[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash’s heart fell as he saw the orc disappear through the arch and down the Road that none of them could follow. He cursed their luck and swore in the BlackTongue. “Thrack! Granka-rûk slog búraz nratal!” He whirled about to where Aldor stood and began indicating that he should go back into the cellars. “Go, go,” he said, “must be gone. Must be gone soon. Gather food, gather water – no more time, no more time.” He turned to where Zuromor was standing, crestfallen by his failure to stop the monster. He rushed to his side and seized him by the arm, pulling him frantically toward the inner doors. “Come, come” he urged. “Orcs will know now. Know we are gone.”

Zuromor delicately removed himself from the grasping hands of the smaller man and looked at him sternly. “I understand our situation,” he said. Grash turned then to the women. He had been surprised and impressed by Darash’s display of courage and skill, and as he beheld her now it was with new eyes. He moved to where she stood and addressed her with greater reverence than he had with either Aldor or Zuromor. “Come. Must gather food, must gather water. Must leave now. Orc will bring more orcs.” He knew that she could not understand him, so he pointed to the cellar doors and indicated with hand gestures that they needed food. He turned also to the Easterner woman. He did not know what tongue she spoke so he tried both the Black Speech, and his fragmented version of the Common Tongue, bidding her in both to return to the cellars. The two women regarded him coldly, with hostility even, and he resisted the urge to take hold of them, as he had done with both Zuromor and Aldor. It struck him for the first time that there was something oddly familiar about each of them, and although he was in a near panic to get them moving, he allowed himself the brief luxury of examining their faces. The Easterner had the look of a hunted being – it was one that he knew well, having grown up with it on all sides. But there remained yet a streak of iron in her gaze, particularly when she looked upon himself or the other Men, although he fancied that perhaps she was somewhat less wary toward him. The other, Darash, was an altogether different matter. Her height and beauty suited her, as did her bearing which was – if Grash had known the words to put to his feelings – regal. She regarded him with pride, but it was the hauteur of one who was in total control of herself, and who was used to exercising command over others. Recognition of this was a shock to Grash, who to this point had associated the idea of authority only with the whip and the iron hand of the orc. It had never occurred to him that there might be another way to command. This was a mystery to him, but apparently not to Darash. It both awed and, at the same time, scared him a little. He almost bowed to her as he spoke once more, this time attempting to project deference. “Come, come. To the cellars. Food and water, then we go.”

He saw that the women understood and was delighted when then appeared to comply, joining the Men as they moved back into the cellars of the Tower. But not all the Men were going back underground, for Aldor was once more at Grash’s side. “I have sent the three Dwarves with the others,” he said, “they seemed happy to be together again. But what of the others? Where are the Elves and the other slave?”

Grash looked about the courtyard but of course they were not there. He then looked up at the Tower looming above them, as did Aldor. “Thrack!” Grash cursed once more. He turned to Aldor, “Go. Get others to gather food and water. I find Elves, bring them down.”

Without waiting for a response he headed for the Tower, but as he began to climb the stairs he heard a foot upon the steps behind him. Looking back he saw that Aldor had followed him. Aldor smiled. “We must not split up too much in here,” he explained. “There might be more enemies about.” Grash nodded and accepted Aldor’s company, for what he said made good sense. Perhaps Aldor would be a good person to have at his side, after all.