the evening, beneath Thrákmazh’s guiding hand.

Tonight…Tonight Sauron’s Eye and the eye of Thrákmazh the Mighty would see together.

The army assembled by the Captain of Dol Guldur, Khamûl the Nazgûl, consisted of the scattered remnants of the Uruk-hai (most of whom were slain with the fall of Orthanc), goblins of the Misty Mountains, Urûks of Mordor and Mirkwood, Southron tribesmen, and, finally, Olog-hai. The Olag-hai, or Ologs, were simply trolls to anyone who cared to look upon them. They were bred with the urûks in Mordor, but were gifted by the Eye with uncanny abilities, unusual for common troll-kind. The Olog-hai at least had some mild intelligence, and, unlike most trolls, were unfazed by the dreaded beams of the sun. They were easily compatible with orc hosts, useful as dreadnaughts or heavy infantry, crushing and annihilating all in their way. The problem was, no matter how much brain the Dark Lord gave them, they were no more than overbearing trolls, and thus, dull and slow like their smaller, weaker kin in the north and west.

This slowness had cost the host much time. Trolls could not be incensed to quicken their paces, as they had no means to move faster whether or not they wished to. Thrákmazh had never been obligated to work or correspond with trolls of kind. There were few trolls in the forests of Mirkwood and they appeared only sparingly in the Misty Mountains, where some campaigns had taken Thrákmazh in his younger days. In his three millennia of remembered life, Thrákmazh had had a mild aversion to trolls, ever since their constant and conspicuous absence at all the battles where he might have needed their services. Now, they were costing him again, with their aversion to his pace, or their inability to match it. They were slowing the orc-host down, and their weakness might go so far as to add another day to the journey from Dol Guldur to Lórien. But, they had a purpose, one that Thrákmazh the Mighty could use and exploit with ease. The trolls would accommodate him during the overthrow. Koran’s men might be able to kill orcs and men, but killing trolls was an art form still not mastered. For the last days, these trolls had had dragged behind, a quailing rear flank for the monstrous host. Tonight, they fell, slowly and wearily, grumbling and yawning stupidly (a sound that more resembled a grunting growl that rumbled in troll throats before bursting out, unwanted), into slumber, chained by iron collars to the sturdiest woodland trees…

They would not sleep for long.

Thrákmazh sat, his only eye firmly shut, blocking out the little light of the stars as the sunlight disappeared, before his tent. He was squatting in the dirt, pondering, as he had pondered every moment of the long journey since his conversation with Herding in the Southron’s tent. Tonight was as apt a night as any to do the wicked deed, but Thrakmazh’s mind was elsewhere, preoccupied. His rough-skinned hand glided up and down the length of his orcish blade, which now hung at his right in a secondary place. Having taken its place, the glimmering Elven sword shined still, absorbing the cold, watery moonlight as it swept as a tide over night. He was preoccupied by the blade, its hold still firmly on him. Faces, as white as ice and lacking of earthly pallor, appeared continually before his eyes, flashing strobes of painful fire. It was maddening as it had been at first, but so much now that it blinded the orc’s mind against all ulterior motives. He was thinking of the Elves, those he had killed in the past…and those he would kill tomorrow, but one elf still lingered, one that he hoped and wished was dead. A voice, though, stirred his reverie…a voice that came from within.

‘The Elf is dead, don’t be a fool. He has perished.’ The voice spoke slowly, icily, as if digesting the sour words before it spoke. It was a voice that lingered in Thrákmazh, a voice whose cold sound scratched against his skull as talons would, rending layers from his thick bones and exerting great force to cause pain. It was orcish, his perhaps, but smoother and darker with a strangely subtle elegance that Thrákmazh’s own voice did not possess. The orc considered the words that this voice from within spoke, the message concealed in the melodious oratory. He knew, somehow, deep in his dark and stinking heart, that the voice, as convincing as it was, was wrong. Slowly, his tattered lips moved to mouth the words of his reply. “The Elf lives…he lives…I know it…I feel his fire in the sword.” His hand unconsciously moved, worming down like a snake, separate from its earthly master, towards the blade that still hung at his left hip. Its moonbeam gleam shone weakly through the scabbard of torn leather that Thrákmazh had bound around it to quell its preternatural glow. He felt the same distinct burning feeling that shot through him, coursing into his pulsating veins each time his hand neared the Elven blade he’d stolen.

‘That sword will be the death of you, fool.’ admonished the dank voice within, ‘Discard it and turn back to your mission.’ Again, Thrákmazh heard the words in passing, as if he had somehow heard them before and was recalling a past incident in reverence of contemplation. His eye closed more firmly, the lid and saggy skin about it folding into a wrinkled pouch of flesh. He disagreed with the voice, fully now. He knew at this point that it would disagree with him. Whatever dark source it sprung from and whatever tributaries it held to it in his mind, he was not inclined to listen to it out of any more than necessity. His brow furrowed in annoyance. “My mission will be complete by the next sunset.” He said to himself, his unspoken words wrought with arrogance that he had not expected to come from him. He knew he was prideful, but he was also cautious. His usual wary, circumspect demeanor evaporated, absorbed into the offending voice, which spoke with it.

