[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post

Grash led them down the dark passage toward the storeroom at its end. They were a motley collection of folk and they were still adjusting to their sudden and unexpected freedom. Some were clearly joyous at their release, while others merely looked about them as though in a daze. All bore some mark of torment or abuse, and if Grash were capable of human feeling he would have been heartbroken by the pitiable state of them all. There was not a whole shirt or unrent garment amongst them: they were starved, exhausted, naked and entirely unarmed in the dungeons of their torturers. And yet they were free. Free – Grash let the word roll about in his mind, like a tasty morsel of meat about his tongue, tasting and relishing it. He had never known freedom, and was as yet unsure of its flavour. He felt it was sweet, but when he looked about him at where he was and who he had to rely on, his mouth went sour with the forethought of failure. Once more he thought about running away and hiding, and telling the orcs that the prisoners had freed themselves, but he knew they would never believe him. He had no choice now, but to continue with his plan of escape.

Reaching the end of the passageway, he led them through the low arch to the right of the Underdoor, behind which lurked the nameless terror that consumed all who dared venture into its lair. Never had Grash passed that door without a shiver, knowing that it was his fate one day to go through it, prodded on by the jeering insults and sharpened knives of orcs. He saw many amongst this ragged group glare at the door with similar feelings of horror.

When they were gathered in the storeroom, Grash turned to speak. At first, however, his heart failed, for in all his life he had never spoken to a group. Indeed, in the last three years the only speaking he had done had been to respond as curtly as possible to the rough commands of his captors. When he looked about him he saw the eyes of the prisoners glinting in the half-dark of the room, all of them looking to him for guidance and escape. Grash, hardened as he was by the long terrors of a life spent in servitude to the cruelest of masters, was afraid. He swallowed twice, though his mouth was dry, and began to outline his plan. “Krâzduk dakka, nit grankúl.” The instant he spoke he could see that few if any of them understood a word of what he said. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps they did not speak the Black Speech of Mordor, which had been his tongue since birth. He switched into the Common Speech that the orcs used when speaking with members of other tribes. “Food,” he said, pointing at the sacks and casks that lay about. “Water,” and he indicated the small cistern. “We take some with us. From here, in skins and bags. Grik, need weapons, armour, clothes. Search bodies and find these things; try to look like orcs.” He saw that they understood him, as uncouth as his speech might be. He gestured at the group, making motions with his hands as though he were trying to part them. “In groups,” he said. “We look in groups. Two or three; go above into courtyard, fraz Tower. Then meet here, and leave…through Door.”

There was a slight murmur as they took this in, and Grash could see that his plan was not being taken very well. One of the Dwarves stepped forward. He was sinewy and tough, like all Dwarves, but this one was darker than most, even after his years in the Tower. Grash had heard orcs speaking of him once, and they had said that he had been prisoner here for nineteen years. “Why must we go out through that door?” he demanded. “The beast which lurks there will destroy us all!” There were sounds of assent from the rest.

Grash tried to explain. “Gate closed by terrible creatures of stone. Cannot go out, cannot get past great wall that cannot be seen. You go to gate, you see.” He pointed out through the arch of the storeroom, toward the Door. “Only way, only way out. You come with me through there, or go back to cell now and wait for orcs to return.”

The male Elf spoke, then. Grash was awed by the two Elves, for he had never seen one until he had come to the Tower, and all that he had heard of them had been from the orcs who ruled his life. He knew more than to trust the word of an orc, but still he was somewhat afraid of the Elves – afraid that they might kill him and take his blood so they could live forever. “Why must we find weapons?” he asked. “Where are the others rebels? Surely they are armed, to have killed so many orcs.”

“No, no,” Grash said, shaking his head. “No others. No rebels. Orcs killed orcs, fought each other. Some ran away, will soon bring others. Other orcs and maybe,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “maybe even, Screechers – Screechers of the Dark Lord.” He shivered at the thought. “Hurry, hurry,” he said, “look for weapons, look for clothes. Go in groups, but come back soon; orcs coming, be here soon. We must be gone before they find us.”