Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Arry]

It was several hours later when the Orc reported back to Gromwakh. Their new Uruk commander, it seemed, had very little they could use to get round him. ‘Keeps a tight rein on, that one does. Wants to impress the higher ups with his single-minded loyalty.’ Gromwakh’s brows rose in question as the messenger chuckled. ‘Kreblug says Gâshronk’s got his nose so far up old One-eye’s . . .’

The slap-slap of the Uruk’s calloused feet coming near brought silence to the small band of Orcs. Gâshronk, taking his new promotion quite seriously, had come to inspect whether all needed supplies had been gathered and his troops suitably geared up for their mission. ‘We’re leaving soon. Have you slugs got it all together?’ Muffled murmurs of affirmation eddied half-heartedly around the little group.

Gromwakh stepped forward, his companions’ eyes fixed on him wondering what he was up to. ‘Begging your pardon, Cap’n,’ he began. Gâshronk stopped before the groveling Orc and poked him with the braided leather stock of his whip. ‘Speak up, cave rat!’

‘Well, I was thinking we should get one of the supply wagons and keep the prisoners in it, bound hand and foot. Be faster, I think, than trying to drag them along.’ And safer, too . . ., Grom added silently to himself. ‘We can easily move it at a good speed, the lot of us taking turns, I think.’

Gâshronk shoved him hard in the shoulder, causing the Orc to stumble back. ‘I’ll do what thinking there needs to be done around here, you carrion!’ Letting his gaze flow over the assembled Orcs he barked out his orders.

‘Get the wagon from the Supply Master. Tell him it’s needed for a special mission. Load the supplies we’ll need at one end and leave room to throw the Elves in. What won’t fit can go in the long-box underneath.’ The Orcs stood dumbly looking from one to another. ‘Well! Get your worthless hairy backsides in gear and get going!’

Gromwakh and his twelve companions took off at a run to comply. ‘There must be something old Kreblug told you,’ he panted, running beside his information gatherer. ‘Only that he’s overly fond of stewed squirrel with bitterroot . . . can eat a whole potful if he sets his mind to it,’ wheezed the Orc as they neared where the supply wagons were kept. Grom nodded his head thoughtfully as they came to a chuffing halt.

The wagon was commandeered, not without much argument by those in charge of them. A supply of provisions was laid in, including a small barrel of dried squirrel meat and a packet of bitterroot. Grom borrowed one of the medicinal kits from the rear of one of the other wagons and stored it along with some leathery dried ground tubers beneath the wagon, and two large bladders of fresh water.

And hour later, and they were back where Gâshronk had assembled his group. ‘All ready, Cap’n,’ mumbled Gromwakh in a well practiced tone of servility. ‘Shall we load on the Elves and their effects now?’

He ducked back, out of reach of the Uruk’s whip handle, hoping his suggestion had not sounded too forward.

[Durelin]

It was always an adventure attempting to bring his scout troop together. Calenvása thought of all the different twists and turns in the relations of these four elves. They were brothers, of the same race, fighting for the same home, the same cause, and against the same Evil. But it was impossible for them to find peace among themselves. And they sought to find peace for this world…for that was the bigger picture, or at least to the Captain, it was.

These moments of separation and silence were needed for the elves to find serenity, and hopefully cool off from any confrontations. Calenvása also hoped that it gave them time to contemplate things said and unsaid. He had felt strangely restless for days now, but the feeling was strongest as he watched the prisoners be loaded like things rather than beings. Restlessness, and a hatred that he had long kept under control, and out of his life, were not a part of the air he breathed. And though he knew that both these feelings were useless, even dangerous to harbor, they escaped from any tightly locked cages he tried to force them into.

The waiting that he had been forced to do had made his restlessness worse. He had been spending a lot of time waiting in these past days, waiting, in silence, with time to think. The Captain did not like letting his mind have too much time to think. It would inevitably take his heart’s worries and amplify them. Stopping his mind from doing so was hard to do, as the time passed, but now he focused on what his eyes saw, as was necessary, and his mind was soon under his control.

For the love of Eru, we must move!

