Chronicles of the Uruk-Hai
Author's Note:
In his Appendix F of The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien tells us that "Orc is the form of the name that other races had for this foul people as it was in the language of Rohan," and that "uruk" is the equivalent name in the Black Speech. Although Tolkien also states that "uruk" was "applied as a rule only to the great soldier-orcs," I have decided that this is a misunderstanding on the part of a scholar unfamiliar with (and unsympathetic to) Orcish language and culture. In this work I am using "Uruk" as the singular and "Uruk-Hai" (Orc-People, Orc-Folk) as the plural to refer to all of the peoples generically referred to in Tolkien's works as Orcs. Distinguishing between the different groups of Uruk-Hai are descriptions such as "Fighting Uruk-Hai" and "Cave Uruk-Hai of the mountains."
For readers wondering about the use of telepathy in this tale, please see my additional author's note at the end of this chapter. Translations of various terms marked with asterisks will also be found in that note.
I have, naturally, no claim to any of the peoples, characters or events created by J.R.R. Tolkien, and I'm not making any money from this. I am, however, having a great deal of fun exploring an alternate and (to my way of thinking) more realistic view of the peoples Tolkien knew as the foul, brutal and barbarous Orcs.
Chapter One:
Mauhúr and His Lads
…there's one thing the fine fellows don't know! Mauhúr and his lads are in the forest, and they should turn up any time now.
—Uglúk, "The Uruk-Hai," Chapter 3 of The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien
There must have been orc-women. But in stories that seldom if ever see the Orcs except as soldiers of armies in the service of the evil lords we naturally would not learn much about their lives.
—J.R.R. Tolkien, 1963
Mauhúr! Need reinforcements. Crossing the downs from Great Falls, along the river to the forest.
As he ran with his troop across the plain of Rohan, Mauhúr Son of Uglúk thought of that mental message from his father, again and again.
He did not believe Uglúk was in serious danger; not from the sound of the message. But Uglúk wouldn't send for reinforcements except in genuine need. He was hardly one to panic. Mauhúr thought that the White Wizard or the Dark Lord himself would panic before his father did.
He had felt no fear in Uglúk's message. The chief emotion he had felt from Uglúk was annoyance.
Still, orders were orders. And if Uglúk felt the need to call for reinforcements at all, he'd expect Mauhúr and the other lads to leg it double-quick. So Mauhúr kept his troop running at a good pace. It wasn't the fastest speed they could manage in desperate need; just a steady, league-eating run they could keep up for days on end.
Keep it up for days on end, they did. Uglúk's thought-message had come when they were almost all the way back to Isengard, near the end of the day after the battle at the Fords of Isen. Mauhúr had sent their most seriously wounded warrior, Kharorod, to the Wizard's fortress with the news that they were reporting to their commander Uglúk, on his orders. The rest of them had set out for a pleasant night's run, feeling fresh and ready to take on all the horse-boys of Rohan.
They had rested well the night before, and had fed even better. On the bank of the Isen at the edge of Nan Curunír, Mauhúr's lads had eaten together their victory feast in honour of that day's battle.
Mauhúr had no real knowledge if the battle would count as a victory for their side. That would be for the strategists and history-writers to decide. But whatever the chronicles eventually had to say about it all, he believed their own small segment of the battle was an unquestioned victory.
They had slain or put to flight all of the Whiteskins who'd faced them. Several of their troop had distinguished themselves in single combat, from the glimpses Mauhúr had of them while he was in the thick of his own combats. And in all of that, only one of their own warriors had been slain. As far as Mauhúr was concerned, that was what victory looked like.
Besides, a rumour was going 'round that the son of the King of Rohan had been killed in the battle. If that turned out to be true, it was assuredly a triumph for their side, no matter if the battle itself ranked as victory or as loss.
When they withdrew from the battlefield, heading upriver from the ford, Mauhúr's troop took with them the body of their last opponent slain in single combat. Mauhúr had witnessed that Man's fall. He was cut down at the water's edge by Jaddain, who had been Mauhúr's dear friend since the time of their earliest childhood memories.
Naturally, the body of one conquered foeman was not sufficient to feed 39 Uruk-Hai warriors. That need was met with the flesh of the horse they captured: the steed of Jaddain's defeated foe. But the Fighting Uruk-Hai did not feast on their enemy's flesh for sustenance alone. The ritual Feast of Victory honoured their bravery and achievements—and the bravery and achievements of the warrior whose carcase they consumed.
Roasting the flesh of the Man in the same cookfire as that of his horse caused many a predictable joke. Inspired by the love that the straw-heads notoriously felt for their steeds, Mauhúr's lads cracked numerous jibes on the poetic rightness of horse-boy and horse getting cooked together.
With a brief but sharp rebuke, Mauhúr ended the joking. He knew damned well that it wouldn't take long for the jokes to get far worse. This feast was the first over which he'd presided without his father and other older warriors being present. He was going to do it right.
The lads acquiesced to his will with relative good grace. It cost them only a small amount of struggling to regain their solemnity of mien. And if any more jokes were cracked, at least his fellows had the sense to utter them outside of Mauhúr's hearing.
Mauhúr and Jaddain had shared their enemy's heart. The heart was Jaddain's right as the warrior who had struck him down, as it was Mauhúr's right as the commander of their company. A third portion of the heart they gave to the wounded Kharorod, hoping the ritual power of the gift could aid his healing.
Though of course he would not speak of it, Mauhúr's thoughts were grim regarding Kharorod's chances. Kharorod bore his injury without complaint, as every one of the Fighting Uruk-Hai should do. But Mauhúr had seen the bloody spittle Kharorod hawked out now and then, when he thought no one was watching him. His commander dreaded that the sword-slash across his chest had nicked one of his lungs.
Kharorod had volunteered to take the first shift on guard duty that night, as they camped along the bank of the Isen. Far later in the night, when Kharorod should have been long asleep, Mauhúr had seen him, sitting up against a boulder and gazing at the stars.
