There was a war outside. It hadn't quite made its way to the caverns and with some luck never would, but inside there was a hurried bustle as the slaves tore still developing Orcs out of their earth cocoons to quickly put more soldiers on the battlefield. The method was faster and more effective than natural birth, but it wasn't capable of miracles; some of the Orcs were not fit to live as they fell out of the mud only halfway complete, and even the more developed ones gasped pathetically for breath in the stale air of the birthing cave.

One of these hapless survivors was still covered in wet earth when the slaves began to attach a quickly assembled suit of armour to him with worn straps. His eyes were full of drying mud and his ears full of shouting and general noise echoing through the cave, and even though as a cocoon-born he already had language to speak, he was so dazed by the chaos that he let the slaves do everything without a word of protest or question.

"That's a small one, isn't it," muttered one of the slaves and put a helmet on his head.

"He'll have plenty of time to grow bigger if he can make it out of this one alive," said another and slapped a sword on his hand.

"We'll see if he can," mused a third one after a moment of appraising silence and grabbed the earthborn's arm. "Well then, off to the battlefield with you."

The newborn stumbled like a toddler after the Orc holding his arm, his sword dragging behind him uselessly. "Wh... where..." he slurred. He tried to glance over his shoulder at the warm pit in the ground, the only cradle that he would ever have, but he could no longer recognise the one that had been his.

"Now now, you don't have to trouble yourself with that. You just go over there and out and follow the others. When you feel His power, you won't even have to wonder how to fight," the slave explained. He shook his head. "Power's certainly what you need. Try to at least stay alive for a couple of minutes, squirt." Then he turned back, already forgetting the squirt. "That was the last one! All slaves out and to the safe place!"

For a moment the newborn stared stupidly ahead before the words 'there' and 'out' became clearer to him and he was able to follow their advice. His thoughts slowly but surely becoming clearer as well, he staggered through the corridor of the cave towards the dim light.

The din got deafening long before he got outside. The steady stream of Orcs marching outside laughed, shouted and stomped as though trying to scare their enemy out of some subterranean hiding place. Their numbers seemed endless, an unbroken current flowing past the cave, and the newborn had a hard time finding a place where he could join in. 'His', whoever that was, power still hadn't taken over him. Perhaps one could only get it after showing bravery of his own? That was all the Orc could think of, so for a moment he gathered his courage and then quickly dashed at the host.

"Oi, are you trying to trip someone?" a strange voice immediately barked near his ear. "This is a serious situation, in case you hadn't happened to notice. What's your number?"

"Number?" the newborn asked, head spinning. Following the slave's advice had not particularly made his suddenly initiated life easier.

"For the... have you even got a name?"

"I... don't think I do," the Orc answered, even more confused. Was he supposed to have got a name, too? Maybe it was his own fault that he hadn't thought to ask for one.

"Not another one!" growled the other Orc. "How in the name of the Nazgûl are we to win this war if all the untrained and half-dead are sent to the battlefield for real soldiers to trip over? Even those feeble-minded goblin brats cause more destruction among the enemy." He slowed down, glaring at the newborn running after him. "I don't suppose they expected you to stay alive, and it's not hard to see why. Fortunately we've got a suitable generic name for ones like you, however, so you be Snaga then. Can you remember that?"

Named Snaga without any finer ceremonies than that, the newborn finally took a good look at the other Orc. Red eyes looked back from a tired face, framed by even redder, greasy hair. "Snaga..."

"Slave, yes. A different kind of slave than the ones who helped you into this world, but it's a suitable name for you. I should probably be grateful that you can at least talk."

The name was meant for the useless and the weak, but it belonged to Snaga now, and this Orc had given it to him. "Have you got a name too?"

The red Orc blinked as though he had truly never in his lifetime expected to witness such ignorance. "Do I look like a slave?" Snaga looked at him so long and so sincerely that he found it hard to get angrier. "Well I'm not one anymore. I'm Krazum, and that's a name I've earned with blood and sweat."

Snaga nodded. Perhaps then he too could get a name of his own, chosen with careful thought. And now that the matter had been cleared for him, he thought to ask about the reason for the march. "Why are we here?"

"Is it the meaning of life you're trying to ponder there or don't you know what we're on our way to do?"

"I don't know what we're on our way to do."

