[Kransha]

O, toil and work are now all done.
Down, down; there goes that yellow sun.
High-ho, there’s no more race to run
Until the new dawn comes.

The wind blows still, but all is well.
Din-din; so says the farmer’s bell.
And peace is in the field and the dell
Until the next day comes.

The Wargs all sleep, they ate their fill.
The clouds are quiet, the trees are still.
There’s hearth and home on the old bald hill
Until tomorrow comes.

The song was an old favorite, sentimental in some ways. Orcish voices (especially when singing) really didn’t have the same melodic quality as mannish voices, but orc’s didn’t care about that. A good orcish chorus was hard to find, especially in the north. Truthfully, Gundabad orcs sung much better than Mordor worms or the rats from Sharkû’s tower in the south. Bâzzog knew this very well. He’d never been one of the orcs who fell into line with the other marchers, singing those songs, but he’d heard them. In Gundabad, you could hear everything, even if you didn’t want to. It was of those unavoidable, annoying facts that sounded like a proverb or a figure of speech, but really wasn’t. Maybe that was why Bâzzog had left. Honestly, the real reason for his sudden, but supported departure from Mount Gundabad was lost to him. Maybe he didn’t remember it, on account of his lousy memory, or maybe it had been too trivial to waste valuable mental space remembering. He had enough of a hard time remembering names.

Thinking on that subject, Bâzzog looked around, crossing his arms before him, his gaze scanning the camp. A great, smoking fire, black plumes swirling above the crackling tongues of flame, sat in the middle of the darkening camp and orcs sat and stood all about it, eating their fill of leftovers from the company’s last hunt. There were not that many orcs in reality, but enough to make the group look formidable to others. On a number of sharpened sticks plugged into the ground around the camp were, impaled, a number of rabbits, foxes, rats, and other small, furry creatures, which were, one by one, plucked from their roosts to be devoured. The camp was celebrating its victory, though nothing had truly been one. The grand scheme was working and life was good, which was as fine a reason as any to celebrate…for orcs. Bâzzog, the chieftain, did not celebrate, though. He was not a very celebratory individual. He could be jocund when necessary, but he wasn’t in the mood. He usually had to kill something to be in the mood. Right now, he was content to overview his troops and his lieutenants, eyes traveling slowly from right to left.

The first thing he saw, looking to his right, was a monumental orc called Búbkûr. Búbkûr was Bâzzog’s second-in-command (making him third in the line of military succession, a system whose intricacies eluded him) and one of the orc chieftain’s most trusted brethren, though they were not friends…not legitimate friends, at least. He was large, brawny, and swarthy, but still somewhat shorter than Bâzzog himself, which suited the latter just fine, as he did not like orcs who were taller than him. His right arm terminated in a stump where his hand once was. He had lost that appendage in an unfortunate incident involving a late-night gambling session (the other fellow lost more than a hand, as Bâzzog remembered). For the sake of intimidation, Búbkûr had jammed a large, bent hook, twisted incorrectly at several points so that it was really not much of a hook anymore, into the stump on his arm soon after his accident and the residual healing of the wound held the weapon in its place, with the assistance of some ‘appropriated’ nails, bolts, and metal coils. Búbkûr was strong, mightily so, but barely as intelligent as his commander, thankfully. He was, if at all possible, less clever than Bâzzog, and talked more. Some might say he talked too much for his own good, but he defended his own good with really big arms and that hook. To his credit, he was a compulsive gambler and a drunkard.

Rapidly (as Bâzzog did not relish the sight of Búbkûr), the orc chieftain’s gaze turned away to look upon another being. To Bâzzog’s left, sitting upon a mound of solid dirt, was an orc called Gráthgrob, his two hands extended with a mess of sparkling, glittering, coins cradled in them, slipping through the gaps between his skinny fingers. Gráthgrob was, as far as he and his commander were concerned, was Bâzzog’s lieutenant in terms of negotiation and acted as a supply of necessary information. He knew more about the geography and locals of the area than most other orcs, and his input to Bâzzog’s crude stratagems was invaluable at least. He was smaller and less formidable, with a nature and gait that predisposed him to sidling about conspiratorially, like a snake in the grass, but he was not clever, just smart. His features were generic for an uruk, though his arms and legs were more flabby than muscular. No orc cared about his weakness and lack of stamina, since his intelligence garnered him plenty of respect, but not as much as Bâzzog.