Mauhúr thought he could guess why Kharorod had not lain down that night. Kharorod feared that if he lay flat, blood from his lung would pool where it should not, and it would prove the harder for him to go on unhindered on the morrow.
When they left their campsite that morn, to march on to Isengard, they had left the severed head of their enemy, planted there on his own spear. The wind had woken with the dawn. When Mauhúr paused and looked back, he saw the pale hair of the Man of Rohan streaming out behind the head, like a proud banner borne aloft by the wind. Even so did the hair of the horse warriors fly in the wind as they rode, singing, into battle. Mauhúr smiled at the sight, and in his thoughts he bade their foe farewell. It was fitting to leave him thus, on guard over the land: the last of the honours paid to him by his conquerors. Although, Mauhúr knew well, the horse-boy would have been glad to avoid all of the honours they'd paid him.
Now Uglúk had summoned them, to meet some mysterious need that set Mauhúr to pondering. And as he ran with his lads all about him and with Jaddain at his side, Mauhúr had more time than he wanted, to mull unwelcome thoughts.
When this mission of Uglúk's was achieved—whatever the mission might be—and they came home to the hills above Isengard, Mauhúr's most dreaded duty awaited him. He must go to the house of Tsas, their warrior slain at the ford. He must bring Tsas' family the news of their son and brother's death.
Against his will, Mauhúr rubbed his neck, thinking of the arrow that had skewered Tsas' windpipe. He thought of the young Uruk slamming down into the water; lying there with that startled look on his face and with blood welling from his mouth.
In the throat, Mauhúr thought. Tsas would have to die from an arrow-wound in the throat. It was an ironic end for the warrior who had been the best singer of all their troop.
With his voice strong and clear as a trumpet's-call, Tsas had pulled the singing of the rest of them together. He had even managed to keep them more-or-less on key. Mauhúr thought, We are the Fighting Uruk-Hai, but without him we certainly won't be the singing Uruk-Hai. Not unless his ghost comes back to lead us in our war songs.
Mauhúr grinned as another thought hit him.
Are we all going to die as Tsas did, he wondered, struck in the body parts most ironically appropriate for each of us?
With a sidelong glance over at Jaddain, he thought, If that's so, then Jad will have to perish from a mortal wound in the private parts.
Not that any of them had much opportunity to utilize those parts, as yet. But Jaddain was superbly confident that when he did have the opportunity, he would prove to be of unrivalled skill in their use. And, to be fair, most of the Urukeen* of the Five Villages seemed to share Jad's opinion. There was never any shortage of damsels eager to flutter their eyelashes right back at him when Jaddain fluttered his eyelashes at them. An unending troop of them stood ready to growl sweet nothings with him, whenever a chance presented itself.
Even Mauhúr's little sister Sargil had taken to looking at Jaddain differently, of late. These days she tended to favour him with a new sort of smouldering, speculative gaze. It seemed she agreed with the other Urukeen, that he might just be a good catch. Before, she had viewed her brother's best friend with a mixture of disdain and rivalry, as her main competitor for Mauhúr's attention.
Some of the trend of Mauhúr's thoughts must have grown visible on his face, for Jaddain asked him, "What are you grinning about?"
Mauhúr decided to spare him the speculation about deadly wounds to his privates. Instead he told his friend, "I was thinking that when you've distinguished yourself in a few more battles, you'll be ready for promotion to the main company. And for marriage, too, of course."
As they ran onward, Jaddain studied him with a pleased but surprised-looking smile. "Really?" Jaddain questioned. "Do you really think so?"
"I do. Why, do not you believe you've done well?"
"I do, but … so have many others."
"Well, we will all have the chance to show our quality in the battles ahead. And there should be many of those." Mauhúr went on, "If you continue to perform as you did at the fords, I will gladly speak for your promotion. Or perhaps not gladly," he added, "since your promotion will mean I'll need to keep the rest of these pups in line without your help."
Jaddain argued, "Seems to me you're the one most fit for promotion and marriage of any of us."
Mauhúr gave a snort. "Maybe. But when I get promoted, who's going to take command of this lot? I can't think of anyone who's ready for that—except maybe for you. But then," he said with a sly grin, "who knows how long it would be before you could marry? It'd be cruel to make some poor, yearning maiden wait that much longer before she can sink her claws into you."
"Too right!" Jad exclaimed, grinning back. "Not to mention being cruel to me. How much more blue do you want my balls to get?"
"It might be entertaining to find out how blue they can get."
"No," said Jaddain, looking innocent, "you wouldn't do that to me. You're my commander. It's your job to tend to the welfare of all your troops."
That comment landed the burden of command squarely back on Mauhúr's shoulders. He felt himself sag with the imagined weight of it as he said flatly, "Yes. It is."
Jaddain knew well that he had blundered. He also clearly knew that further words would make it worse. They ran on in more-or-less companionable quiet.
Mauhúr's thoughts trudged back again to the need that lay ahead of him, to pay his respects to Tsas' family. It would be only the third time he had performed this most unwelcome of duties as commander of the Five Villages' Uruki* troop.
He had accompanied his father numerous times on such grim visits, all the while as he was growing up. Nothing had prepared him for the dark, painful difference he felt when he was the one under whose command the warriors had died.
Several times over, his thoughts worked their way through what he might say to Tsas' mother, brothers and sisters, when finally he paid that visit. On his third time 'round of seeking the best possible words, his thoughts drew up short again at his earlier speculation: the theory of their warriors being afflicted with mortal wounds in the most ironically fitting spots.
If that happens to me, he thought, I'm certain to get the fatal blow to my head. Father always tells me thinking is both my greatest skill and my greatest weakness.
They ran with only the briefest of rest breaks throughout that first night, the day, and into the next night. As the middle of the second night neared, Mauhúr judged that his lads had earned a more substantial rest. He'd had no further message from Uglúk, and Mauhúr had no reason to believe that desperate haste was called for. They made camp at a point where a troop of boulders reared up out of the plain.
Settling down to sleep in the lee of one of the boulders, Mauhúr found himself wondering again about his father's mysterious mission.
