[Arry]

‘He’s as crazed as a bat-bitten grey wolf!’

Snikdul, his breathing ragged from the strenuousness of the ascent and the tension of keeping out of harm’s way in the battle, stood with Gromwakh and the others of their group on the fringes of those who ringed the now dead and bloodied Elf man. His low voiced comments followed on the heels of the one-sided battle between the Uruk and his outmatched, wounded opponent. Thrakmazh had roared, howled, reveled in the killing of his foe. And for one brief moment Snikdul had wondered if he would lick the Elf’s blood from the blade as a final statement.

Most daunting to the Orcs was the ghastly grin, the horrid gash of razored teeth, that slashed across the Uruk’s lower face, and the malevolent light that shone out from his single eye as he spun slowly round, showing his bloodied blade to the troops. They ringed him dumbly like animals presented with something beyond their apprehension. Some sought his approval, leering themselves at his victory, taking his glorying glee and excitement for their own. Others looked on in envy, resenting that his had been the hand that brought the Elf down; that it should have been theirs that did the deed; knowing that somehow the Captain would always put himself forward, stealing the pleasure of renown and conquest for himself.

Anger, too, of different sorts seethed through the onlookers; against the Elves for their terrible, bright beauty that offended and shamed the twisted bodies and spirits of the Orcs. And another anger, laced with fear, for the Uruk Captain who would drive them like so many worthless and expendable pawns in his madness.

Gromwakh leaned on his cudgel, its end unbloodied by any foe in this battle. He took stock of his fellows, seeing that their little group had not been diminished by the hail of Elven arrows as they climbed the hill, nor by the shining blades with which the Elves smote the advancing enemy. They had kept well back, though took care not to be at the very end of the line. With raised voices, they joined in the battle cries and raised their weapons menacingly as if to strike at what foe they might meet. They were careful though, following Gromwakh’s lead, to avoid any such encounters.

Now the battle was done. The three Elves still living were rudely bound and taken roughly from the battlefield in the direction of the camp. The dead Elf was left to the elements and the gathering crows; none cared to assault the body that even in death was filled with a certain grace. And more expediently, the call had gone out from those in charge to head back to the main body of the army. There was no time to choose low delights.

The small group of Orcs fanned out at Gromwakh’s instruction and scoured the small battlefield as they made their way to the edge of the hill and began their descent. One of their band found a small flask and brought it to Grom for inspection. It was shiny metal, delicately engraved and the awful stink of some Elvish fluid still played about the stopper where it had been screwed onto the flask’s neck. Grom shook the container near his ear, hearing the quiet slosh of some drink yet within. Snikdul, scuffing about in the area where the female Elf had been defeated, came across a slender dagger, tromped into the loose dirt by the Southron's heavy scuffle to subdue her. And Globûrz had managed to appropriate the blade belonging to the dead Elf, securing it through his broad leather belt, and drawing his ragged cloak over it. They would have looked for more booty, but their foraging was cut short with the curt, barked order to ‘Move Out!’

Keeping close together they moved quickly down the slope of the hillside, joining the rest of the troops that had been sent to subdue the Elves. The pace was slower with the three bound Elves, and the small band of Orcs were able to squeeze forward to take a closer look at the captives.

‘He doesn’t look so very fierce, now, does he?’ said Snikdul, peering hard at the older male. He gasped as the Elf turned his head and looked fully at him. The Orc was glad then for the cords that bound the Elf and kept him at a secure distance.

No answer came from Gromwakh to his friend’s strangled query. His eyes were on the blade that One-Eye, in the near distance, carried so casually in his fist. The metal gleamed in places where the blood and muck did not cling so thickly, and there in the crosspiece winked a clear gem. The Orc’s fingers itched to have it. And even now his brain worked feverishly on a plan as to how he might obtain it . . .