[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The orcs poured over the company as a consuming wave of heated flesh. Their breaths fouled the air, and their cries echoed amongst the rocks like the crash of dreadful machines of destruction. Morgoroth had fallen, and Aldor, their supposed companion, had betrayed them to their doom. Grash fought off the blades of the orcs as best he could, but he was no warrior, and had it not been for Darash and her slender blade, he would have fallen many times before now. Their bag full of stones was now empty, and though they had felled many of the beasts, more and more orcs were appearing from all directions, driving them down, and away, from the path that lead to the green land.

Grash felt a hand upon his arm, and he swung about to slash and rend his attacker, but his hand faltered, and his heart fell, when he saw the ragged and bloodied visage of Zuromor clutching him for support. Grash tried to hold the man upright, but it was hopeless, for the orc spear that had passed through his heart was quivering with the last beats of life in the Man. Grash’s hand slipped in the blood that came from the man, whose lifeless body fell into a heap at Grash’s feet without a word or sound.

There was no time to mourn. No time for Zuromor or Morgoroth, or for himself. Another orc threw itself as Grash, and for a split second in time, Grash did nothing to defend himself. He was tired beyond the bearing of moratility, in spirit as well as in body. The horrors that he had undergone to escape his captivity seemed now to have been hardly worth it. Three of his companions had fallen on the road that he had found for them, and soon all would follow. He did not lift his hand to defend himself, welcoming the death that came to him in the raging form of the orc. But a blur in the corner of his eye became Darash’s arm, and the orc fell with her blade buried in its neck. She scrabbled, trying to grab the weapon once more, but the monster twisted in its death throes and staggered backward amongst the rocks. More orcs sprang upon them, and they were forced back another step into the ever narrowing gully that would be their tomb. Darash, to his amazement, fought on with on only her hands.

The sight of her and the others, still so valiantly fighting and struggling on for their freedom, despite their failure to escape, and in the teeth of despair, shamed him, and once more raising his weapon, he turned to face his attackers. But this time, it was no faceless orc who came upon him, but the beast that had come to torture Grash and the others so many times, and who was now the leader of their enemies. He recognised the creature instantly as the one who had escaped them in the tower – so long ago now, that it seemed almost like another lifetime, one in which there had been at least the dream of green things and air. Snarling, the beast leapt at Grash, but this time Darash was too busy protecting her own life to defend him. Raising his blade, Grash sought to strike down the orc, but the creature merely swatted the dagger aside contemptuously. Sticking his blade into Grash’s side and twisting it, he leaned his hideous face in to the slave’s so close that Grash could make out the veins in its eyes, pulsing with malice. “Wretched worm,” the orc rasped, “you’ve cost me a difficult journey and the hard will of the Screechers. Well I’ve paid you.” It twisted the knife once more, rasping the metal against Grash’s ribs and grinding the bone, drawing from him a cry of agony. With a vicious motion the orc withdrew the knife and prepared to deliver the death blow, but it never fell for from out of nowhere there sprang the female Elf, Raies, her eye filled with a hatred that blazed and smote the orc with terror.

She was wounded, and broken, and as near death as the rest of the companions, but she was of the Elder race, and there was in her yet that which could quail even the most powerful orc. The beast fell back with a cry, but he soon recovered. He lunged at her with his blade, and aided by his maggot servants, he soon had her pressed against a rock. Again, his blade went high, but the man Jordo, all but forgotten by them all in the fighting, always strangely silent, leapt forward, throwing himself across the body of the Elf. The sword fell, piercing the man’s heart, who cried out and spun away, carrying with him the orc’s blade. Raies rose to her feet, but was immediately beset by the orc’s two followers. Grash had seen enough – too many of those he had lead from their cells had fallen; too many had he killed. With a scream unlike any he had made, or had thought possible for him to make, he sprang upon the orc who had slain Jordo, and with his bare hands he took the creature by the throat and wheeled it about so that its head was crushed against the side of the gully.

Seeing their captain fall, the other orcs seemed to falter and give way, allowing the companions a moment to cease their struggles, and breathe. There were only seven of them now: the Dwarves Brór and Dwali, Raies, the Elf, the women Lyshka and Darash, and Jeren and Grash. The others were gone. But they were not to die alone, for soon the orcs would come once more and the remaining companions would fall beneath them. The orcs had hemmed them in and forced them into a gully from which there could be no escape. The walls of stone on either hand rose up straight as walls, and angling in they met not ten paces behind them. They stood, their breath coming in great heaving gasps, their blood dripping onto the rock and mingling, becoming a single pool of red. But instead of attacking, the foremost rank of orcs began to gave way, parting to allow someone through. And then Grash’s heart gave way and he saw with bitter resignation their doom approach. In the hands of an orc there lay the vessel with the burning suverah with which Aldor had sought to overcome them. He was dead, but the orcs had decided to proceed with his plan. Whether the fumes of the substance had no effect on orcs, or whether it was just that the prisoners were so much more tired and weakened than their enemies, the smoke began to bring them low while the orcs remained impassive.