Krazum grimaced. "Give me strength. The blighter's kicked straight from cradle to grave, and the poor devil doesn't even know anything about anything. At least try to walk faster. No one will miss you if you fall behind," he muttered and immediately slowed down so Snaga could stay by his side. "We're at war here, and it's an important one too. We're headed for mass destruction if we don't win."

Snaga stared at Krazum, eyes wide open. "I can't... I don't know how to fight."

"But at least I didn't have to explain to you what war is. Seems that you're an Orc after all," Krazum marvelled. "And don't worry about it. When you feel His power, you'll forget all of your fear and other useless things. I'm sure you'll think of a use for that sword of yours as well and incidentally for Morgoth's sake stop dragging it along the ground, or you'll ruin the blade right away."

Wincing, Snaga lifted his sword; indeed, being a heavy one, it had already fallen to the ground in his weak hands. He couldn't even imagine killing with a weapon that he could barely carry. To be truthful, he couldn't even imagine killing with anything at all. "Whose power am I supposed to feel?"

There was now a clear tone of pity in Krazum's sigh. "The Dark Lord's, whose eye of fire always sees us. You'll understand when it happens; the sun goes dark and a red mist falls. Nothing matters anymore, and you'll even give your life for his sake."

Snaga gave Krazum a wary glance from the corner of his eye. The Dark Lord sounded terrifying, but in that last sentence had been something zealous and willing that frightened him even more. Krazum said no more, only stared straight ahead, and his silence forced Snaga to once more notice around them the din that made earth itself shake. It frightened him to think what would happen if he were to fall here among a host that was capable of such things. "A lot of noise," he laughed nervously.

"There's supposed to be," answered Krazum.

The answer was interesting. It sounded like behind it hid a story that might keep the noise at bay. "Why is there supposed to be?"

"You want a bedtime story?" Krazum asked, but his tone wasn't biting. For the first time, he grinned. "It is a suitable story for an Orc, one that has no happy end." Then he began, and somehow, with mere words, he was capable of conjuring away the battle and the field and the violent death awaiting them. It was a dreadful story, for Snaga could tell that behind the shape of a tale and poetic words lurked a truth. Krazum told him of the history of the Orcs, of the Dark Lord and the one who came before him, the creator of Orcs; he told of the terrifying light that in all its shapes turned its back on Orcs, and of monsters that had planted the world full of things that hated Orcs.

"And so even the stars of the sky are made of a light that is strange to us, and they look down on us in hatred; the trees, too, have been shaped by hands that would grip our throats." Krazum's eyes gleamed as he neared the end. "The Dark Lord is a wall around us, covered with spikes on both sides; a word spoken in anger, thundering louder than any other. When a tree hums in pain when we are near, he shuts our ears from its sound. When the eye of the sky pierces the darkness of the night, he dulls our pain and horror..." Krazum blinked and was once more in the present. "...but we'll have to wait a little more for that. This noise drowns everything else. Let the earth itself scream, the thunder of our footsteps is stronger. We march towards the enemy in his name, and he gives us peace."

Shivering a little, Snaga pondered the zeal that had once again slowly risen in Krazum's voice. The words implied that an Orc's part in life was always hard, but the tone was longing and worshipful. It occurred to Snaga that perhaps Krazum wished for death. The concept was absurd to an Orc just at the beginning of his life, fearing war and dying in it, but he couldn't think of any other reason for such strange behaviour.

"If I make it out of this..." Krazum said so quiently that Snaga only barely heard him. "I'll go back to Mordor. Elsewhere one can always fell trees and enemies, but no arrow can fly to the stars. In that place grow no trees or enemies, and the stars can't see us through the darkness. It's always quiet in Mordor."

A shout travelled from the head of the host to its tail: the enemy had been seen and engaged in battle. Krazum and Snaga marched faster, one hungering for the battle and the other fearing it.

"My place is in the frontlines," Krazum said. The strange burning had returned to his eyes. "You stay farther away and you'll live longer."

Snaga shuddered as if with fever. The sword and fear of death weighed heavy on him, paralysing both body and mind. As his last hope, he tugged at the sleeve poking out of the pieces of Krazum's armour before the older Orc could get too far away from him. "If I'm still alive after this... if I survive..."

"Don't worry," Krazum said, smiling at last. "You won't."