[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Unaware of how annoying it might be to the others, Grash responded to Jeren’s question with yet another shrug. It was the way he had learned to reply to any request that was made civilly: so used was he to the barked commands of brutal masters, it was as though he was confused by any other mode of address. “Do not know where tunnel ends,” he said to the Man. “Never been through tunnel. Only, have I seen orcs come and go and hear them talk about it. But it is journey of many hours, many long steps.” He lapsed once more into silence and wondered about this Man. There was something about him that disturbed Grash in ways he could not put into words, not even to himself. It was the same kind of feeling that he had when speaking with Aldor. He wanted to trust them both, and felt as though it would be most natural for him to join with them, and yet there was an odd reluctance in his spirit. In an odd way it was the opposite of his feelings when speaking with the Elves. He knew that they were not to be trusted; indeed, he had begun to regret freeing them at all. If it had not been for the thought that they would prove the most tempting treats for the Monster he never would have let them from their cells. And yet it was as though there was an air about them that made him feel…content. He shook his head to drive away these dreamy ideas. He had no time for the spells of magical beings. His life was defined by the harsh realities of brutal experience. And what experience could be more brutal than this? Some would be taken by the Monster, some would not. To this point he had only considered it a wild gamble, but perhaps there was a way of bettering the odds in his favour…

He turned to the Men, Jeren, Aldor and Zuromor, and spoke to them quickly and silently. He fought to keep the echoes of his voice from reaching the others. “If we fight together – we four – then maybe we escape monster together. Leave Elves and Dwarves to be eaten. Maybe we take women with us. Women need help from men for difficult tasks. Need our protection. Yes,” he said as though he were realising something for the first time, “it would be good to take women with us.”

Before the others replied, the Dwarf Brór bulled into their group. At first his questions confused Grash. Was the Dwarf actually asking Grash to form an alliance with him and his folk? The very idea was preposterous, for everyone – even Grash – knew that one could never trust a Dwarf. He had heard all his life of how the Dwarves had betrayed their alliances with the Elves in the Old Days, and attacked them seeking to steal their treasure. The orcs knew little lore, but these stories were every fresh in their mind as they took great delight from the dissension and mistrust that existed amongst their enemies. Grash had also heard about the wars fought between the Dwarves and the orcs, and all of them had been over treasure; both kinds of folk seemed to pleasure in wealth, and both sought to live in the same kinds of dark caves and tunnels. To Grash’s mind, there did not seem to be much difference between orcs and Dwarves.

He replied to Brór’s questions as evasively as he could and felt quite self-congratulatory as he did. He knew that he was at a terrible disadvantage in this situations insofar as he had little experience dealing with other people, but he was learning quickly that it was important to keep much of the truth to one’s self. Already he was regretting having told the others about his plan for survival in the tunnel – it would have been better to mislead them about the monster in some way, rather than admit that some would be taken this day. He was lost in these thoughts when Zuromor moved toward the Dwarf and offered him his friendship. Grash did not know what to make of this, for he had thought that the Man was on his side. Grash’s head began to ache with the pressure of trying to understand what was happening. His life had been torturous but simple: do what the orcs said or be punished, trust nobody, rely only on himself. With freedom, he found, there were new challenges and complexities the likes of which he had never imagined. It was no longer enough to think only about himself, he had to consider the inner workings of others. He did not know if he could do it…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In another part of the tunnel, she sat in the agony of her defeat, weaving about her a web of despair and hatred. Never had she felt the bitter sting of metal within her beloved flesh, and never before had she been denied her prey. The two nasty little creatures that had eluded her were the smallest of morsels, and yet they had proved the dearest of prizes. Her precious eyes still burned with the agonising memory of the light that had pierced her mind, and her body quaked with rage and pain as she sought to staunch the steady trickle of ooze that came from the wound in her belly, and from the end of her lovely leg where her foot had been lopped off. She cursed the fool who lived in his Tower and his pretensions to rule this land. It was his machinations, she was sure, that had brought those creatures to her realm. They were undoubtedly spies of the bright-eyed immortals, sent by them to destroy the Dark Lord, and in her malice she wished them success. Let them defeat Sauron and then seek their escape from this land. She would be waiting for them, and then she would crush and destroy and devour.

As she sat in her darkness, contemplating her revenge, there came to her senses strange airs and an odd rumour of intruders in her tunnels. She shifted slightly and directed her attention toward the main tunnel above. Somewhere up there was a large group of folk. She tasted the airs greedily. Men there were, and Dwarves, and another taste that had been absent from her lair for too long…Elves. Poisonous saliva began to drip from her fangs and mix with the pool of ooze that came from her wound. Such meat was sweet and sustaining. If she were to recover her strength she would need a sustaining meal, and the group that moved through her tunnel would provide that.

Her great limbs creaking as she moved, she slipped through the hidden paths of her realm, quickly squeezing her vast and shapeless bulk through the narrow ways of her lair. She kept herself hiddem from the beings who had dared in their arrogance to enter her darkness, for they were many and she was wounded, but the terror of her passing sent shivers through their succulent flesh. She would make such a meal as she had not made in this age of the world, but to do so would require cunning and cruelty.

Fortunately, she was the mistress of both…