It was an urgent cry from the mind of Targil, passed to his Captain’s mind. It shocked Calenvása, to know that Targil had spoken to him in such a way. First the elf had called him by name, and now he had been able to connect to the mind of his Captain. The urgency filled Calenvása’s mind more than the words, and he immediately drew himself away from his precarious hiding place. He stirred the leaves of the large bush he had found haven in as he practically sprang out of it.

Cursing himself mentally, he took a quick look at the camp from around the bush, and almost gasped aloud. He was close enough that his eyes could see another set staring near him, and a feeling ran down his spine as they moved to stare back at his. But these eyes were not yellow, nor were they filled with hatred, and no yells rang across the camp, spreading an alert. Feeling that this was a blessing, he sighed, relieved, and crept speedily to where Targil was hidden, taking a long loop so as not to be near the camp while on open ground. It took him longer than he would have wished, because of his caution, but he knew it was necessary.

As he approached, the elf turned his head, obviously hearing the quiet footsteps of his Captain on the soft earth. “We must gather the others, quickly. The wagon, it will slow them. We can move faster.”

Calenvása nodded, knowing that there were obvious strategic advantages to being ahead of their enemy. Now was not the time to discuss or argue, clarify or consider, but the time to move, once more. Targil and his Captain carefully gathered Lómarandil and Thorvel to them. On the move, the scout troop now making their way back to Dol Guldur, Calenvása found himself laughing quietly. “What amuses you?”

The Captain had forgotten Targil was strangely at his side. He simply shook his head in answer to the elf’s question. “Why did you wait for so long a time?” Targil asked, quickly dropping any concern for what Calenvása found amusing.

He was not prepared to answer a question such as that, and so his silence reigned over the conversation for a few moments. Then Thorvel came from behind them. Lómarandil was farther behind. “Why did we wait for so long?” Thorvel asked, as well. After speaking, he grew very grim. Calenvása knew it was from agreeing with Targil, and from sounding so cold when he spoke to his Captain.

Knowing that he could not answer with any words that might defend himself, he answered with the truth. “I do not know.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Dragged upright by an orc, Coromswyth felt her arms wrenched painfully back behind her, but barely responded, remaining stiff and difficult to move. The orc behind her cursed and shook her like a rag doll, but Coromswyth refused to make it any easier. The creature cursed again then pressed his mouth close to her ear, his filthy, leathery skin rubbing against her smooth cheek, but her eyes remained facing forwards, impassive and unresponsive.

"I heard once that orcs and elves were similar in some ways, elf," the orc's voice was a harsh, salacious whisper. "Maybe...whatsay we try some out, hmm?"

Coromswyth closed her eyes and swallowed down the sickness that was welling inside her stomach, quelling the fear inside her though she refused to reply or respond in any way. As she had been taught, she would say nothing. Nothing.

Behind her, she felt the orc move, holding both her hands in one huge paw now, but effortlessly, his one hand completely engulfing her wrists, as he shifted enigmatically behind her. Her eyes flicked up and around the tent, searching for some way out - but Ambarturion and Megilaes had already been taken away, and the tent flap was closed, crates lying in front of it. She would never make it in time. Maybe if she managed to get to the crates, she would be able to take cover behind one...still the daggers felt cool against her wrists. The young Southron had not found them - or at least, he had not removed them. Maybe if...

Spangling shivers shot suddenly through her nerves as she felt her stomach pull slightly tighter from behind, and realised with a sickened jerk that the orc had begun to pull her dress free, unlacing the ties up the back with great, rough drags as he began to laugh, a harsh, grunting, animal sound, still holding her effortlessly. Suddenly, more than any time before, Coromswyth felt afraid.

She began to struggle now, attempting to jerk away from the orc, to throw her whole self away from his grasp, to...she barely knew what she was trying to do, simply that she had to get away, had to get out of his grasp, away from those pawing, leathery hands. The orc laughed more loudly this time, and Coromswyth cried out aloud, in some desperate attempt to alert someone. But no one would come. Not now.

The orc pulled off her cloak and began, with a sort of relishing ritardando, to fiddle with the complex clasps on the back of her underdress. Coromswyth cried out again, loudly, trying now concentratedly to move one of her dagger pommels into her hand. If only she had put them in with the blades pointing towards her palms...in her desperation, she felt the blade snick her arm, the blood slickening her forearm and dress, but she didn't pay it any heed - behind her, the orc had given up with the delicate, minute clasps and had produced a knife. Coromswyth yelled more loudly this time, screaming wordlessly for some help before it was too late, eyes closed tightly as she struggled viciously, opening her eyes briefly...