All he knew was what Uglúk had told Mauhúr and his mother, on the day he set forth from their village. He had declared, with a self-satisfied grin, "The White Wizard has a task beyond ordinary need, so he sends for us to accomplish it. There is some weapon of the enemy; a thing that may turn the tide of the war. We are sent to fetch it and bring it to him. So you see," Uglúk continued in a proud tone, as he gently ran one claw along his primary wife's cheek, "it matters not how many new weapons the White Hand has at his command. We are still the spear he chooses when his aim must prove true."
Mauhúr's troop set forth with the dawn and ran through another day. In all the course of their journey through the plains, they had not sighted any force of horse-boys. Mauhúr guessed the most of them were likely licking their wounds from the battle at the fords, and perhaps regrouping to mount an effective defence of their fortresses to the south. Yet he knew those swift riders could appear as suddenly as if they sprang to life from the very grasses themselves.
He aimed his force toward the forest, to reach the cover of its eaves as soon as might be. Once they gained that shelter, there would be little risk of the straw-heads spotting them and making trouble before they met up with Uglúk.
The sunset again was closing in behind them as they drew nigh the first outlying trees. Loping easily along just within the forest's edge, the Uruki troop was now safe enough from any horse-breeders' gaze.
Darkness settled into the woods, but it made no difference to their pace. He and his fellows did not have the night vision of the Cave Uruk-Hai of the mountains, but their sight was more than good enough to handle a star-and-moonlit night like this. Mauhúr began to think of sending a message to his father, to learn where Uglúk wanted them to rendezvous—
—And a message from Uglúk sliced into his mind.
Mauhúr! Where are you?
Mauhúr stumbled slightly from the impact of his father's thought. He grated to Jaddain, beside him, "Jad, you lead the troop for a while. I'll catch up with you."
Jaddain nodded. As he called out, "All right, lads, you follow me, now," Mauhúr slowed his own pace to barely over a walk.
He focused fiercely on sending the thought to his father, Just under the eaves of the forest, from the south.
Good. Uglúk's thought message paused then, as though he took a deep breath before continuing, though of course he did not need to, with this manner of speech. Horse-boys have us surrounded, on the knoll north of the river. Too many for us to break through. Reckon they plan on attacking at dawn. If you strike in the night, we can hit 'em from two sides at once.
Mauhúr fought to control his jolt of excitement, hope and dread. He thought in answer, Right. We'll be there as soon as we can.
Now he pushed forward double-quick, leaping over stumps and fallen trees and ploughing through the smaller bushes. When he reached Jaddain and the others running as the spearpoint of their troop, he ordered, "Pull up."
The Uruki troop clustered about him. Mauhúr announced, "Our fellows are in trouble. They're on the knoll by the riverbank, surrounded by horse-boys. Must be a lot of the straw-heads; Uglúk says there's too many for them to get through without being slaughtered. That's where we come in. We have to reach the knoll before the enemy strikes at dawn, and take 'em by surprise."
There came answering growls and nods from Mauhúr's lads. He went on, "This isn't just any battle. Succeed in this, and we save our families and our friends. Fail, and every household in the Five Villages will be in mourning. You reckon you pups can handle it?"
The chorus of cheers, growls and battle cries that followed sounded respectably ferocious. Mauhúr grinned. "That's what I like to hear—but once we get moving again, I don't want to hear any more of it until we've jumped the straw-heads. Time for us to be fast and silent, now. You got that? All it takes is for one of those fine fellows to get wind of us too soon, and maybe we'll have condemned every one of our warriors to death."
From what he could see of the boys' faces, Mauhúr thought they seemed eager instead of afraid. Or rather, they had their fear locked away deep inside of them, the same as he had done with his own fear.
"Tonight, it's up to us. Tonight, we have the chance to save our fathers, grandfathers, uncles, brothers, friends. They are counting on us. Can we save them?"
The boys answered with one last deafening round of cheers; cries of "Yes!" and promises of what they would do to the Whiteskins. Mauhúr shared a quick glance and a smile with Jaddain. Then he ordered, "Let's go."
The night grew colder as they jogged on through the woods, agonisingly picking their way around the most noise-making obstructions in their path. Now Mauhúr wished they did have some gimlet-eyed cave-dwelling Uruk among them, to guide them past the perils of all the treacherous twigs that could snap underfoot.
Mauhúr thought it had got darker, too; just precisely when some additional light would have been of most use to them. He guessed the moon had been swallowed up in cloud, and he cursed their luck.
Although, he told himself, the lack of moon may make it take longer for the straw-heads to spot us. Not to mention those demon horses of theirs. People say those horses' sight is as sharp as any Cave Uruk's.
When mist came creeping around the trees, Mauhúr knew they were near the river. Sure enough, before long the ground followed a downward slope and the River Entwash trickled along ahead of them.
Mauhúr halted. "Get a drink, everyone," he whispered the order to those around him, "and fill up your flasks if you need to. Pass the word to the others. We won't have the chance to fill up again later. I'm betting we have some hot work ahead of us."
He followed his own advice and scrambled down the riverbank. After a couple of drinks from his cupped hands, he topped up his flask and then rubbed water over his face. Doing so, he realized he heard something beyond the quiet gurgle of the river.
Ahead of them, out there on the plain, he heard the neighing of horses.
"We're here, lads," Mauhúr hissed. "Come on, now. As silently as wights."
He guessed wights would have made less noise than they did in wading across the shallow river. But the noise didn't seem enough to raise the hackles of the horse-boys—or of their horses.
Barely a furlong from Entwash's bank, Mauhúr and his troop crept to the edge of the trees. They lay peering through the dark, striving to learn the positioning of friends and foes.
Mauhúr could make out the darker mass of the hillock where he knew Uglúk and the others were encamped. All around the base of the knoll, little watch-fires gleamed, sparks of gold and red that rendered still blacker all the surrounding darkness. Mauhúr judged that a dozen or so feet divided each fire from its nearest neighbour. The watch-fires cast scant light, but gradually his eyes and mind pieced together what he saw.
