[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?’