...and behind her flashed another blade, different from the orc's, a swift, darting movement that soared so close beside her face that she felt it cut a long, deep gash along her cheekbone. She gasped and fell to the floor as she felt the orc behind her slump with a strange, indescribable, gurgling sound. Writhing away on the floor, Coromswyth pulled out one of her daggers with her newly freed hands and launched herself towards the prone orc, who now sported a dagger in his arm. With a fierce cry, she stabbed downwards at the creature's throat, once, twice, three times, until he lay still, and other hands caught her.

For a moment, Coromswyth thought she was in the hands of another elf, so gently firm was the grasp, but it was not for that reason that she stopped struggling - a sense of sort of hopelessness settled over her, an exhausted relief but knowledge that it couldn't get better. Behind her, fingers deftly and quickly tied her hands again and this time she was as unresisting as a rag doll, tears in her eyes which she barely fought to stop. There was a pause, then she felt something take hold of her dress once more, and she stiffened - but only for a second, freezing up with her eyes closed. A moment later, the being wordlessly stepped away, and she realised he had simply retied her dress.

"Come, Ehan - we need to get back to Herding, I said I would report to him before they were taken away."

Coromswyth felt a shock of recognition at the young, quietly confident voice, a voice wise beyond it's years. Looking up and around, she saw that it was indeed a man - and not just any man, but the young Southron who had captured her. She met his eyes and they stayed locked for a moment or two, and fleetingly Coromswyth felt herself wish that the mind of a man and an elf could merge as the minds of two elves could - for what would she find in this man's mind, what could he find in hers? His wisdom was that of the ageless elves, young of face but behind the veil of skin he could be an ancient, with as much knowledge of the world as any one of the Silvan...

"What about he- I mean, what about it?" It was the young man who spoke now. Coromswyth heard the hesitation and the shade of awe in his voice, and the macho veil he threw over it, and turned her grey gaze to him. Unlike his captain, the younger man, Ehan, avoided her gaze, looking away fixedly at his captain. The older man glanced back at the elf and sighed, looking away out of the tent, presumably across the camp. "You're right, we..." he paused and sighed, then turned back to Ehan again. "You're right. Look...go to Herding. I shall take the elf - seems the rest cannot be trusted simply to follow orders." He cast a cursory look at the dead orc on the floor here.

Ehan paused, evidently wishing to speak, then nodded. "Right. I...right. Of course, Captain Koran."

Koran? A first or second name? Coromswyth's mind seemed detached now, and found a resting place in her omnipresent curiosity. She had started out with an interest in the easterlings and southrons, the Haradrim - after all, it was they who had been the very cause of the grief that had started her studies...

As the younger man - a fellow soldier? Undersoldier? Servant? Squire? - left the tent, Koran strode over to Coromswyth and lifted her, once more with that almost effortless movement by her elbows. He tightened the rope around her hands and as he did so, Coromswyth felt compelled to speak, despite all that she had been taught.

"Why did you not stop me, Southron?" she murmured softly, so that none would hear beyond the tent, her words enclosed to a few feet of air around her and Koran. "Why, Koran, did you let me kill the orc?"

He paused, and she could see the edge of his face behind her, infuriatingly just beyond her sightline. He didn't answer for a long moment, then reached forward slowly and drew back the hair from out of her eyes where it stuck to the tear stains that ran down her cheeks, his skin dark, a dusky, tanned caramel against hers, a fine shade of alabastor. It was an action that reminded her - maybe reminded them both - that he was a Man - not as fair as the elves, but not an orc.

He leaned forward and she felt his hair brush her cheek as he whispered in reply, "Because it is possible that I hate the orcs quite as much as you do, elf."

"That is not my name."

"I know not your name, elf, and know you will not tell it to me." Koran pushed her slightly from behind and Coromswyth began to move. "I cannot expect you to - after all, what do the mighty elves, fairest of all, owe to a mere Man?"

The bitterness in his voice stung and Coromswyth's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "What? You have stolen my life, man."

"You steal ours to keep yourselves alive for eternity," he countered sharply.