Repeatedly, glimpses of the watch-fire nearest him were blocked for an instant from his sight. He added that sight to the all-but-silent creak and jingle of horse-tack that he heard, and the occasional neigh.
The horse-boys were riding. They rode around and around that knoll as though they were conducting some foul magic ritual, like a grim patrol of spectres awaiting the moment to seize their victims' souls.
Just you wait, my fine friends, Mauhúr told them in his thoughts, your spell is not complete yet. I'm afraid it will be interrupted before it's finished.
The horsemen were riding outside of their circle of fires, to avoid becoming targets for the Uruk archers on the hill. They made slightly better targets for the archers among Mauhúr's lads, but still he judged the targets were not clear enough. The dark was too thick about them; the archers would miss too many intended victims and would only succeed in announcing their presence to the enemy. No; the Uruki needed to creep as close they could and launch their attack before the straw-heads got the first whiff of them.
Mauhúr thought, Or before their horses get a whiff of us. How close can we get to them before the cursed brutes sniff us out?
At least the air was still. There was not the faintest breath of wind to waft their scent to the horses' nostrils.
Mauhúr closed his eyes as he sent his thought to Uglúk, We're here, Father. At the edge of the trees.
Uglúk's thought answered him almost at once, rich with grim amusement. Welcome to the party, Son. Get your boys in position and strike whenever you like. When you make your move, we'll make ours.
Mauhúr thought back to his father, Right.
His gestures and hissed-out orders, passed along by those near him to their fellows further down the line of warriors, set their troop into motion. The Uruki of the Five Villages began worming their way through the grasses, closer and closer to the shadowy horsemen circling in the fire-broken darkness.
The smell of the grass was so heavy in Mauhúr's nose, he knew a sudden ludicrous dread that he or one of the other lads might sneeze.
Sha! he thought. Come off it, will you? That sort of thing only happens in tales.
Abrupt rustling ahead of him sounded so loud to his tension-sharpened hearing that he feared it would give the game away. The rustling dwindled into nothing. He told himself it was nothing but a field mouse, rudely interrupted in its nightly quest for food.
They had almost reached their goal. Just the briefest of crawls more, and the troop would be within an easy leap of hurling themselves on the Riders.
Ahead of Mauhúr and some ways along to his right, sounds erupted. He heard the startled snort of a horse and a yell from the horse's Rider. There came the ring of a sword being drawn, the whirr and thud of an arrow, a scream and then pounding hooves. Then a ghastly shriek tore through the air. He had no doubt it was the death cry of whoever had uttered it.
Mauhúr flung out his arms to both sides in a "hold still" gesture to his troops. Few of them, he knew, would see it, but he counted on their discipline to make each of them stop when the warrior beside him stopped—that, and their good sense that should halt them from crawling blindly into whatever was going on ahead.
That wasn't one of us, he thought. The sounds were too far forward; it was inside the circle of horsemen.
Perhaps some luckless Uruk from up on the knoll had made a lone attempt to break through the straw-heads' circle …
Shouts came from the nearby horsemen. Mauhúr guessed they were questions, though being in the Riders' unlovely tongue, they sounded like nothing but babbling. Suddenly, more shouting broke out at the top of the knoll. And these shouts, Mauhúr could understand.
Unmistakably, he heard his father's voice, roaring out, "Dungfilth! Apes! You had one job to do! One! To keep them from getting away!"
A jumble of wails, squeals and howls answered Uglúk's bellow. With stabbing dismay, Mauhúr realized, No way Uglúk's ready to lead a charge through the enemy; not if he's up there tearing somebody a new one.
He raised his arms to gesture his troop to pull back. Before he could make that gesture, the remainder of their plan fell apart.
One of their lads must have crawled in closer than the rest of them; that, or else one of the cursed horses had keener senses than its fellows. From over to Mauhúr's left came another snort from a horse; another shout from a Rider. The Man yelled out a lengthy string of words. One of those words, Mauhúr felt certain, was "Orcs."
If they withdrew now, it would turn into a rout—and all chance of a surprise attack would be lost. Mauhúr thought there was just one rational choice to make, and he made it. He sprang to his feet, drawing his sword, and roared out, "Fighting Uruk-Hai! Attack!"
With a fury that he thought ought to turn the straw-heads' blood to ice, the Uruki battle-cries answered.
As so often happened to him, Mauhúr's left-handedness gave him unexpected advantages in combat. This time it combined perfectly with the direction the horsemen were riding, from the attackers' right to their left. Mauhúr leapt for the horse and Rider that had just passed him. With his left hand he drove his sword into the horse's neck. With his right he seized the Rider and dragged him off his horse.
Uruk and Man plummeted together, accompanied by the horse-boy's yell of outrage and then his wheezing grunt as they hit the ground. The wild hooves of the wounded horse were now a danger to both of them, but Mauhúr guessed the beast would be well-trained enough that it wouldn't trample its own master.
The straw-head struggled helplessly to rid himself of Mauhúr's weight. Mauhúr had him well and truly trapped. The sword at his belt was pinned beneath his attacker, and his spear was far out of reach, strapped to his saddle. Running low on options, the Man grabbed hold of Mauhúr's sword-arm and fought to forestall the deadly stroke.
Mauhúr laughed at his opponent's unimpressive grip. He told the Rider, in the Common Tongue, "My little sister fights harder than you do, Whiteskin."
Yelling out something, Mauhúr's enemy produced a dagger from somewhere, possibly from up his sleeve. Mauhúr barely glimpsed it as the faintest flash in the dim light. But he knew from the way the Man moved that the dagger strike was coming at him.
He yanked his sword-arm free and swung to parry the dagger's blow. He dealt with more than just the dagger. His sword sliced through the horseman's wrist, sending hand and dagger flying.
Mauhúr made short work of his foe after that. He plunged his sword through, from under the Man's chin up into his brain. The Rider died while he was still screaming from the loss of his hand.