‘Unless you falter,’ chided the voice delicately, pausing a moment after, ‘...Koran will fall, but can you slay the darker man?’ Again Thrákmazh felt an unreasonable need to argue and seek fault in the words of the voice. It was manufactured as a tool for argument, a resilient mannequin that would take Thrákmazh’s blows and bounce back uniformly. “He will fall as his foe shall.” Thrákmazh silently growled, no vocal sound coming from him though he still spoke, “I will lead when the sun has risen. I will lead orc, man, and troll alike to victory.” The voice paused, and Thrakmazh’s mind fell into a further trance, near slumber, as the counterpart of his personality digested again, preparing the adequate, sardonic, dark response. An instant later it burst, its loud fervor filling Thrákmazh’s pounding skull. ‘With what?’ it queried, with a dry wit lingering in the tone, ‘...What tool have you do mastermind Lorien’s defeat?...The sword of an Elf?”

The words struck a nerve. “No!” Thrákmazh said, this time out loud, but still softly, “I will slay Elves with an orc blade!” His hand switched from left to right flank, fingers curling protectively about the horn-carved hilt of his scimitar. He saw the elf before him, or at least his face, through the bars of a cage. It was the cage that he’d been confined in during their parting conversation, one-sided as it was. The image passed with the speed of a passing bird, set on other things, and was replaced by a swirling whirlpool of murk and debris. As he felt the hilt, he felt the same emptiness he’s felt, the same soulless blackness. The same vigor that usually accosted him was gone, replaced by that emptiness. Whenever he killed Elves or men or even orcs, he felt blood rush through him and passionate fire inflame him. Now, ice encased his panting, heaving lungs, his blood ran cold, and the beat of his orcish heart slowed to a standstill. He felt nothing...Quietly, the voice continued, swelling soon to greater volume and power. ‘Your soul is no longer there.’ It murmured disdainfully, ‘Your soul is with the Elf! He’s stolen it from you!’

“My soul is here!” he cried, louder now, “The Elf, dead or living, does not hold it.”

‘Then look in your sword, O Mighty Captain, and see what lies in its blade.’

Slowly, reluctantly, Thrákmazh’s hand moved again, to his left hip. He had to be the victor. The voice was just another challenge, and an unneeded one at that. He could slay it and its weak, abhorrent brethren, along with the Elf. The Elf, dead or alive, would pay for the pain he’d caused Thrákmazh. He would pay for making Thrákmazh remember, in such agonizing, gruesome detail the deeds he’d once held as landmarks in his life. He would slay more Elves, and he would cleave their heads from their shoulders, rend their arms from their sides, and slice their wobbling legs, quailing in fear, out from beneath their fragile, porcelain forms, delicate and as weak as autumn leaves. He would bathe in their blood when the time came, and laugh at the pitiful being who defied his will with vile trickery and Elvish sorcery that had cursed him. His fingers closed, feeling a fire more painful than inflaming wrap around his hand, worm up his arm, and overflow there. Flinching, his hand shot away again, latching on to the orcish sword, he whipped it from its sheath and stumbled up to his feet, trying to gain a firm foothold in the earth. His one eye passed over the land beneath him and settled on the sword.

The voice was gone, gone from his mind and would no longer pester him, but he still had to prove it wrong. He slowly unsheathed the blade, clasping it hopefully in one hand, and raised the blade parallel to the ground. Somewhat hesitantly, he leaned over it, his one eye closing involuntarily. He, at first, could not force himself to look into it. Something about the very gesture pained him, but only slightly. He was only reluctant because, at this stage, he would not stand to be wrong. All was going as planned and, to be victorious, he could not let any form of fear or seeds of doubt infect him. He was firm, strong, mighty, and his reflection in a blackened sword could not change that, no matter what. The orc captain was resolute and would not move from his position. Ready for anything, his eye snapped open and the space where his other eye had been contorted, as if some inner eye was staring into the reflective sheen of the polished weapon.

What he saw horrified him to no end, beyond the very depths of his nightmares. He saw fire, fire and shadow, swirling cyclonic around him. The sword burned him now, searing the flesh of his hand just as the Elven blade had. He felt his heart racing, his head pounding, and his veins throbbing. The healed injury in his leg suddenly pulsated furiously, the innards of him beating like drums against his ribs. He cast the blade from his hand so forcefully that it was buried in the ground when it fell, reverberating. The blade rippled, singing a song of death that filled Thrákmazh’s ears. Letting loose a monumental roar of pain, Thrákmazh reeled and fell to the earth, clasping his empty hands to his head. He needed something, anything, to purge him off the pain. At first his mind sought physical pain to divert the mental pain. He yearned momentarily to bury a knife in his arm just for distraction, but the dying fragments of logic in him told him not to. He needed drink, orc-draught, liquor strong enough to alleviate his troubles and woes. His eye, still clenched tightly closed, turned beneath it’s lid to the area surrounding his tent as his painful roaring began attracting a great deal of attention.