"Then neither is in eithers debt." She hesitated, then said the single word that went against everything she had ever been taught. "Coromswyth."

A yelled outburst of the black speech stopped Koran from replying - if he had been meaning to. Orc hands grabbed the elf and she was handed through what seemed like a chain of grasps until she was finally thrown onto a hard wagon floor. Twisting as far as she could to look around as the wagon began to move, she looked around for the Southron captain's for no real reason - but instead met a different pair.

Startled grey eyes stared back at her, like those of a deer about to run, before they steadied themselves. A sort of resolution came about in them, and a head of ash blonde nodded briefly, and an unspoken understanding passed between Coromswyth and her anonymous watcher before he was gone, as quickly as he had come. The female elf lay back once more, absorbing what she had seen, and after a few minutes, she sent out her voice to Ambarturion.

"Ambarturion? Ambarturion, we have hope yet. The elves of the forest watch us..."

[piosenniel]

Kransha's post

It was a more complicated task then Thrákmazh had thought it would be to locate the elves. Before he’d given the order, they’d already been loaded, bound and hapless, onto a vehicle meant to bear them to the hill on which sat Dol Guldur. Thrákmazh, though, was not done with them. In truth, he had hoped for another night to ‘spend’ with them, but that was surely not to be. He had hoped too that Herding, the foolish Southron, would side with him and let him keep the elf a prisoner for the sake of troop morale, but that was not to be either. He could only hope that old Herding would consider his other offer with more thought-out care over the course of the day. Now, he dashed headlong through the winding paths created in the camp, trying to locate the road that the wagon and prisoner escort had departed on. At last he found it, seeing the wagon bumping along, jostled by the rough, unruly terrain, down towards the deeper forest, past grove and plain, headed for Dol Guldur. Mindlessly, not thinking or knowing why, he barreled after it swiftly, raising his voice to catch them as they continued on.

“Wait! Hold!” He roared, flagging down the vehicle, those who dragged it through deep dirt, and those surrounding it, who looked glumly back at their commander but managed to feebly snap to attention…or most of them, at least. The wagon swiveled and lolled from side to side as if its wheels could barely hold it. The harnessed orcs who bore it turned, dragging the wagon to one side as Gâshronk, the lead orc, bounded to the back of the escort, with a miniature escort of his own, and gave a mixture of a bow and a salute to his captain, Thrákmazh, who waved him off dutifully and turned, catching his breath as it was removed from him, and strode toward the wagon back, where the elf-containing cages sat. He easily singled out the one who’d threatened him who was conveniently awakened now, as the others were not. He had not, before, had great opportunity to overview the captive elf and now, as he and his kindred were taken from the army’s camp, he saw the elf truly for the first time. As he headed around to the cages, the elf took notice of his presence, but barely so. His face was that of rock and stone, immobile, it did not shift in fear, surprise, or rage. Thrakmazh, though, ignored this.

“I wished to thank you, elf,” he said, a grim smile of evil satisfaction on his twisted, one-eyed face, “for your sword.” As if to illustrate some unsaid fact, he swung the blade rather majestically through the air, ignoring the ironic beam of light the reflected off it from the hanging sun above and found its way to his squinting eye. He looked back, twirling the weapon in a mocking fashion, and feigned a look of philosophical thought. “I wonder now, how many orcs have been slain by it?” The elf did not fully return his grinning gaze, but replied calmly all the same. “More than you could count, orc, and it shall yet slay one more.”

Again, an unheard of anger arose in Thrákmazh, a madness he did not understand. How was it that the threats, useless and worthless, of this one elf, had so incensed him, angered him so. Roaring furiously, he smashed the hilt and blade of the tapered, gleaming weapon of ivory white against the cold gray bars of the elf’s cage, rattling it, but, too much like the other elf slain recently, he did not flinch. Thrákmazh, passionate and enraged in his cause, continued. “Many threats have been made to me by your kind, but all cut down before they are fulfilled. You may be the only wretched elf ever to make such a promise and escape my blade. Yes, you will die in more horrible a way than ever I could conceive, but I still would rather see you slain now. Thank whatever you hold dear that it was not I who was given the task of ending your too-long life.”