Now Mauhúr had the dead Man's enraged horse to deal with. The injured beast charged at Mauhúr the instant he stood up from its master's body. He sidestepped its first rush. Then, as it reared, he leaped at it again. Risking the blows from its pummelling hooves, he got in close and drove his sword up into the monster's chest.
That finished the brute, and Mauhúr jumped away in time to avoid being hit by the body as it fell. Unfortunately, the animal toppled onto the side where its Rider's spear was strapped. Mauhúr had thought of helping himself to the spear, but there wasn't time now to shift the horse's body to retrieve it. Anyhow, the weight of the horse might well have splintered the spear's shaft.
From up on the hill, Mauhúr heard his father's voice bellowing, "Uruk-Hai! To me! We'll break through to the trees!" Mauhúr grinned at that, but he couldn't spare any of his attention for how things might be going for his father. His own next combat was going on beside him.
The warrior just to the left of him was Gûlvar, almost the youngest member of their troop. Gûlvar's inexperience was betraying him. He had taken on another Rider and the Man's demon horse, but he clearly dreaded launching himself into range of the beast's hooves and teeth. The horseman charged him at a gallop, spearpoint levelled at Gûlvar's chest.
The young Uruki sidestepped and took the spear's blow in his shield. Everything got messy from there.
The spearpoint stuck in the shield. The horse and Rider's charge dragged Gûlvar along with them. The kid had his shield strapped to his forearm—too tightly, Mauhúr guessed—and in the moment's chaos he couldn't figure out how to get it off him.
Mauhúr didn't wait to see how this conflict might play itself out. As the horse-boy pulled up his mount from its charge, Mauhúr jumped them from behind. He got his right arm around the Rider's neck and at the same moment attempted to plunge his sword into the neck of the horse.
He misjudged that thrust and the sword glanced off some armoured segment of the horse's tack. Before Mauhúr could bring his sword to bear on the Rider himself, young Gûlvar leaped into the fight again. The youngster had managed to yank his shield free of the spear, and now he sprang at the horseman. He must have found some armour-free spot in which to stab the Man, from the sound of the Rider's grunt of pain.
Between them, it should have been easy for Mauhúr and Gûlvar to finish their wounded foe. Before they could do so, more hoofbeats pounded at them from behind. Mauhúr suddenly felt as though his left shoulder had been struck by a battering ram.
The wounded Rider he was still clinging to wrenched around and hurled Mauhúr off him. Just able to get his feet under him in time, Mauhúr landed in a crouch, in the middle of a maelstrom of murderous hooves.
Time to use my shield, now, he thought. He had a lot more practise in manoeuvring the thing than young Gûlvar did, and it took him just one easy move to shrug it from his right shoulder and hold it gripped in front of him. He didn't know if Gûlvar was still standing, and he didn't have the chance to find out, because now he had two Riders' spearpoints coming at him at once.
Beyond the nearby yells and hoofbeats, he heard other sounds. Somewhere, one of the horse-boys shouted out a long chain of words, in a tone of command. That shout was followed by a call from one of their horns.
He did not learn at once what those orders signified. He could focus only on deflecting spearpoints with sword and shield, slashing his sword at Riders and horses, and hopping about to avoid getting trampled.
The horse to his left—the horse of the Man whom Gûlvar had wounded—suddenly screamed and plummeted to the ground. The wounded horseman flung himself off his beast.
Maúhur swung at him. The Man awkwardly parried with his spear shaft and Mauhúr's sword sliced the shaft in two.
In the next instant, the other Rider yelled something and reached down toward his comrade. The injured Rider managed to drag himself up onto his companion's horse. Turning his now double-burdened steed, the second horse-boy started away at the best pace the animal could manage.
Mauhúr exchanged a weary grin with young Gûlvar. "Good work, kid," Mauhúr told him. He figured the lad had made up for his shaky start in this combat by wounding that Rider and then cutting down his horse.
They had no time for further words, and no time to look for other combats to join. The meaning of that order and the horn call became suddenly obvious.
Mauhúr thought, Dawn must be getting close. He could see more clearly than he had just moments before. In that vague pre-dawn light, he saw that the horsemen who'd been encircling the hillock were now heading further up the slope. They were closing in their line, he guessed grimly, with the aim of stopping Uglúk's force from breaking through. But more grim by far was the sight of a second wave of horsemen, rounding the base of the hill and galloping straight toward Mauhúr and his lads.
Wildly Mauhúr realised, There's more of them than we thought! Did Uglúk even know they had this troop in reserve?
Slinging his shield onto his shoulder again, he yanked up his conch shell horn from the baldric at his side and blew two quick blasts. He followed that by shouting at the top of his lungs, "Uruki! To me!"
A satisfying number of their warriors came bounding through the grasses toward them. He saw no sense in trying to make a count of them now, but he thought it was safe to say that they hadn't lost many.
They hadn't lost many yet.
As the other Uruki drew near—and the fresh troop of horse-boys drew near to them, as well—Mauhúr commanded Gûlvar, "Help me flip this horse over."
The kid probably wondered what his commanding officer was up to, shoving around a dead horse while a disturbing number of Whiteskins came galloping for them, but he sensibly did not ask. Besides, the answer was soon clear. They heaved on the body of the horse whose master Mauhúr had killed, until it shifted enough to reveal the spear strapped to its saddle. Mauhúr whistled in pleased surprise when he saw that the horse's weight hadn't broken the spear.
He pulled the spear free and hefted it appreciatively, enjoying the balance of it. He thought, Feels good not to be on the receiving end of one of these things, for a change.
With the lads now clustering around him, Mauhúr went back to shouting out orders. "Form a shield wall! Anyone got bow and arrows, now's the time to use them! Archers, your job's to shoot down as many of these bastards as possible. The rest of us, our job's to shield the archers. We stick together. Nobody runs, you hear me? You turn and run, that gives these horse-fuckers their best chance to skewer you."
The wave of horsemen smashed into them. Mauhúr thought it a pretty good accomplishment that their hastily thrown-together shield wall didn't shatter at the first collision.
