[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Lurg knew few things. He knew, for instance, how to skin a rat so that the choicest morsels would be preserved. He knew how to toy with a prisoner for days without killing him. And he knew that when the Big Chiefs began to brawl with one another, to lay low and wait for it all to be over. He did not know why the orcs of the Tower had begun to fight with those from Morgul. He did not know who had invaded the Tower, nor what they had brought with them that had driven the Chiefs into an even greater frenzy of greed and bloodlust than usual. He didn’t care. His only care this long nasty night had been to play dead and wait for it all to be over.

In the worst part of it he had slipped down the stairs to the first level where a nice pile of bodies lay out upon the parapets, having been thrown there from the levels above. He wormed his way beneath the bodies and kept still, comforting himself from time to time by licking the blood that pooled upon the stone below him. The sounds of battle died, but he remained where he was just in case. The first time he thought it was safe to come out, the Watchers had started bleating. The second time, a cry of agony from somewhere far above had stilled his movements. But now, finally, it was time. Gingerly removing himself from his grisly cover, he slunk to the stairs once more. He stuck his head into the stairwell with great care, half expecting one of those filthy Morgul maggots to slice it off. What he was not expecting was to come face to face with three ragged looking Dwarves, all of them laden with orc arms and weapons and coming down the stairs from the upper levels.

For a split second, none of them moved or spoke. The Dwarves merely stared at him stupidly, as shocked as he by their encounter. Lurg recognised them immediately, for he had often sought entertainment in the dungeon. He had, at one time or another, played with all the prisoners down there, but the Dwarves had been a special practice of his. Their fabled endurance and hardiness presented just the kind of challenge that fired his wicked imagination, and he had spent many hours thinking of ways to entertain himself with them, and hours more putting those wicked imaginings into cruel practice. Lurg recovered from his shock quickly, and with the cunning of his race instantly put a plan into action. As quickly as a stinging adder he drew his dagger and lunged at the smallest of the Dwarves, seizing him about the neck with one hairy forearm and pressing his jagged blade into the terrified flesh just beneath the Dwarf’s ear. He knew this one well, having long enjoyed the pitiful display of the Dwarf’s hatred for his race, even through the torture. Dwali was his name.

The Dwarf struggled to free himself but it was useless; despite his native strength, his years of imprisonment had so weakened his body and will that he was no match to the evil ferocity of the orc. Dwali tried to pull out a knife but the orc pressed his own into the skin so that he drew blood. “Drop it, my pretty,” he hissed in his ear. “You know how well I can use a blade, so drop your own or I’ll split you from neck to ear!” Dwali had no choice but to do as he was told. He dropped his knife and his axe upon the flagstones.