As before, the elf said nothing, but remained, courting death, unable to defend himself in any way. Thrákmazh was beyond outrage, but calmed himself as best he could and, taking a deep, exaggerated breath, took a step back from the wagon. He looked back, his one eye hidden by a dense shadow permeating the air above his head like a following cloud, crouched at his heels and waiting for summons. He glared, but soon relaxed his gaze and gait, beginning to pace before the elf’s prison. “Who was the lad,” he said after a great pause, “the one I killed; your son, brother, student, cousin? I would not have expected such oaths from an elf who had no good reason for wanting my death. Many things, elf and man and orc, want my death. But Thrákmazh the Mighty still lives, and stands before you.” He turned now, stopping his movement, looking to the silent, emotionless being, swinging the elf’s blade again with an overly elegant flourish. “No creature who wished for life has ever sworn to slay me, for it is only a wish for death, foolishness and idiocy. I have killed more living things that any man would bother to count, but I remember every face, so nothing has ever eluded the arc of my sword. Every single face still lies in me, retained by the duties of memory, and now the face of that young elf dwells there too. Think of it, elf; whether or not you are dead before the night is out, you will still have escaped me, and that is a great task.”

The elf gave no visible reaction, but spoke quietly. “You have not yet escaped me, spawn of darkness.”

“What, no gratitude?” Thrákmazh’s voice was that of anger, but he gracelessly mixed that with cruel sarcasm, “No grace and polite conversation? I suppose that what I’ve heard of elves is all a lie. You just seem more civil, more advanced in the ways of war and life, but you are not if you could not save yourselves or do better than petty oaths and insults.” No movement, no sound from the elf, none at all, to Thrákmazh’s further displeasure. How he wished to ram his own sword through those obstructing bars and skewer the fool where he lay, but duty would not let him. Grumbling, he turned away. “But, alas, I cannot continue this conversation. I have many things to do here, many things, and none, thankfully, involve you. So, go your merry way, or not-so-merry, as it is, and enjoy the hospitality of Dol Guldur. Again, I thank you for your sword. Surely many have fallen beneath it, but it will serve me just as aptly as it has served you.” He waved off Gâshronk, signaling that he should continue. Painfully slowly, the wagon began to bounce along the stony earth as Thrákmazh stood, brooding quietly, upon the road.

Soon enough, the wagon had been ferried almost out of sight, about to disappear into the distance. His back turned to it, Thrákmazh’s one eye sought solace in the pure white of the Elvish blade, but it stung him, and his hand burnt as he held it, but he could not let it go. Some lurking feeling, latched onto him, clung to the majestic blade, but in the niches of his small brain, a voice screamed at him to release it, plunge it into the earth and leave it, but he could not. He breathed harder, looking down on it and tracing its subtle edge. The elf who’d lived to swear revenge was somewhere in the blade he held…Thrákmazh was, as never he had been before, unsettled. This elf would not die at Dol Guldur, no indeed. It didn’t make sense to the orc, but, as the symbols blazoned into his rusty blade, the knowledge was imprinted upon his mind. Trying to salvage his own bewilderment, he spun, looking after the wagon, and held up the blade, yelling towards it gruffly.

“Farewell, O elf without a name, and may your death be slow and painful.”

This brought him no satisfaction as the wagon disappeared from view. Disturbed deeply, pained, and with a palm burning with searing pain, Thrakmazh turned and hurried back towards the camp, trying to leave the prisoners, the elves, and his nameless foe behind, praying never to see any of them as long as he lived…which was something that the uruk captain, Thrákmazh the Mighty, One-Eye, Captain of Dol Guldur and the orcs of Mirkwood, had never even considered thinking.

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Firefoot's post

Thorvel blinked in surprise at Calenvása’s answer. He didn’t know? Thorvel tried to puzzle that out. Surely there had to have been some reason, though the words sounded honest enough. The Elves had been cruelly thrown into the wagon. The Orcs had been preparing to move. And yet they had still waited for the Captain to give the command, but he hadn’t. The question was why. Targil looked equally confused. Thorvel didn’t say anything; the important thing was that they were moving now, and further argument was one thing they did not need. Unfortunately, they had been unable to get a head start on the Orcs, which meant that they would have to move through the forest for a longer time, impeding on their swiftness and silence.