Grash fought to stay awake, but it was hopeless. The orc who bore the vessel placed it upon the ground close to where they stood, but they dared not venture forth to retrieve it for it was clear that they would be cut down should they try. The orcs clearly intended to take them alive…for their sport. Grash felt a touch upon his shoulder and he turned to see Darash motioning to his blade. He did not understand at first what she wanted with it – what use in fighting now? But she made it clear through her gestures that she wanted the blade so that she could use it on herself. Grash understood; he too, would rather die than be taken alive by the orcs. She could have the blade, but only after he had used it on himself. Putting the dagger to his throat me made to press it into his flesh, but at that moment, high above the raucous cries of the orcs, barely visible against the grey sky, he saw a bird soaring above their heads. At first he feared it was one of the Nazgûl upon their winged mounts, but he realised that it was a real bird, a bird of prey, not one of the carrion fowl of Mordor. The bird cried out then, and its call was clear and keen.

Grash moved the blade away from his neck, and shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “Not kill myself. I am free. Free. If I die, let orcs destroy me. Until then, I am free – I will stay with life. I will not leave.” He handed the blade toward Darash…

A sudden cry from the orcs drew his attention toward them. His eyes were swimming and his head was growing light from the fumes of the suverah but through the reek he could make out that the orcs were turning away from the companions and gesturing down the path at something. Swimming up from the abyss, Grash looked through the haze that was steadily falling before his eyes and dreamt that he saw dozens of green clad forms flitting amongst the rocks. There were cries of terror and of death amongst the orcs, and Grash dreamed that they fell and fled. His head swam and the earth spun and the rock of the mountain rose up to smack him in the head. He lay there, panting and gasping for breath, and he dreamt of strong hands lifting him, and bearing him away…

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He awoke to the sound of birdsong, and to the feel wind upon his cheeks. He opened his eyes, but had to close them again immediately for the force of sunlight that bore upon him. There was a comforting voice nearby, and a cool hand pressed upon his brown, shading his eyes from the light. “It is all right,” the voice was saying, and it was noble and clear like the fall of water. “You are safe, and alive, although you are lucky to be both. You can open your eyes now, I have shaded them.”

Grash did as the voice bid and he looked up into two deep brown eyes that twinkled at him from a face that shone with health and vigour. Rising up, Grash sought to scamper away from the tall Man, but he was held by gentle hands. “Quiet,” a familiar voice said in his ear. “Friends. Safe. Free.” Grash turned and beheld Darash. She was clad as Grash now saw he had been, in simple garments of green that were clean and soft. They were the most comfortable things he had ever worn, and he could not believe that they were real.

“Where…?” was all he could manage.

“You are in Ithilien,” the Man said. “We are Rangers of Gondor, and we found you upon the path. The King has come again and we have reclaimed this land. We were scouting along the high path, looking for spies of Mordor, when my bird spotted something. We went to see what she had found and were surprised to see a mob of orcs besetting the strangest collection of folk we could have imagined.” He smiled. Grash stared at the man in amazement. “You save us?” he blurted out. “Save us? Bring us out of Mordor, and into green land?” And he felt the tears upon his cheeks as he laughed, the first genuine laugh of his existence. He fell back upon the ground and felt the gentle touch of grass upon his skin. He rose up, and the other companions were gathered about, all of them with the wounds bound and resting. The Man explained that they had all of them been on the brink of death from the smoke when they had been taken up by the Rangers, and that they had all lain unconscious for four days and nights but that the first of them had begun to awake this morning.

As the Man spoke, Grash felt a tremor in the ground, as though some great upheaval were taking place in the earth. The birds and the animals fell silent about them, and even the wind seemed to still. All talking ceased, and everyone held their breath in expectation, although of what, none knew. There came then a wind from the East, that raged through the trees, and it cried about them like a voice. Looking up, Grash watched in horror as a vast cloud rose above the looming form of the mountains, a great shadowy form, crowned with lightning, but it was dissolved in the wind and when it passed there came upon the heart of the slave a lightness that he could never have imagined. The land began to stir, and the Rangers gathered about stared at one another in amazement. The Man who had saved Grash looked about in awe. “What has happened?” he asked. “I feel as though some great change has been wrought, but what it is, I do not know.”

But Grash knew. Grash, who had lived his entire life beneath the shadow knew with his heart of hearts, that the shadow had been defeated. How it had been accomplished was beyond his imagination, but that it was so, he was sure. Sauron, the dark lord, was no more.

Grash was free.