“URKRASH!” his voice boomed, as his left hand wrapped protectively around his burning right. He sunk to his knees again, his one, dark eye flitting sideways to the tent of his servant, a smaller sheltered erected not far from his own lavish pavilion. From it, almost instantly, issued a groggy-looking Urkrásh with a weary yawn on his lips and sandy debris clinging to his low eyelids. The tired orc tried in vain to hurry towards his master, having heard the call which echoed still in the sky. “Yes, lord.” He said glumly, but still purposefully, as he neared Thrákmazh, “What is it you want of-” Thrákmazh interrupted the slow-moving voice with his maddened own. “Orc-draught, now!” He snapped, jabbing a finger at the flask which he had known would be hanging on Urkrásh’s flank. His finger was moving up and down, rapidly, like the fluttering wings of a swift bird and his eye and face had lost their pallor, drained of all color. His whole demeanor had shrunk and his look was pallid and weak…almost afraid...He had never been afraid before...never...

Reluctantly, and not quite understanding, Urkrásh unhooked the hide-leather flask from a tattered belt slung across his shoulder. His hand shaking uncontrollably, his thin, nearly emaciated arm extended outward to Thrákmazh. The hand of the captain shot out carelessly, tearing the flask from his servant’s hand. His talons tore into it, causing the thick, brownish substance to spill out onto the grass. Disregarding that, Thrákmazh crammed the torn muzzle of the flask between his teeth and guzzled the foul liquid. He needed it, needed it to alleviate his pain, his fear. But, in horror, his eyes widened, and he pulled the flask away, heaving it to the ground where its remaining contents began spilling out. From his lips blossomed a red liquid, dark and bearing a very specific consistency, one Thrákmazh knew all too well. The orc suddenly sputtered and spat the substance out, trying to purge it from his throat. “Blood! Blood!” he roared madly, as the crimson liquid fell in rivers down onto his armor and the ground. His mouth was filled with blood, not orc liquor, blood! Reeling furiously, Thrákmazh grabbed his sword from the ground and with the flat of it batted Urkrásh away, aiming the tip at his throat at last. He breath hard, steamy breath shooting out of his throat like a geyser.

“You drink it!” he bellowed, gesturing to the nearly empty flask, “Tell me what is there!”

With ultimate reluctance, his entire pitiful form quivering, Urkrásh knelt, Thrákmazh’s blade following him to his knees where his shivering fingers hooked onto the ripped flask and picked it up, trying to maintain the draught within. Hesitating greatly, he pulled it towards him and took a conservative sip. He contemplated the taste momentarily, throwing the draught around inside him, and then slowly swallowed with a sound akin to a frightful gulp. A second later, he let the flask fall, emptied, to the earth and got onto his feet, trying feebly to steady himself. “It is orc-draught, sir.” He murmured fearfully, “A few days old, yes, but not-” Thrákmazh cut him off before he finished, his flailing blade knocking Urkrásh backward. The orc captain’s eyes were incendiary again, his figure alight, bound with an unholy aura radiating off him as shadow would. “LIAR!” he cried through blood-soaked lips, “You lie like everyone else, worm! You lie like the Elves! Traitor, wretch! Do you not know who I am? What I am? I am Thrákmazh One-Eye, mightiest of Sauron’s servants, invincible, unbeatable, im…” his ranting voice quieted and slowed suddenly, the fire fading from his eyes as he whispered the last word, “…immortal.” His eye closed solemnly, the lid fallin in defeat, a feeling the captain had never felt.

The orc backed up, turning away, and slid his sword back into its scabbard. “Arouse the host, but do it silently, and instruct all lieutenants to have their troops prepare themselves for battle. Tell them that we are finally going to deal with the traitorous Haradrim, for the Southron captain called Koran Cenbryt is a foe of the Eye and must be dealt with. Ready them, loyal Urkrásh, and you will get your just rewards. Be quick about it as well, for the Southron must be dealt with before the sun rises.” Urkrásh nodded confusedly and turned, heading off towards the nearest line of tents to awaken the troops, though he still didn’t fully know why. Surely he had not so soon recovered from the effects of Thrákmazh’s eruption. But, Thrákmazh wasn’t bothered by any of this. His eye coldly swiveled in its socket. From tents all around him orcs were already issuing. They had been awakened by his nightly howling and the cacophony he’d created. They looked at him with a strange look, resembling one of concern, but Thrákmazh knew they were not concerned…they were afraid…Their captain was mad, lost to sanity, and now, they knew it.

Snarling under his breath, Thrákmazh tried to ignore them. He turned, rubbing his sore throat, and hurried off in the direction of Herding’s campsite, away from the countless pairs of eyes fixed on him. He had to wake his ‘ally’ so that the process of ridding himself of both Southron captains could begin. It did not take him long to reach the Haradrim camp, since the swarthy men were all sleeping, unlike the orcs back at their side. In the night, with little visibility (and the fortunate absence of the moon’s cold light), it took a bit longer to locate Herding’s tent, but, unlike Cenbryt’s, it was a larger, more decadent pavilion erected on the fringe of the Southron camp. Thrákmazh snaked his way too it, slinking through the shadows as he always did. He neared it soon and, watching as his goal came closer and closer to his grasp, entered.

“Herding…It is time…”