Thorvel paid careful attention to the ground beneath his feet, in order not to snap a twig or crackle a leaf. Either mistake could be fatal so close to the small band of Orcs, even though he doubted they would hear such a small sound. They had not gone far when a shout from a harsh Orkish voice was clearly heard over all the other sounds: “Farewell, O elf without a name, and may your death be slow and painful.” Thorvel smiled grimly. It seemed that one of the Elves at least had put up some kind of fight to elicit such a comment.

Slowly the Elves gained ground, until they had moved almost beyond sight of the Orcs. Thorvel walked moved more freely then, and ventured to speak, though softly. For once, they were all close enough for each of the Elves to hear him.

“How far do we go then, before we stop to lay plans and prepare to attack the Orcs? I daresay they shan’t get very much farther before they must stop for the night.”

Calenvása matched his quiet tone, glancing back at the Orcs to judge their speed and location. “They aren’t moving very quickly. I suppose we will need to start looking for likely locations when we get to that point, based on how far the Orcs have moved by sunset.”

Thorvel pressed further, not satisfied with the vague answer. “Then do you have any plans for an ambush? Or do we have yet to work those out?” The Captain looked over at him. “We will have to see how the Orc camp is laid out first, and decide exactly what to do then.” Thorvel grunted. It seemed he wasn’t going to get much information out of Calenvása right now. The Captain seemed to be thinking, and Thorvel figured that Calenvása would talk when he was ready, and not before. Remembering the Captain’s early admittance that he hadn’t known why they didn’t move, Thorvel supposed that it was possible that Calenvása didn’t have any clear plans yet. As long as you come up with something before tonight...

[piosenniel]

Arry's post

By order of Captain Gâshronk, the Elves had been kept bound hand and foot and thrown into the wagon like so much cordwood. Rough hands hauled the prostrate Elves up to the level of the wagon bed and rough hands pulled them feet first onto it. They were left face up, the two males on either side of the female, their feet firmly against the board that cordoned off the small area for food supplies.

Gâshronk took the lead, avoiding the dust stirred up as the wheels of the wagon rolled along at a steady pace. He had ten Orcs marching in a semi-precision square behind him, and he turned often to keep his one eye on them. Further behind, came the slower moving wagon pulled by six Orcs, their chests banded with makeshift harnesses, as four others pushed at the back, their leg muscles working hard to keep the momentum going.

‘I suppose he hasn’t considered the possibility that there is no one guarding our rear, here,’ sneered Snikdul as he gripped the back of the wagon bed in his large hairy hands and heaved it forward with each step. The Orc to his left snickered. ‘He only cares if his rear is guarded from what I can see.’

Gromwakh said nothing as the others grumbled along. He had already considered the fact that those Elves that had been lurking about the camp earlier might well have noticed that some of their own had been captured. And may even now be planning some sort of rescue. He twitched the skin between his shoulder blades, already imagining the searing slice of one of their arrowheads as it penetrated his hide and sought to cleave through muscle and bone. This little scene that played out in his thoughts, though, might not be one to happen, he realized; it might only be the product of a frightened mind run amok.

The very bad thing that was going to happen, he had reasoned out, was that should they survive this little mission - drop the prisoners at Dol Guldur, they then would be sent straight back to the coming battle, and be in the front ranks of those destined to make the first assault on the Elves of the Golden Wood. And against their Lady. A witch, she was, or so he’d heard. With a power to match what had been thrown against her up to now. Gromwakh felt himself break out in a cold sweat as he thought about her. A spell-using witch as well as an Elf! The notion of facing her made him weak in the knees, and he stumbled. Snikdul reached out with one arm to steady his companion, a puzzled look on his face.

‘What’s wrong! You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Snikdul said, hauling Gromwakh back up to his place at the back of the wagon.

‘Ghosts it was,’ snorted Gromwakh grimly. ‘Ours!’ He shook his head at what seemed an impossible dilemma. ‘We’ve got to stack the odds in our favor a bit,’ he muttered, considering what few if any options were available to him and his little band.

One of the Elves stirred as the wagon hit a particularly stony patch and jostled them thoroughly. Unthinking, Snikdul shoved a wadded up piece of old blanket under the roused Elf’s head to cushion it. His action was met with a look of surprise from the prisoner, as the Elf turned his head to get a look at his unlikely benefactor. Snikdul looked over at Gromwakh and shrugged his shoulders.

