[Kransha]

Thrákmazh took his time wondering the length of the orcish camp. Each night, when the army made new camp in the time of the sun’s setting, roads were soon worn into weary earth by stampeding feet. Well-traveled paths had been forged by passing soldiers, paths that Thrákmazh now trod upon, watching as his sentinels and trusted lieutenants aroused there men, forcefully yanking them from their nightly slumber and wrenching them into harsh, humid reality. The air was crisp as the familiar blue of daylight skies began to overwhelm the dawn’s red which bled over the blackness that had been before. A flurry of color filled the sky, red tinged clouds billowing around the golden orb of the sun as it arched its way up into still darkened heavens. Thrákmazh’s one eye peered up, glaring straight through the thick plumes of gray cloud at the luminous sphere. His eye protested, trying to close, but the orc’s dark resilience held the lid back, torturing the eye into staring directly at the bright light that extinguished the sky’s more desirable cloak of shadows. It was barely morning, as heralded by the rising of the sun, but Thrakmazh wanted the day to begin, and, with nature’s passing irrelevant to his power, he sought to begin the march anew. He knew that the Southrons were not yet awakened, and cursed them for their lethargy.

They would betray him, all of them, unless he did it first! He knew this know and was surer than ever of what he had to do. He had to take control. Elven eyes were everywhere in his clouded, and Southrons breathing down his neck. The images of them, swarthy, dark, traitorous, riddled his infected, infested skull, deep down where they could not be purged. ‘You must slay them, slay them all!’ he told himself, his own voice darkly augmented, booming like some strange metallic thunder, grating on his being, ‘This is your chance, your day. The time of the orcs has come. Only the urûks of Gorthaur the Cruel, the mighty Eye, shall survive. A great flame has settled; a great a terrible fire that will scorch the land, darken the sky, shake the pillars of Middle-Earth and bring its lands crashing down, split asunder. Then, when the dust and smoke clear all that will remain are the orcs, mastered of their own designs, masters of all. You, Thrákmazh the Mighty, will be a lord among orcs.’ But, the only way to get these dreams, to fulfill them, was to destroy all the enemies of Sauron, and that included the disloyal men in his service. He knew this too, for, in his state of madness and paranoia, all the orcish naiveté in him had disappeared, evaporated from him fully, leaving his senses honed and sharpened like the tip of a jagged blade, or one of the blood-tipped bolts in his quiver. He needed to eliminate those who would eliminate him, or diminish the value of his deeds.

‘Herding, Herding is susceptible!’ he almost said aloud, still walking slowly, feigning supervision of the waking orcs, ‘Herding will turn. Koran is a righteous fool, a stupid boy. But, he is strong. They hate now, but soon they will hate with a passion so great it will tear them apart…just as this accursed sword devours me, they will be devoured by their suspicion, their anger. Use it, Thrákmazh, use what you were given by the Eye. You have power, Thrákmazh, and that is all you need to destroy those wretched fools. Make them feel the fear you feel, make them fear each other. Naught can go ill if all illness is suffered by others. Make them sick with the parasite of distrust. Let loose the hounds within them and watch them slay each other. Take command, Thrakmazh the Mighty, take what is yours!’

His reverie was shattered by Urkrásh, who, sidling up to him, slunk along beside, avoiding the blade that dangled at his side. As the whole camp knew by now, Thrákmazh had, for no apparent reason, slain one of his troops last night. Many feared he’d gone mad, others said he was producing the proper atmosphere for the fight ahead, and others claimed that he did it purely for fun, Whatever the reason, Thrákmazh’s troops now feared him more than ever before, and mutinous, dark feelings had been welled up in them, bottled up beneath their captain’s unending oppression. Thrákmazh was almost flamboyant in his distaste for them, and cared nothing of their newfound disliking of him. He was their captain, after all, and held all of their useless lives in the grimy palm of his hand. Urkrásh looked to him suspiciously, but remained ever his servant, with familiar unflinching loyalty. “There is something amiss at the Southron’s side of camp, Thrákmazh.” He murmured quietly, after a long, uncomfortable pause.

