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The day's light was yet fully to come. In the pale hours before dawn, beneath the dense cover of trees and scrubby bushes, Gromwakh and his mates had been entertaining themselves by the dim light of a shuttered lantern. One Uruk knife, a wickedly sharp twisty thing, borrowed from an unwatched pack, was up as ante against two fine wire garrotes with carved bone handles emancipated from the cellars of Dol Guldur. Snikdul had the dice in hand and was just on the verge of throwing them against the flat face of a nearby rock when the snap of a dried twig was heard. The light was quickly doused and bodies scrambled for cover away from the gaming area.
‘Psst! Grom! It’s me!’ came the loud whisper. ‘Show yourself!’
‘Globûrz! You fool!’ hissed Gromwakh coming out from under the mouldering pile of leaves he’d dived under. ‘You were supposed to whistle like a nighthawk to let us know you were coming.’ ‘I forgot!’ shrugged the lumbering Orc stepping into a shadowy pool of filtered moonlight. ‘And anyways . . . I tried to tell you when you set me to guard that I can’t whistle.’ One by one the others crawled from their bolt holes and shuffled near to hear what report Globûrz was making.
‘It was old Kreblug that brought the news,’ he said, leaning on his club, as his companions ringed him. ‘Cost us two cups, but I got it out of him. The front of the army is up and starting to move. Some of the night scouts have come back with something about a small group of Elves nearing the western bank of the Big River at the shallow fording point. Elves out of the yellow leaved wood. Looking to cross over to the trees this side. Fierce fighters I heard, too. Rumour has it they met a whole army of Orcs from out of Moria and dispatched them. Big, tall nasty Elf-man . . . one of them old ones . . . with a blade that bites deep . . . waded through the lot like fire through so much hay. Captains want them taken-like, by us, not killed, to see what they're up to.
‘Us?’ squeaked Snikdul, the alarm on his face mirroring that of his comrades. Visions of some mighty Elf-lord of Old, twenty feet high and growing by the moment in his estimation; with a sword forged from lightning; coming toward them with mighty strides - all this had set him quivering with trepidation.
‘Not ‘us’ us by ourselves,’ Globûrz went on. ‘But all the orcs save the Supply masters and their few helpers are to have the opportunity, as one of the Captains said, to share in the glory of the capture of the Elves for the greater glory of the Master’s plans.’
‘Glory, my great hairy backside!’ growled Gromwakh. ‘They’ll throw us at the nasty creatures first, let them tire themselves out by cutting through our worthless hides, then they’ll take what ever glory there is for themselves. I say we just hang back here and wait for their glorious return.’
‘No can do, Grom. They’re counting heads. And any who aren’t accounted for won’t have their heads to worry about when they get back. Those Uruks are just black-hearted enough to hunt us down for sport if they get wind of it.’
Silence enveloped the little group, accompanied by a certain level of despair, as they hurried back to their little camp near the supply wagons to retrieve their weapons and what meager armour they possessed. Snikdul adjusted his battered helmet on his head and fastened his curved blade to his belt. With his right hand he picked up the long, thick iron rod he favoured. ‘Slash ‘em and bash ‘em!’ he said half-heartedly as he gathered together with his fellows.
‘But from the fringes only,’ came the grim instruction from Gromwakh as he shook his hardwood cudgel toward the direction of the column front. ‘Just keep near me, tight as a tick every one. I’ll figure something out to get us through this.’
I hope . . . he muttered quietly to himself as the little group took off running to join in the required glory of the battle . . .
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