At last, after straying over countless nameless orcs, Bâzzog’s eyes fell upon the last orc, Kransha, who stood far off, his shadow and form silhouetted against the night sky’s dark grey-blue as he stood perched atop a cresting hill, looking away into the distance as he often did. It was his job, anyway. Kransha, the eyes and ears on the orc company, was always alert, always wary and circumspect. Even now, in this festive hour, he clutched a hide-bound short bow in his hand with a narrow bolt grasped between his left hand’s index and middle finger. His small head kept spinning on his neck, searching for any sign of life on the plains of Eriador. Kransha didn’t talk much, and some suspected he was a mute orc, a great rarity, but this opinion was dissuaded by the fact that the occupation of scout usually requires the ability to speak. Most orcs had never heard his voice, but they didn’t need to. Though Bâzzog was strong and Gráthgrob was smart, Kransha possessed the greatest battle prowess. He was quick like the wind and could fire his arrows like lightning bolts that could not miss their targets. If Kransha had not been so soft-spoken and meek, he could have taken over the company a long time ago. The fact that he was loyal still to Bâzzog was a testament to Bâzzog’s command abilities, and with the marvel marksman at his side, Bâzzog was unchallengeable. Even the fact that Kransha spoke little added to the aura of eerie splendor…and equally eerie silence, around him.

Unfortunately, that fitful silence was severed immediately.

“Are you done yet?” growled Búbkûr, who sat beside Bâzzog, as he contemplated a large piece of ox meat still fixed stubbornly to a broad bone. As he spoke, he took a grandiose bite out of the victual, allowing a mess of meat chunks, grease, and spittle to fall from his gaping jaws. This action slurred the last two words vilely together, mangling the syllables beyond recognition. Unfortunately, a number of disgruntled, drunken uruks still understood him. With orcs, one often understood what another orc was saying, even if it was inaudible and incomprehensible. One orc, with a dull, witless expression plastered on his drawn face, spun to glower at Búbkûr with a pair of luminous blobs the size of horse hooves, which had taken the place of his eyes, his features twisting grotesquely. “’Ey,” he grunted simply, “shut yer stinkin’ mouth.”

Búbkûr shot a sour glance back, but otherwise, did not look up from his handheld meal. He did, though, develop the verbal ability to reply with witty, elegant, sardonic style. “You shut yer stinkin’ mouth, pushdug!” He snarled, through a second enveloped mouthful, and continued to engorge himself. “Is ‘dat a challenge, bagronk?” snorted the second, anonymous uruk, taking several imposing steps forward. He was obviously a bad logician, or else he would’ve realized that the chances of him being able to deck Búbkûr were slim to none. Luckily for the wretched orc, Bazzog, meandering forward, intervened with a raw scowl. “Maybe both of ya should shut yer stinkin’ mouths, yeah? Now that ye’re all done with yer bloody singin’,” he shot a displeased look at the rowdy revelers, “we can get back to bus’ness.”

“What business?” queried Búbkûr dumbly, his face the very picture of obtuseness. His mouth lolled open, as if he were searching for more to say but could find nothing and had settled for wordless movements of the tongue. Bâzzog fixed him with a damnable expression. “You know roight well what bus’ness.” He spat, slurring half the words together, “The trolls, sha!”

“Ah, the trolls.” Said Bubkur back, feigning understanding.

For good reason, Bâzzog hated it when Búbkûr pretended to be smart. Any one-eared dimwitted, ape knew that Búbkûr had the intelligence of an under-educated rock, so it was senseless and silly for the orc to deny it. Perhaps, if he kept his mouth shut, he’d surely be thought less of an idiot than he’d publicly proclaimed himself to be. Brushing this fact and irritance aside, Bâzzog spoke to the orcs, his voice swelling to one of command and superiority. “Alroight, lads,” he said, “gather ‘round, gather ‘round. Gráthgrob ‘ere ‘as us a plan, that he does. Go on, Grob, show ‘em the map.” On command, the orcs began to congregate in a huddle around Gráthgrob, who knelt on the grassy ground. Most uruks settled into comfortable seats on the earth, looking toward Gráthgrob as he dug around in his multilayered outfit for something. Bâzzog and Búbkûr both took places just behind Gráthgrob, on either side of him, while Kransha, stowing away his bow and arrow, took a seat at the head of the orc audience, bemused and seemingly uninterested. With few exceptions, all eyes were fixed on Gráthgrob.

Gráthgrob, looking very intelligent to the other orcs, produced a grease-slathered scroll of parchment and unrolled it expertly, revealing a large, monochromatic map, simply designed, of a small area. On the top right hand corner, in nearly illegible chicken scratch was scrawled the word ‘Bree-land’ and under that, in a smaller handwriting, the words ‘Whittleworth Farm.’ Gráthgrob, his eyes coldly illuminated and reflecting the vague light of dusk, jabbed his pudgy forefinger at the map, aiming it at a series of overlapping rectangles which represented a building in the map’s center. “This here is the farm of one Rob Whittleworth,” he began most astutely, “a Bree-land farmer with a modest fortune…but not too modest.” There was an immodest snicker from the huddled group, and Gráthgrob smiled in a self-congratulating fashion before he continued. “He’s got a load of gold in his house collected after his last shipment of crops was exported to Combe and Staddle. My sources tell me that he keeps the gold unguarded, since he lives in a remote area, so it should be easy to get it, ‘specially for trolls. The man’s got plenty of cattle and sheep all fenced up in pens on the farmland. The trolls can have their fill of ‘em. They think they’ll get half, but tonight, we seal the deal by tellin’ them they can have the whole flock. They won’t question our motives after that, not that they have yet.”