Suddenly, his eyes blazing embers behind their grate, Thrákmazh whipped around, swiveling on his armored feet, each having taken root like the dual trunks of mighty trees in the earth, and his hand dove up. His groping talons latched onto the hapless orc’s throat, dragging Urkrásh ignobly to the ground and constricting with the hold of a serpent bent on the extermination of its prey. Thrákmazh, his breathing distorted and erratic, pulled the trembling orc serf up towards him, his single eye and hooked nose and inch away from the other’s. “That’s Captain, worm,” he growled gutturally, “Captain Thrákmazh. I am your lord, not your equal, just like everyone else here.” He found his free hand snaking uncontrollably towards the blade at his side again, it’s moon-white gleam, ivory and pure, bathed in sunlight from the new day’s dawning. His eye was widened, trying to pry itself free of his misshapen skull. The veins that could be seen through his rough, leathery flesh bulged outward, making the orc captain look as if he were about to erupt. Finally, his hand quivering in bizarre anticipation, he settled, he tensed muscles relaxing and open hand tugging itself away from the Elven blade. With a breathy snarl, he dropped Urkrásh to the ground. The orc rubbed his sore throat tenderly, looking up at Thrákmazh with a truly fearful look on his face, one of unadulterated terror.

“Are you just going to sit there?!” he bellowed, almost maniacally, causing Urkrásh to sink even lower to the ground. He felt a familiar feeling welling up in him, pulsing in his veins and flowing, mingling with his blood. The same unbridled fury he felt in his sleepless nights, whenever he held the sword of the nameless Elf. Thrákmazh was literally vibrating because of the maddening fury he felt. His hands would not stop trembling, his legs would not stop wobbling, and his vision was obscured by the constant motion of his eye, darting from side to side in its socket. He tried to relax, but he could not. Growling in pain and anguish, he staggered backward through the muddy road. He saw shadows everywhere, dancing across his plane of sight. He saw only shadow, heard only shrill screaming all around him, smelled only the putrid stench of death and decay, and his throat and mouth could form no words. For a moment, he was lost, fading in and out of being in front of Urkrásh, who could not even begin to fathom the madness, the growing insanity of his master. The orc captain seethed and raged, his coughing gasps turning to roars and thunderous cacophony until…

He fell to his knees, level with Urkrásh; his one-eyed closed…He felt oddly better. His eye managed to open, coming into focus, and all things returned to their normal state. His swimming gaze sharpened and became again precise, the screaming and crashing in his ears turned to the vaguely recognizable thumping of orc feet on soft dirt, the smell wafting in his flared nostrils turned from sickly, nauseating stench to that of normality. Thrákmazh almost wretched, pulling in all the air he could after his episode, filling his lungs with it completely. At last, he exhaled, sighing deeply, and staggered onto one knee. He seemed more a feeble octogenarian that the mighty captain of urûks as he pushed himself wearily to his feet.

“Captain…you’re bleeding.” Ventured Urkrásh as quietly as he could, moving towards Thrákmazh to help him up. Thrákmazh felt the warm black liquid seeping from the creased corner of his mouth, forming a river between his fangs. He couldn’t guess where it came from, but he wiped it off all the same with a crude gesture and pushed Urkrásh away. “What…what is amiss?” he managed to say, his commanding voice an angry, disillusioned stammer instead of itself.

“Th-they say there was a fight, Captain Thrákmazh. Herding and Cenbryt were involved.”

The scowl on Thrákmazh’s face turned to a wicked grin. His plan was working. “Good work, Urkrásh.” He said, sounding pleased again, his fit fully ended, “Tell the lieutenants to ready all troops as fast as possible. We have much work to do.” With that, grinning sinisterly from ear to pointed ear, Thrákmazh clapped his servant heartily on the back, a most disconcerting gesture, and began trudging down the manmade path again, mumbling inaudibly to himself. He began heading doggedly past the ranks of awakening orcs, bathed in subtle morning light, and towards the Southron campsite, where his target lay.

He wondered silently who he should go to first. He had assured them both of betrayal, and the seeds of dissent, sewn a day ago, had sprouted in the night’s rain, blossoming into flowers that only held beauty to Thrákmazh One-Eye. He would head to his ‘esteemed colleagues’ and console them. An “I told you so” or two might not be out of place, considering the circumstances. He decided that it would be best to approach the vulnerable, corruptible captain, Herding. Certainly he would turn with relative ease. Also, as if to drive the point home, Thrákmazh was nearest to Herding’s tent, and could see slight commotion outside of it. Smiling to himself, he hurried towards it, ignoring the sharp glances of passing Southrons, and pushed through the small crowd that had gathered, dodging past several men coming from the Southron captain’s tent. Hurriedly, he darted inside, brushing aside the tent flap. He found Herding wandering the length of his tent within, with a few soldiers or guards still working within, perhaps talking with him, and seeking his counsel relating to the conflict. When their eyes fell on Thrákmazh, though, they scurried out.

