Corruption
Author's Note: The chapters are placeholders only, and are meant to flow into one another. Thus, it might be a good idea to read the last few lines of the previous chapter when going to read a new chapter. Also, I have all the chapters finished; I just need to upload the rest. You will NOT be left hanging.
Chapter 1: Central Fields Camp
Crack!
A man moaned in pain as a whip struck his naked back.
"Pick up the pace, dung-filth!" snarled a white-skinned orc. It sauntered down the line of slaves, gnashing its teeth together and making threats.
Huddled close to the crumbling soil was another man, whose youthful eyes still had many years to turn dull. His mother, Camilla, had named him Matthis. Lartzgàsh had named him Field Thrall C-5010, and the runes burnt into his chest proved it.
It was growing season on the plains of Núrn, in the shadowy land of Mordor. The sun's rays struggled to pierce through a thick layer of smog and volcanic ash, ever present due to the region's extensive industry and the eruptions of Mt. Doom. The slaves of Central Fields Camp, indicated by the "C" in their Field Thrall designations, worked tirelessly with small iron tools, planting seeds and covering the holes with soil. In several days, irrigation canals leading from the Sea of Núrnen would open, nourishing the crops with its tainted water. The slaves would cultivate their precious plants, and come harvest time, they would get to keep whatever food wasn't sent off to the Dark Lord Sauron's armies in the northwest. The orcs didn't bother properly distributing the extra food among the slaves; most lacked the mind for it, and if some slaves died from malnourishment, they could always get more.
After another day fearing the whip, the slaves returned their tools to the orcs (they were not trusted with them outside of work) and were herded through a massive gate dividing the fields from their thatched huts at the camp's eastern end. The orcs didn't provide this shelter to the Field Thralls. Instead, previous generations of slaves had constructed the huts using the sturdy plain grass. They had all died on these dry plains, in the confines of the camp. The huts, built in close proximity to one another in no particular pattern, were the only trace of their existence.
Once all the slaves had been gathered, about fifteen hundred in all, the orcs shut the gate to the fields and took up their guard posts. A rectangular wall made from the black igneous rock of the Gorgoroth plateau surrounded both the fields and the village, with the gate and its accompanying guardhouse dividing the two in the centre. Another gate was located at the western end of the camp, at the end of the fields. This was where harvested crops were picked up by transport convoys, and where new slaves were brought in.
Sentries wielding longbows and poisoned arrows manned watchtowers placed in regular intervals along the wall. The orcs on the night shift slept in the Guard Quarters north of the village. The orcs on the day shift were in small groups dotting the perimeter of the hut village. With most of the Dark Lord's forces participating directly in the war effort, the orcs didn't have enough strength to maintain the perimeter guard and patrol the camp itself. Thus, the slaves were free to mingle as they pleased.
Matthis knew most of the people living around his hut. The first- and second-generation slaves were mostly like him. They still had some futile hope left in them, and used their birth names when not in the presence of orcs.
Other slaves had lost their very sense of being. They had no name but their Field Thrall designation. They worked, ate and slept every day without the slightest thought.
Then, there was Fallothen. A Wood-Elf, he told his story to anyone who would listen: "When I lived among the elves of Mirkwood, my kindred, I spotted a silver elk in the forest, and could not bear to leave it be! I returned home with its great bulk upon my shoulders, proud as anything. But this race was considered sacred; one of their lords was the mount of my King, Thranduil. I was banished from Mirkwood forever! But perhaps it is for the best. I don't suppose I'd want to spend the rest of my immortal days among uptight folk like them!
"I settled in a village of South Gondor after much hardship on the road. But behold my fortune: a band of orcish slavers invaded from Mordor a few days after! I killed many with my bow, but the buggers nicked me with a poisoned arrow. When I awoke, the village was in flames, and the survivors were headed to the fields of Núrn! The orcs had given me the antidote while I was sleeping so I could still serve as a slave. 'The Eye greatly prizes elf-folk like your bloody self!' one said. 'You never die, so he can work you like a mule for the rest o' his days!' The filthy monsters!"
Fallothen confused Matthis greatly. Since she was his mother, Camilla (officially known as Field Thrall C-4185) told him stories about the elves. She knew these tales because she had been captured by orcish slavers along with his father, and had not been born in the camp, as he had. Her stories depicted the elves as wise, majestic, serious folk.
Fallothen, meanwhile, was a carefree sort, whose spirit had never been broken by the orcs. He called himself by name in front of them, and suffered great lashings for it. Some days, he outright refused to work, and the orcs beat him in response. He was always forming plans of escape, but no one dared to follow them. Matthis thought it was only a matter of time before the elf would be executed, immortal or not. He and Camilla had been the only two to offer Fallothen a place in their hut, as the other slaves were afraid of their name being linked to the elf's.
But Fallothen gave Matthis courage, especially in the face of an enemy deadlier than the orcs.
Some of the slaves were not of Matthis' sort, nor of the kind without a sense of self. Fallothen was their complete opposite.
These slaves had grown loyal to their orcish captors. As such, Lartzgàsh had rewarded them with absolute power over the other slaves. They operated the food stores and reported disloyal slaves. The orcs spared several guards to act as their personal thugs, beating any who resisted their rule and dragging the traitors they reported to the Guard Quarters to await Lartzgàsh's judgement.
Their ringleader was Field Thrall C-3701. He refused to call himself anything else, such was his devotion to Mordor. Many of the slaves, however, called him the Serpent. Grey-haired, he was one of the oldest slaves in Central Fields Camp, kept healthy and strong by the extra rations he allotted himself. Many a slave had been slaughtered or sent to mine in the Black Pits thanks to his corruption.
Rather than stopping at his own hut, Matthis made straight for the food hut. Thus, he was among the first there. As he approached, he listened with the other early-comers. The Serpent was speaking with one of his orcish guards.
"...made sure of it. He's coming in a couple days," stated the orc in its repulsive voice.
"You're sure?" demanded the Serpent. His voice carried authority, but there was a touch of honey to it as well. Many slaves had condemned themselves answering that honeyed voice's questions, and trusting its wisdom.
Matthis's father had been one of them.
"Positive. The boss is coming. And apparently, he's thirsty."
Matthis imagined the Serpent smirking. "I'm sure I'll have something to satiate him."
A sudden image appeared in Matthis's head. A massive scimitar was thrust clean through his father's kneeling body and slowly pulled out. The naked, broken man fell to the ground. The scimitar's owner brought the sword up to his dark lips. A dirty tongue licked the blood off the steel.
And then, his lips and fangs arranged themselves into a smile.
Matthis was shuddering and staring at the ground when one of the orcs came out from the hut.
"Oi!" exclaimed the orc. "Get yourselves in the hut! Or do you not want your supper?" The orc guffawed and returned inside the hut.
Matthis formed the head of a line in front of the Serpent and the other corrupted slaves. The Serpent sat on a large wooden chair. It was simple, but compared to the lack of furniture in the other slaves' huts, it seemed like a throne.
"Ah, Matthis," said the Serpent, smiling. "First to the meal, eh? Here, I'll throw in some extra. You're a growing boy, after all." He snapped his fingers. "An extra helping of beans for young Matthis, here!"
One of the corrupted slaves brought a piece of corn cob and a generous portion of beans to Matthis in a metal bowl. The young man knew he would not get another portion this size for quite a while - if at all.
"Thank you, Field Thrall C-3701," said Matthis, his eyes locking with those of the killer. Matthis injected as much venom as possible into his gaze, and beneath the Serpent's pleasant exterior, Matthis witnessed a flash of malice appear in his eyes.
Matthis left the hut, and the moment passed.