One anonymous orc interjected, objecting. “’Ey, can’t we have a few o’ the sheep?” Bâzzog silenced the wretched goblin with a fearsome look, one eye opening wider than the other to glare murderously down. With a meager little whimper, the orc shut his mouth tight, but Bâzzog still saw fit to explain his reasoning, thinking himself very wise in his tactics. “No,” he said, gesturing philosophically with his gauntleted hands, “we let the trolls ‘ave the flock.” He pointed coolly at the orc who’d posed the question. “You can get all the bloody food ye want with yer share of the gold.” With this, he turned back to Gráthgrob and hunched over, peering over the other orc’s lumpy shoulder and at the map. “Now then, back to the plan.” Gráthgrob nodded and went on. “Well, Mister Whittleworth don’t have much in the way of material possessions, maybe some personal items, but nothin’ we need. There ain’t any other folk in the area, ‘cept Whittleworth’s li’l wife and daughter.” At this, there was an unsettling surge of chatter and gossiping whispers among the orcs, and a second interrupting goblin raised his hand, like a schoolboy in a classroom, and began to wave the limb about madly as he spoke. “Oh,” he cried in a raspy, eager voice, “tell the trolls ta bring the wife!”

Again, Bâzzog’s sinister mono-ocular gaze fell on the orc who spoken out of turn, his other eye shriveling into a beady dot. The orc’s excited expression shrunk, and his puffed out chest deflated dejectedly. “No!” growled Bâzzog, irritated by the constant surfeit of interruptions. Them trolls’d probly crush the lass before they got ‘er outta the house. Anyways, t’was ‘ard enough to get the trolls ta understand how to get the gold. Tellin’ ‘em ta bring us the farmer’s wife’d just confuse ‘em. An’ we don’t want to get the trolls confused, now does we?” There was another unanimous snicker from Bâzzog’s captive audience. The dullness of the trolls had become a running gag among the orcs. Some had even been using the word olog as a synonym for ‘dimwit’ and the slang caught on fast. Ever since the trolls first accepted the orcs’ one-sided offers, orcish opinion of troll intelligence had plummeted. Whenever the trolls were brought up, laughter was sure to be close behind. Unfortunately, the merry mood was cracked and shattered by a last ill-aimed question.

“So, who’s gonna tell Ugwakh all this?” Búbkûr inquired, moving up beside Bâzzog, stooped over with a hand on Gráthgrob’s back. “Ol’ ash-bûbhosh’ll wanna know the plan.” Bâzzog rolled his eyes (actually, he managed to roll only one eye, while keeping the other affixed on Búbkûr, who still bore a look of unadulterated stupidity), and shot a reply back filled with false, but familiar, orcish pleasantry. “Yer gonna tell ‘em, Búbkûr, that ye are.” He said sweetly, eliciting a chuckle from Gráthgrob, and a distinct gulp from Búbkûr, who knew that when Bâzzog was pleasant it was a sure sign of trouble. “Use yer bloody fancy talk and tell ‘im that he’ll get half the gold.” The orc chieftain concluded, with a wry grin. Búbkûr’s right tuft of eyebrow rose inquisitively.

“We’re gonna give ‘im half?”

“No, glob,” snarled Bazzog in response, “we’re givin’ ‘im a fourth of it. What d’ya think I am, stupid?”

The stare given reduced Búbkûr’s interrogative nature. He shrunk back, much to the satisfaction of his rivals in the horde and nodded obediently. “No, sir.” He murmured, “I’ll tell ‘im he’s gettin’ a fourth.”

A second later, Bâzzog’s armor-covered hand shot out and a fist clenched around Búbkûr’s throat, hauling him to within an inch of the snorting chieftain’s face. Gráthgrob below, eyes wide, threw himself defensively backward, out of the way, as the rest of the surrounding orcs leaned forward curiously. “Don’t TELL ‘im that, ye bloody fool,” Bâzzog roared, hot breath and saliva covering Búbkûr’s large, quivering nose, “tell ‘im he’s getting half, got it?” Búbkûr nodded frantically as Bâzzog pushed him away harshly. “Y-Yes, sir, yes I do, sir.” He stammered miserably, stepping back. Bâzzog approached again, looking enraged. “Than get off yer high horse and TELL ‘IM!” He bellowed; his bass voice rumbling and echoing throughout the camp. In an instant, Búbkûr had spun on his heel and was scurrying away, with a few illicit giggles following him, but no laughter or speech. When Bâzzog put his foot down, what he said was final. No one would speak until he had broken the unsettling silence, on pain of death (or painful dismemberment). Luckily, he did so.

“C’mon, lads.” He said, a smile returning to him as he turned to Kransha and Gráthgrob, “We’ve got a date with the ologs.”