“Captain Herding,” Thrákmazh said when he finally caught Herding’s eye, an almost mocking air of concern in his raspy voice as his brow softened to look pitying, “I have heard most ill news. Are you alright?” Even though the concern was fully pretend, it still seemed just as inappropriate on the face of an orc as true pity might look. His contorted face showed no semblance of pity, at least not within. Herding looked at him with no more than a glare of contempt, which was followed by a snappy comment which Thrákmazh had expected. “I don’t need your sympathy, orc.” Herding spat, somewhat violently.

Thrákmazh looked amused as he stalked towards Herding. He felt exactly as he had the previous day when he’d entered Herding’s tent. The orc crossed his arms, bemused, and ambled, tracing his steps precisely as he paced the length of the captain’s residence. “Word has reached my ears that you and Cenbryt had a…” he pondered hesitantly over the proper word, or a synonym thereof, “a falling-out. Is this true?” The concern in his voice more sounded like feline curiosity now as the orc glanced, one tuft of eyebrow strangely raised.

“What of it?” Herding snapped back. He was as quick as ever, and his senses seemed sharpened. He was angrier than he’d been yesterday, though in a more reserved fashion. He managed to look and sound very composed. He kept his face turned from Thrákmazh, stooping over an unidentified piece of furniture in one corner. He seemed to be brooding, and Thrákmazh knew why. Hammering down on the deceitful nail endlessly, Thrákmazh continued on, fulfilling the script as it was written. “You know well enough…I was right.” At this, Herding spun, not angrily, but with a concealed emotion fueling him. Thrákmazh now saw that Herding’s face was bruised and discolored, the lingering stain of dried blood on his lips. The fight had been more than a little scuffle and the orc found himself disappointed that he’d missed it.

“Were you, now?” Herding said, still gentle-voiced, but obviously seething, “You spoke to me of youth and foolishness. Cenbryt may be young and foolish, but he is a shrewd devil as well. You spoke in riddles, and that has gotten me nothing but a black eye and a broken bottle of good wine.” He jabbed a finger at the numerous crystalline shards of bright scarlet that speckled the ground around one of the tent’s support beams and then jerked the same finger at his bruised face, then turned away. Grinning undetectably – again – Thrákmazh advanced, hungry for satisfaction.

“He tried to kill you, but failed,” Thrákmazh murmured, “and so he pretended that his intentions were noble.”

“You truly think so, do you? Cenbryt is a fool, just as you said, but that is useless to me.”

Herding found Thrákmazh’s hand suddenly present on his shoulder, resting there nonchalantly, “To us, Herding, to us,” Thrákmazh whispered, in a most disquieting fashion. He paused, as if he had something truly revolutionary or controversial he was about to confess. His words sounded forced, unlike they usually did, and his eerie smile was most certainly not. “…I have a…proposition for you.” Herding looked to him, incredulous.

“Another conspiracy theory? Save your breath.”

“Koran wants you dead.” Thrákmazh stated bluntly.

“I had figured out that much.” The Southron nodded.

“He will attempt again on the eve of battle to slay you.”

“Once again the orc speaks the obvious.” Herding growled, his tone dark and sardonic, he spun, bearing down on the orc, who was shorter than him only because of his squatting, drooping posture. “Get to the point.”

Thrákmazh nodded back knowingly, taking a wary step back, and continued. “But…” he hesitated again, drawing out the silence in the air, “what if we attack him first?” Herding’s gaze turned to a very mild curiosity, possibly even interest, and Thrákmazh could tell he was at least hooked by the orc’s delectable bait “…On battle’s eve,” he continued, droning, “when we are camped near Lorien, we must strike, you and I, together. There will be some manner of signal we share, one of your choosing. The orcs under my command will gladly attack the Southrons of Cenbryt’s, and your will surely follow you to the same end. All at once, we cut off the power of our foe. He will be surrounded and only a few of his men will remain loyal. If we offer them the spoils of war…and the option to live, many will surely come to our side. Then, we take Cenbryt and the remaining ‘rebels’ captive (most unfortunately, we could not kill them all right away, for the Eye would look upon that as unnecessary action). Then, after we have proved they were traitorous to the troops, they will corroborate the necessity to slay them…Then; you can have your way with Koran Cenbryt.”

He stopped, letting silence return again and Herding absorb all he’d said. The Southron was looking down at the ground, his eyes averted from the foul, single-eyed [i]uruk[i]. Still grinning, though more noticeably now, Thrákmazh took back the ground he’d lost, taking a step towards Herding. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand, palm open, towards the captain of Southrons, index finger twitching strangely (though, as far as he could tell, Herding didn’t notice). The man looked up at Thrákmazh, taking note of his outstretched hand. Thrákmazh knew that the moment of truth had come. What level would the wretch stoop to? He could only hope his ploy would be a believable one. All he could do was quietly wait for Herding’s response.

“What say you?”