[Kransha]

Of course, the task of choosing an orc to lead the escort force of the captives fell to Thrákmazh. He didn’t mind at this point, though, for he knew only one uruk suitable for the vile, monotonous job. The only orc besides Urkrásh who he trusted would be chosen, a boor called Gâshronk, one-eyed like himself, possibly from self-dismemberment in the past, Thrákmazh did not know. The wretch, like all too many others, aspired to be the spitting image of his captain, but in a way more obsessive than most. Thrákmazh knew that, if any orc would try truthfully to do his bidding, it would certainly be he. So, he quickly singled out the unimposing creature who was milling, along with all other orcs, about in the makeshift camp in which they now lived.

“Gâshronk!” he cried, and saw the orc’s face and one eye light up effervescently, which was a ghastly sight in itself. He growled silently and went on, letting the orcs move aside to let Gâshronk march confidently out to greet and obey his commander. “You are a brave orc, and a mighty one. You shall lead the prisoners, with orcs under your command, back to Dol Guldur. Ready your men, but leave the captives until the time of your departure.” The orc continued looking at him, with a slack-jawed grin upon his toothsome, scarred face, and nodded vigorously. “Yes, Captain Thrákmazh.”

Thrákmazh nodded as the orc obediently turned and began to, inevitably, take his assignment far too seriously. Thrákmazh quickly headed back, for he had an ulterior motive, and made his way towards the tent of Captain Herding. He passed orcs reveling, orcs gambling, orcs drinking, orcs fighting, and wicked men doing roughly the same, but ignored them just as they ignored him, letting the sky’s darkening cloak relax his sharpened nerves. Soon he had located the tent, where he’d been before, and brusquely shoved open the tent flap to see Herding pacing from end to end within. The captain looked at him only for a moment before continuing his pacing. Thrákmazh took two minute steps inside.

“Southron, the ‘faithful orc’ has been chosen.” Thrákmazh growled as he repeated Herding’s words sardonically. Herding only turned to glare at him with two good eyes to rival Thrákmazh’s one. The orc looked back, feigning pleasantry again with a bare, toothy smile set onto his face grotesquely. Herding grimaced and turned away, gesturing for the orc to leave swiftly, if not sooner. “Good, fine. Now, get out.”

Thrákmazh grinned in earnest at this, having anticipated the response. He knew men better then he’d thought he would, for they were predictable savages, the same mindless brutes that orcs so often were. But, in the Captain, he did see an uncomfortable portrait of himself removed from the more barbaric ways to which he was accustomed. It was odd, to Thrákmazh, to see this man, with his back to him, thinking in such a similar fashion. A disgusting fool and idolater like Gâshronk was different in so many ways from this mortal being, for orcs such as Gâshronk were no more than petty followers. Herding was, in his own dark way, a leader, as Thrákmazh had been for a century or more. Doubtless Thrákmazh knew the trade better, but he could still sense the withered connecting cord between him and his juxtaposed ally. It was stranger still that he saw no orc when looking on Herding, but a man more like a man than ever he had seen. Elves were his polar opposite, their radiance as dazzling as his putrid sourness was grim, their swift and delicate grace as boorish as he grandiose might. But, men where like both elves and orcs, for they bore light and darkness. This man, though, had more the latter by far, and it was apparent in nearly everything he did.

“Herding,” he began quietly, moving with surprising grace, like a hovering shadow, towards the Southron, “…The Eye does not need all the elves.” Herding turned his head only merely, his eyebrow raising in question, but he still looked with simple dimness at the orc, probably dismissing his words as a barbarian creature’s idiocies, “…my men have seen victory this day, but they have lost many…Their morale is still low…they need that morale renewed.” At this, Herding turned his head away again, heading incredulously towards another corner of his low-roofed tent and pacing. “Get to the point.” He snapped suddenly, knocking Thrákmazh’s readied wit off guard with a louder, more concise phrase.