Since only he of all the Uruki had a spear, they didn't have much chance to keep the enemy at more than swords'-length away. All around him, swords flailed wildly, holding their foemen's spear points at bay. Arrows started singing through the cold pre-dawn air—their own arrows and the arrows of their enemy.
A thought-message from Uglúk broke into his mind.
You've got to pull back. There's too many for you to take them now.
Thanks! he thought in reply. I'm coming to the same conclusion.
We'll have another chance, Uglúk told him. When they strike at dawn, we'll strike them.
"All right, boys," Mauhúr shouted. "We're pulling back, but steadily! Calmly! We're backing up to the trees. Archers, keep on firing! Everyone, stay together! First one I see turn his back, I'll kill him before these manure-shovellers can get to him!"
As they started inching their painfully slow way across the field, it struck him that they resembled a hedgehog facing off against a Warg.
No, he thought, we've got to be more than a hedgehog. At least let's be a porcupine. At least let's make sure our quills give the Warg something to remember us by.
Amidst all the shouts and clangs, thunderous hoofbeats and whirring arrows, he could barely pick out any individual sounds. But one sound did come through clearly to him. With a sickening, wet thunk, a thrown spear buried itself in the face of Jebe, one of the archers to his right. Mauhúr glanced over to see the spear quivering there, its point driven deep into Jebe's eyes. As the archer started toppling backward, Mauhúr roared, "Someone take his bow and quiver and start using them now! And somebody, grab that spear!"
His orders were obeyed as they kept on shuffling toward the trees, leaving Jebe's crumpled body behind them. Stepping into place at Mauhúr's right was Jaddain, brandishing the spear that dripped black with Jebe's blood.
They were making some impact on their foe. Not as much impact as he wished they would make, but some. He saw one Rider topple with an arrow through his jaw. He desperately hoped that the occasional higher-pitched screams he heard came from dying horse-boys, not from their own warriors.
"We're almost to the trees," Jaddain grated.
"Yeah," he grunted back. Raising his voice to reach all of their troop, he yelled, "All right, boys! All archers will fire as one. Give 'em one last volley, then we'll leg it into the woods. On my order—wait for it—fire!"
In the instant the arrows sprang from their bows, he bellowed, "Now run! Up the river! Meet at the big oak!"
The lads pelted like deer into the shelter of the trees. Mauhúr and Jaddain were the last two to turn and run.
As they raced into the forest, he thought, It's a safe bet none of those blond buggers know our language. If they think we're just on the run, hopefully they won't keep on troubling their pretty little heads about us.
The plan seemed to have worked. By ones and twos the Uruki reached their meeting point, a spot a short ways upstream where a vast, gnarled oak on the northern bank spread its branches across to canopy the other shore. Mauhúr ordered two of their archers, "Khadan and Boran, you two stay on guard. Head back a bit down the river; keep your eyes and ears open for any sign the horse-lovers are following us." He didn't think there was much risk of that, but it would be damned embarrassing if they were lolling about on the riverbank and the Riders of Rohan popped up like boils on their arses.
"We're going back into combat soon," he told the others. "Likely at dawn. Have some breakfast while we're waiting. Take a swig of rak* too, if you want; we'll all of us be needing some fire in our bellies."
As the troop started munching their rations of dried horse-meat and rye bread, Mauhúr took his first good post-skirmish look at Jaddain's face. He whistled softly at the realisation that his friend was missing one half of his right tusk. Its point had been neatly cut off; from a sword blow, by the look of it.
Mauhúr thought that had to be the strangest freak battlefield injury he'd seen. What were the odds that the blow would be deflected by Jaddain's tusk instead of just slicing onward through his jaw?
"You all right?" Mauhúr asked him.
Jaddain ruefully stuck out his tongue to lick his truncated tusk. "Battered but unbowed," he answered. "You?"
"I'm fine. I think." Only now did he remember the blow to his shoulder while he'd been hanging onto that horse-boy's back. He reached around to investigate and found that his left shoulder-plate had acquired a noticeable dent. "One of them took a poke at me, but I guess it glanced off. Nice to see the armour doing its job."
Mauhúr hesitated an instant to steel himself for his next order. "Jad, go 'round and find out for me who we've lost." He glanced down at the spear Jaddain was still holding, and added, "In addition to Jebe."
Jaddain also gazed at the spear in his hand. He nodded and said, "Right."
While Jad was on that melancholy errand, Mauhúr too went among the troops, checking the extent of their injuries. What he found was heartening: only a few arrow, sword or spear wounds to arms and legs, and no one was even close to being incapacitated. None of the injured lads had any difficulty tending to their hurts; they matter-of-factly rubbed ointment into the wounds and then turned their attention to breakfast.
Mauhúr was leaning against the big oak, gnawing a strip of horse jerky, when the solemn-faced Jaddain returned. The commander of the Uruki stood up straight again and stashed the remnants of the jerky in the pouch at his belt. He asked Jaddain quietly, "Well?"
"It looks like we've lost seven," was Jaddain's equally quiet answer. "Jebe, of course. Dawil fell in the retreat; Tülki says he saw Dawil fall with an arrow in his face. Then there are five others unaccounted for: Üneg, Bürkit, Bult, Juldiz and Khad."
"Bürkit and Bult both?" Mauhúr asked. "Damn it." That was probably the worst loss he would have to report to any family thus far, since Bürkit and Bult were brothers. They were the only sons of their family, except for their half-brother who was still a babe in arms.
Mauhúr held back a sigh. "Thank you," he told Jaddain. He thought, To think that just a little while ago I tore myself up over needing to speak with one slain warrior's family!
There was no point at all in brooding on their current list of slain—considering that soon enough, that list was almost certain to grow longer. He took a moment's refuge in the distraction provided by Jaddain's bizarrely sliced-off tusk.
"That really was cutting it close," he remarked, stepping closer to examine the tooth in question. "Good thing you've got such over-sized tusks."
Jaddain delivered his standard reply, "They're not over-sized, they're generously developed."
