Disclaimer: Middle Earth and it's people places and things are the property of one J.R.R. Tolkien. All original characters belong to one Helena Markos ;)
Lunch Break
AN: This story features Gijakzi, an orc from my story The Black Heart.
The raucous, hooting shouts of several orcs grew louder as it approached the forges. Gijakzi rubbed his worn eyes and looked up from the revisions to the plans for the dam his Master had ordered, his face twisted in a scowl. A troop of goblins were hurrying through the great metal gates, cheering and laughing and carrying on as they dragged a bound prisoner behind them. Gijakzi's scowl deepened.
"Let's stick 'im in the furnace," the leader of the rowdy group cheered. "Bet 'e squeals like a pig!"
The goblins at the anvils had stopped working, grinning wildly as their eyes lit on the short, bearded prisoner, their faces gleaming with malice. Isengard's forge master hopped off of his stool, intent on putting an end to this rabble rousing. War was coming, and they had enough shit to do without stupid distractions.
He may have been called a goblin by those Uruk hai scum in the pits below, but Gijakzi still stood over the tallest northern lad by a head. Rearing up to his full height, he looked down on the idiots that decided to make the forge their personal torture chamber. His hand went reflexively to the studded whip on his belt.
"The fuck is all this?" the head smith growled, glaring dangerously at the orcs in front of him and then at their bedraggled, beaten prisoner.
"Oi!" the lead lad said. "We caught us a snoopin' dwarf, the bastard. Master gave us the go ahead to show 'im what for."
"The fuck's 'e in 'ere then?" Gijakzi hissed and leaned forward, displaying an impressive a row of dense, uneven lower fangs. He was pleased when the entirety of the group backed up a step.
A diminutive, speckled goblin at the far edge of the work line subtly cleared his throat. "Hey boss," his tiny voice called out from the corner. "Them half pints is best when they's roasted!"
A number of nods and general agreement went up, both among the orcs that barged in and the lads minding the forge. Gijakzi turned towards his staff, specifically singling out his chatty underling. "Yer one ta call someone 'alf pint, Gruz, ya little runt. How bout I have you roasted?"
Gruz whimpered and shrank away into a dark corner.
Whirling on his uninvited guests, Gijakzi pulled the whip from his belt. His patience for nonsense had reached its limit. He didn't care one way or the other about some short, hairy, little tark. These northern folk had a gripe to pick with everyone! He suddenly longed to be back in the quiet isolation of his homeland, among the cliffs of southern Nûrn.
"Ain't no one puttin' nothin' in no furnace," Gijakzi hissed and advanced a little on the group. Their leader must have heard of his position, or his tendency towards heavy handedness, because he did not challenge the order, even though he had a good number of boys with him if he wanted to press the issue.
His face fell a bit as he turned towards his fellows. "You 'eard the boss, lads. Ain't nothin' fer it." The dwarf breathed a little sigh of relief through his gag.
As they started to shuffle out, Gijakzi heard a little sniff from the work area, and glanced over to see his whole staff staring, crestfallen, at the group leaving. An uncharacteristic stir of pity welled in his chest as he stared at the rows of wide-eyed, mournful faces. Hadn't these northern folk fought a large battle with the dwarves years ago? Katag had told him once that those stubby bastards had cleared out den after den back in the day – long before she was born, but well within orcish memory – and some family lines no longer existed because of it. Now, here, they had managed to catch one.
Who was he to spoil their fun?
"Oi," Gijakzi called after the retreating orcs. "You ain't stickin' 'im in the main furnace, it'll fuck up the temperature." Gijakzi nodded towards a large, pot bellied stove in the far corner. "Use the little one. We ain't workin' with it today."
A huge cheer went through the forge and thirty eager orcish smiths fixed their boss with watery eyes. "Go on," he said, motioning to the group of orcs, who were hoisting the prisoner on their backs, tossing him back and forth before that final toss in. "Might as well give 'em a hand."
The whole forge erupted into whoops and hollers, and the metallic clang of a few dozen hammers falling to the ground echoed off the walls. Gijakzi hopped back on his stool with a small smile on his face. It was good to give the boys a break once in a while.