The point was, as it always was, the prolonging of pain for enemies. Thrákmazh wanted something, something more than he had. He had beheld the eldest elf swear vengeance, a possibly empty threat, but elves did not make empty threats. This elf would die in Dol Guldur, but he had made a grave mistake crossing Thrákmazh the Mighty. He would suffer more loss still, and a loss more painful to him. The orc’s fingers itched to wrap around the hilt of his new blade, a blade that was bane to so many orcs, and now would be to so many elves. It was a wondrous feeling, to hold that, but hurt him all the same. His thumb glided down the smooth hilt as he considered his words again and spoke, more commanding now but just as silent. “The female elf; let my troops have her. We have no need of so many captives.” He finished with a curt syllable which was lost in a throaty cough, but Herding heard it all the same. The Southron rounded on Thrákmazh angrily, but not angry at the orc. His anger stemmed from another source, he was merely venting his excess range.

“You’ve slain one already,” he bellowed, “is that not enough?”

“Not for me,” Thrákmazh retorted quickly, “for my men.”

“For the sake of some personal vendetta, no doubt.” Herding grumbled, turning away again. Soon after, he waved a hand as a gesture of negativity and refusal. “No, the female goes with the rest to Dol Guldur. Cenbryt will agree, so don’t bother seeking his pompous counsel.” Again, Thrákmazh grinned strangely, and Herding did not turn to see the expression. He knew the link, the link that caused Herding such pain and elicited such eternal anger. It was the young man, the other captain, surely! Yes, Thrákmazh did not waste love on that being either, and now he supposed that Herding bore even less. This was the key to enlisting a second captain’s aid. Like a swift shadow, Thrákmazh again flitted towards the captain, appearing mysteriously beside him, and lowered his voice to a fowl whisper.

“The boy…Cenbryt, he is weak. You know this. You are strong, for a man. You know he is a fool.”

Herding did not whirl on him as he had before, but Thrákmazh saw his fists clench suddenly. But, even though he most likely wished to state his agreement, he was too belligerent. Again, his rage was vented rather than revealed. “I could say the same for you, orc.” He shot back, his own hand beginning to move unconsciously towards his blade. Thrákmazh seemed to laugh, or cackle, or chuckle perhaps, but it was as horrible a sound as ever the Southron had heard. Soon it died, replaced by some gleeful sound of conspiracy as Thrákmazh moved yet closer, nearing Herding and looking, with his one, limpid, glassy eye at the man, where he found what he desired. “In your eyes,” he said, “when you look at him, I see fire…You want him dead.”

“And if I do?”

“He’s weak, a weak captain, and he speaks against us.”

“You agreed with him!” Herding spun now, his sword now out and, its glinting point hovering dangerously near the prime vein that pulsed on Thrákmazh’s throat, “You spoke with him and took his side!” The orc just smiled; a look unnerving to each captain, Herding to look at, and Thrákmazh to sustain. Thrákmazh backed up, with some caution, just to avoid Herding’s misplaced energy. “Because he is half-right.” He answered, somewhat ruefully, “He is a clever fool, but a fool nonetheless, and a thorn in both our sides. He wants the elves spared, he does, because he sees their blinding light and is infected by it. He serves the Eye, yes, but he is not loyal, not at all… He will betray us, betray us and the Dark Lord in his weakness!”

Herding glowered again, but was now settling, His next question, asked in more a rhetorical fashion, was calmed and the piercing point of his words dulled by understanding. “You think I don’t know that?” Thrákmazh looked to him, as if he was trying to comfort the angered man, but both knew that there was no notion of friendship. Hatred ran rampant between them, but they shared, in some respects, a common hatred of Koran Cenbryt. Thrákmazh’s one eye settled into its own watery foundation at last as he spoke, in the most meager whisper yet. “He is but a man, a mortal man…We can send the captives to Dol Guldur, revel in our victory, and go on, but he will still be a man…a man that can be killed.” Neither spoke and a very unsettled silence remained for several moments before Thrákmazh backed up, heading towards the entrance, and exit, to the tent. “Consider my words…I have business with the elves to be attended.” At this, he hurriedly moved out of the tent, leaving Herding to ponder the most intellectual thing he’d ever heard an orc say.