With an eye to opportunity, Gromwakh tapped the dark-haired Elf on his shoulder. The grey-eyed gaze of the prisoner came slowly round to take him in. Grom looked about, then leaned forward and spoke in a voice unlikely to be heard above the creak of the wheels on the stony road.

‘You help us?’ he asked with his limited command of common speech, one finger tapping on his chest. ‘We help you,’ he went on, his finger now pointing at the Elf’s face . . .

Gromwakh’s face lit up in an Orcish smile as he remembered one of the recent finds from the Elves’ capture. He pulled the silvered Elf draught flask from the deep pocket in his breeches, holding it up where the Elf could just see it.

‘Dusty, dusty . . . yes? Want drink?’

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The cords that bound his wrists had been woven by orcs, and the malice of their makers had gone into them, burning Ambarturion’s wrists. The cart jolted and tossed them about as they ground toward the evil tower, and Ambarturion wished once more that he could give way to the dreams that crowded about his memory. But with every turn of the cart’s wheels he could feel the distant power of the Enemy growing closer. The Eye had not yet seen the prize that its distant claws had brought it, but it soon would – and when it perceived the value and might that had escaped the careless and witless eyes of the orcs, that Eye would send its most dreadful servants to claim him…

It occurred to Ambarturion that perhaps in its own way, the urûk had been able to recognise the distant reflection of the light of the Valar that shone from the eyes of the Elf. Although Ambarturion had never beheld those who dwelt in the West with his own eyes, he had dwelt for many centuries with the Lady Galadriel, from whom there came always and forever the shine of the Two Trees in their days of glory, when there was no fear in the dark. The thought of the danger that was approaching her drove him into a frenzy of apprehension, and time and again he felt the despair that would conquer him well up within like a great black wave and only the greatest effort would keep it at bay.

One-eye’s parting words came back to him: may your death be slow and painful. Indeed it would, more painful than even the orc could imagine, but it would be welcome if it came before he were broken by the Eye – reduced to a gibbering and terrified shell, whispering all of its secrets into the black ear in desperation for its own release. The torments they had endured to this point, while terrible, were as nothing when compared to what awaited them before the Dark Throne. Ambarturion tasted once more the foul bitterness of the memories that Coromswyth had tried to hide from him when she had sent him her message of hope. The orc’s harsh hands and grasping mouth were upon him as clearly as they had been upon her, so fresh was her own revulsion. He could not quite believe that she maintained hope of their release after what she had learned of the ways of the orc in that brief time. Ambarturion had not seen the eyes, but he had felt the presence of their woodland kin in the earth and in the air. Hope it gave him, but not of deliverance, for their kin were too few against these orcs, and he could sense even at this distance that they were a disunited band of young and inexperienced scouts. His hope was thus guarded and constrained – he hoped for a distraction, for something that would keep the orcs’ attention from the wagon for but a few moments.

The ropes that bound him no longer cut into his flesh, for he had been straining against them with all the might of his many centuries’ growth. It had taken most of his strength, leaving him weakened and drained, but he had managed to loosen them to the point where he could snap them at a thought. But he dared not do so now, for they were surrounded and unarmed. Were he to free himself he could, perhaps, escape on his own, but that would be to leave Coromswyth and Megilaes to reap the vengeance of their captors. Better to wait and see what the Elves of Mirkwood could manage.

He felt of a sudden the hot breath of an orc upon his face and he looked up into two beady, yellow eyes. They were the eyes of a snivelling, cowardly creature, the likes of which he had slain in the hundreds. These eyes, however, were filled with a cunning not usual to the race. The orc produced the small flask of miruvor and held it above his face, taunting him. So unexpected was what he said next, that it took Ambarturion a moment to accept the truth of his ears. You help us. We help you. Was this orc actually proposing to bargain with him? For a moment, however fleeting, Ambarturion considered breaking his bonds and slaying the beast with his bare hands. Instead, however, he said, “How will you help us, orc? Will you slay your companions, set us free and convey us with safety to our own land? Why not promise as well to lead your folk to reject your Lord and join the Light for the safety of Middle-Earth and your own redemption thereby?” He laughed mirthlessly and spat with distaste. “Take your lies and your petty taunts to one who will be moved by them, orc!”