"Of course they are," Mauhúr answered with a grin. It was an old and well-worn conversation topic between them, revolving around the belief—held by no one at all except for those Uruk-Hai who boasted protruding tusks—that sizeable tusks signified impressive endowments in a lower region.
"If it'd been you, Captain No-Tusk," Jaddain went on, "there'd have been nothing to stop the blow except for your iron jaw." Jaddain shook his head and once again prodded at the tusk with his tongue. He asked in apparent gloom, "Do you think it's ruined my good looks?"
Mauhúr snorted. "Ruined them, my arse. The Urukeen will love it. They'll say it looks dashing. Maybe you should make a feature of it: have it gold-plated, or put a ring through it. Give the girls something to play with."
"Who needs a ring?" Jad asked scornfully. "I've got better things for them to play with."
"Well, as long as those don't get cut off you, you'll be fine." Mauhúr dismissed the conversation and his friend with, "Get some breakfast; you don't want to face death again on an empty stomach. And," he continued, "I've got your next mission for you. Find out how many bows we've still got, and what's our remaining supply of arrows."
Jaddain executed a jauntily casual salute and set off, while Mauhúr stood grimly praying that their stock of arrows was not too depleted for usefulness. He thought, We damn well ought to requisition better armaments—or make 'em for ourselves if the Wizard won't supply them to us. None of us should go up against these horse-bastards again without a full complement of bows, arrows and spears.
Mauhúr had been expecting a message from his father. It came while he was pacing around the oak tree, eating a piece of rye bread and flexing his sore shoulder. Uglúk's voice sounded in his mind, How did you do, Son? How many did you lose?
Not too badly, sir, he answered. We lost seven.
Uglúk agreed, Not bad. You're doing better than we are.
Mauhúr hesitated. Then he could not stop himself from asking, What happened, Father? What was going on up there?
I'm sorry, his father's thought answered bitterly. It's my fault.
As far as Mauhúr knew, it was the first time Uglúk had used those phrases.
Mauhúr could not take time to marvel. The angry thoughts were going on.
I let the filthy Halflings escape me. That pig-spawn Grishnákh's behind it, sure as shit. But I should never have let them out of my sight.
While Mauhúr asked himself helplessly what the hell Uglúk was talking about, the message continued. Heavy with anger and weariness, Uglúk's thoughts came to him, Listen, Son: keep your eyes open out there for two measly runts like half-grown Dwarves, with fur growing on their feet. If you find 'em, grab 'em and don't let go. But don't hurt them. The Wizard wants them delivered to him safe and sound.
Bewildered, Mauhúr thought back, Yes, sir. But—you don't want us to go searching for them now, do you? If we're to strike again to help you, we don't have time to waste. It's almost dawn.
I know, sighed his father's thoughts. I know. Not much chance of finding them. Sharkû's* going to have to catch himself his own damned Halflings, now.
Uglúk seemed to pull himself together, impatiently dismissing his failure. He asked, Are your boys in position?
Not yet, sir, Mauhúr answered.
Well, get 'em in position. It's nearly time. And this time, Uglúk added, we'll be ready. I promise you that.
Yes, sir. Mauhúr hesitated again, and then impulsively put in, And good luck to you.
He wondered if his father would berate him for that and deliver one of his standard lectures on how luck was meaningless compared with skill and intelligent strategy. But Uglúk only told him, Good luck to you, Son.
For a moment Mauhúr watched his troops, sat along the river's shore looking as calm and relaxed as if they were out for a picnic. Then he said in quiet-voiced command, "All right, lads, gather 'round. It's orders time."
Jaddain loped up to him while the others were drawing together. "How are we looking?" Mauhúr asked.
"It could be worse. We've got 16 bows. If we divide our arrows equally, we've got enough for about ten arrows per archer."
Ten, he thought. Yeah, it could be worse. But it sure as shit isn't good.
"Right," he said firmly, refusing to let disappointment sound in his voice. "Jad, go get Khadan and Boran; I sent them downriver a little to keep watch. Now," he went on, "you pups better listen up. We've got one last chance to help our fellows get out of this. There's just one goal for us: to get as many Uruk-Hai out of this mess alive as we can. No heroics today. Nobody better try to distinguish himself. If I see anyone disobey me on this, I'll distinguish him by lopping off his head."
The boys nodded solemnly, though they had to know he was almost certainly bluffing. He wasn't likely to kill one of their own. But the embarrassment of the other punishments he could mete out might make any Uruki warrior wish that he'd killed them.
"Here's the plan. We'll split into pairs. We've got enough bows to pair each archer with one other fighter. Except for me," he decided; "I'll take two archers with me."
At the edge of his vision he saw Jaddain, Khadan and Boran rejoining the rest of them. He went on laying out the battle plan.
"We'll sneak in closer before the horse-boys attack, if it looks like we can pull that off without being spotted. We won't go in for hand-to-hand, not unless the Riders come to us. The archers' job is to shoot down as many horsemen as you can until you run out of arrows. Do your damnedest to make each arrow count. Your partner's there to give you cover while you're firing. All you boys better hear this: we're not going to strike first. Leave it to the straw-heads to make the first move. Our goal is to distract them—and to kill as many as we can—right when they start their attack, to give our fellows up there on the hill a better chance of breaking through their line. You hear me on this, too: when you're out of arrows, or if your partner's killed, you can join forces with another pair if they're near you. Otherwise, get the bloody Valar-damned hell back into the trees. I want at least some of us getting home alive. It'll defeat the damned point of trying to rescue our elders, if we get all of their sons wiped out while we're at it."
He cast his gaze around at the lot of them. Somewhere far away in the pit of his stomach lurked nauseating dread. It surged forth at him for an instant as he wondered who, out of all of these kids, would still be living in one hour's time.
"You understand the orders?" Mauhúr demanded. With trusting and fearless faces, the boys nodded.
Mauhúr Son of Uglúk smiled at his lads. Again, as at the start of every battle, he locked his dread away deep inside him where it would do none of them any harm.