Instead of hitting him or spitting upon him or slinking away in defeat, the orc looked about him with what appeared to be stealthy cunning. He looked back at the captive Elf and peeled his lips back from yellowed and sharpened teeth. “Elf is stupid. Does not see how we help each other. I not fight for Elves. But I not want to die. We attack Elf-Witch’s forest then we die. Elves kill us. But not if we save you, yes? Maybe, we let you go, then you tell Elves in Forest to let us go.”

Ambarturion could not believe his words. He did not for a moment believe that the orc was in earnest; this could only be part of some elaborately cruel prank that he felt in his lowness the very height of mirth. But Ambarturion saw a way to perhaps convert his small hope into something more. “Cut my bonds,” he said, knowing full well what the response would be.

“No!” the orc said. “Not now. Maybe later.”

“I will not do anything for you until you have proven yourself in earnest. If you will not cut my bonds, cut the bonds of my young companion. He is unconscious and presents no threat to you. But his bonds, and give him the drink in that flask, and perhaps I will tell my kin not to slay you.” He watched as the creature turned this over in his small mind, and while Ambarturion was careful not to let his eyes rest upon the orc’s blade, he knew it was there. The instant the orc drew it and moved into the wagon to cut Megilaes’ bonds, that was the moment in which Ambarturion would snap his bonds.

Outnumbered and unarmed he did not stand a chance. Outnumbered and armed, on the other hand, even with an orc’s blade, was another story altogether…

[Arry]

‘I will not do anything for you until you have proven yourself in earnest,' Ambarturion hissed. 'If you will not cut my bonds, cut the bonds of my young companion. He is unconscious and presents no threat to you. Cut his bonds, and give him the drink in that flask, and perhaps I will tell my kin not to slay you.’ The words were barely out of the Elf’s mouth, when the loud insistent bark of command cut off Gromwakh’s response.

Gâshronk had come back to inspect his troops. ‘What’s going on back here?’ he demanded stepping near the back of the wagon. ‘You maggots are slowing down the wagon. You need to put your backs into it!’ He shoved Gromwakh and his three companions away from the back of the wagon, replacing them with four of the Orcs who’d been marching up front. Gâshronk gave a satisfied look at his new arrangement and was about to turn away when something shiny caught his eye. ‘What’s this?’ he snarled, turning on Snikdul who stood nearest him. ‘Thinking to keep this for yourselves, were you? Mountain scum like you have no need of such fancy things.’ He snatched up the flask and shoved it deep into the pocket of his breeches. Handsome present for the Captain when we get back . . . he thought to himself.

The grey eyes of one of the Elves unnerved the Uruk as he hovered near the back of the wagon, wondering if there were any other treasure about the prisoners that might be had. Gâshronk motioned the other six Orcs from the front to him, ordering them to get in the wagon and turn the Elves onto their stomachs, faces down; he’d had enough of their foul stares, he said. In the course of rolling the bigger male over, it was discovered his bonds were loose. Forced down with the tips of sharp blades to his neck and those of his companions, the Elf’s hands were rebound tightly with new, braided leather cord behind his back; and the rope securing his ankles was adjusted tightly also. Other rough hands saw to the tightening of the other Elves’ bonds.

The wagon started forward again. Gromwakh and Snikdul found themselves marching in front now, just behind Gâshronk, who’d resumed his place at the head of the raggedy column. The Captain’s broken, yellowed nails tapped against the flask in his pocket in an oddly syncopated rhythm.

Snikdul sidled close to Gromwakh and nudged him on his arm. Grom’s face was an Orcish mixture of resolve and resignation. ‘You going to try to talk with the Elf again?’ Snik whispered. Gromwakh pursed his lips and shook his head, recalling the self-calculating look he’d seen on the Elf’s face as he’d considered Gromwakh’s offer.

. . . perhaps I will tell my kin not to slay you . . . His sneering arrogance had struck a chord in the Orc’s thoughts, reminding Gromwakh of his other “betters” – the Southrons, the Uruks, and all the infernal Captains that went with them.

‘Best we look after ourselves, Snik,’ he answered quietly. ‘He’s naught but some Uruk in fancier clothes . . .’