"Right," Mauhúr said. "Then let's do this."
It took little time to accomplish the tasks of grouping themselves into pairs and re-distributing their arrows. Mauhúr ordered two of their archers, "Khadan, Uli: you two are with me." They would make a good pair for him to work with. Khadan was experienced and reliable. He would help provide a steadying influence for Uli, the youngest member of their troop.
Once again the Uruki of the Five Villages made their way from under the eaves of Fangorn Forest. Again they crept through the grasses toward the dark bulk of the hill, and toward the Riders of Rohan.
Ahead, halfway up the slope of the knoll, the horsemen waited in silence. They no longer circled their prey. The Riders sat like grim statues atop their monstrous steeds, spears in their hands, motionless save for the occasional shifting or stamping of a horse.
Beyond the horsemen and their intended victims, the eastern sky gleamed red with the promise and menace of dawn. In black silhouette at the top of the knoll, Mauhúr could see shapes that might have been the ruins of some ancient fortress-tower, mighty blocks of weather-worn building stone honouring the remnants of former glory. But Mauhúr knew there were no remains of a hillfort on this knoll at the edge of the forest. Those dark shapes atop the hill were Uglúk and his fellow Fighting Uruk-Hai, standing shoulder to shoulder as they awaited the onslaught of their enemy.
Crawling toward the knoll through the grey sea of grass, Mauhúr could not help feeling that he and his lads were desperately exposed. He felt their advance could scarcely have been more noticeable if they'd been carrying torches and blowing their conch shells to signal their approach. But the horse-boys sat oblivious, backs resolutely turned to the eaves of the forest.
In his thoughts, Mauhúr snarled, Thought you scared us off, didn't you, boys? You thought we hot-footed it out of here with our tails between our legs. Well, you've got some surprises ahead of you. You golden-haired horse-lovers haven't yet won the day.
Like a vast eye of fire, the sun's arc arose above the margin of the world. Sudden gleams of light sparked on the Riders' spearpoints, helms and shirts of mail. Light shone on the swords of the Uruk-Hai, drawn and ready, waiting for the attack.
One of the Riders raised his hunting horn and blew a long, clear call. All around the deadly circle, horn after horn replied. The horns of the Rohirrim tore through the morning air.
In their mocking notes, Mauhúr imagined he heard words in that call. The enemy's horns sang with the promise of destruction, and he imagined their words: We are coming for you. Despair and die.
Author's Notes: Translations and a Discussion of Uruk-Hai Telepathy
Urukeen: Young, unmarried female Uruk. Equivalent of "girl" or "maiden."
Uruki: Young, unmarried male Uruk.
The adult males of the Five Villages each serve in one of three military companies. The main company of foot soldiers, commanded by Uglúk, is made up of the older/married Uruk-Hai, and consists of around 80 to 100 warriors. The Uruki company, commanded by Mauhúr, has around 40 members (from early teen years until they are promoted to the main company due to distinguishing themselves in battle). A third company, also consisting of around 40 warriors, is a cavalry troop of Warg Riders.
Rak: A strong liquor with some medicinal properties. This is the "Orc-draught" drunk by Pippin and Merry in the chapter "The Uruk-Hai" of The Two Towers, of which the two Hobbits do not think highly.
Sharkû: A nickname that the Uruk-Hai of Isengard use for Saruman. Tolkien tells us in a footnote to the chapter "The Scouring of the Shire" (Chapter Eight of The Return of the King) that the word sharkû, meaning "old man," is "Orkish in origin."
On the Use of Telepathy Among the Uruk-Hai:
In "The Uruk-Hai," Chapter Three of The Two Towers, Uglúk encourages his worried fellow warriors with the statement, "Mauhúr and his lads are in the forest, and they should turn up any time now." Studying that chapter, I was puzzled by the question of how Uglúk had acquired this piece of information. It didn't seem logical to me that Mauhúr and his lads (whoever all of them might be, since Tolkien never follows up with details of who they actually are) would perpetually be stationed in the forest. Yet it also didn't seem plausible that Uglúk and Mauhúr would have made arrangements ahead of time to rendezvous in Fangorn Forest, since Uglúk presumably couldn't know when he and his warriors might be likely to return from their mission, or what route they might take when they did return.
To me, the most plausible explanation seemed to be that Uglúk and Mauhúr had been in contact via telepathy. This led me to look into the question of what Tolkien says about telepathy in Middle Earth. There are a number of incidents in The Lord of the Rings which can be interpreted as telepathy in one sense or another. The one sequence I'm aware of which features extended conversation via telepathy is the scene of Galadriel, Elrond and Gandalf conversing without the use of speech in the chapter "Many Partings."
In his circa 1960 essay "Ósanwe Kenta," Tolkien discusses the use of ósanwe ("interchange of thoughts") and sanwe latya ("thought opening") among the incarnate beings of Middle Earth. He writes that affinity (due to kinship, love or friendship), urgency ("imparted by great need of the 'sender' … joy, grief, or fear") and authority (the relationship between a leader and his/her follower) can all contribute to greater ease of communication via the interchange of thoughts. Naturally, considering his generally dismissive attitude toward the Orcish peoples, Tolkien shows us no specific examples of telepathic communication between Orcs. But we know from the sequence of Galadriel, Elrond and Gandalf's conversation that it is a skill practiced by at least some Elves. Orcs are often said to be "ruined Elves." My interpretation, which I will develop in these chronicles, is that they are a mixed-race people, descended from Elves and from most or all of the other peoples of Middle Earth. With Orcs having Elvish ancestry, I see no reason why Tolkien's ósanwe should not be practiced by Orcs just as much as by any other incarnate beings of Middle Earth.
My Uglúk and Mauhúr, as father and son, have affinity, their situation has plenty of urgency, and they also have a leader and follower relationship: in other words, they have the three factors that Tolkien cites as increasing the ease of "thought opening" communication between individuals. It seemed to me a fairly easy leap to postulate that they, along with many other Orcs who have the same sorts of ties binding them, are capable of telepathic communication.