CHAPTER I
In Which
An Orc of Mordor Falls To a Spear of Rohan, and Two Small Halflings Make Their Escape.
When Grishnákh, pressing down upon the two Halflings in the grass, drew his sword it was not to slay them, for that would have been to forfeit all.
Men in the dark! Filthy horse boys, stinking of the beasts they rode. They will not take the little ones, he thought, and there was no tenderness in his mind. The Halflings were only dear to him for what they knew, and what it might be that they carried. It was as that great ape Uglúk said: alive and unspoiled, and those orders the same for both of them, for all that they served different Masters.
But his sword betrayed him as it cleared its scabbard with a glinting snik; there was a whistling sound close by, and then—
In the bowels of Lugbúrz, where the clang of steel and the shrieking machinery drowned out the screams of Men and Orcs, where Grishnákh had plied his trade as a torturer with rack and screw, with hammer and tongs and with long knives, the blood on his hands was never his. He was not prepared for this fierce white pain.
An Arrow. In His Hand.
He dropped the sword and screamed.
One of the riders turned his head to see a dark shape leap out of the grass: with a powerful movement he urged his horse around and gave pursuit, and when he leveled his spear his aim was beautiful and true, passing through the Orc's body. It fell and the man rode on.
A second horseman rode on hard behind his fellow. His horse cleared the two small hobbits lying low in the grass, but it did not miss Grishnákh. A hard hoof came down with smashing force on the Orc's elbow, shattering his long arm. By now he was not feeling much at all, incoherent agony giving way to the numbing effects of shock as his body shut down part of his brain, tried to spare him the worst of it.
So I've failed, he thought, and the thought was emotionless, with no compelling, familiar fuel of fury or hatred or dread. How strange that he should recognize these emotions only in their absence. His senses left him one by one as he drifted…
-.-.-.-
"…if only we had our legs and hands free, we might get away. But I can't touch the knots—"
What is that squeaking voice? thought Grishnákh absently. One of the Halfling filth. Then they were still alive…
"No need to try. I was going to tell you: I've managed to free my hands. These loops are only left for show."
Was that the way of it? These creatures might not seem terribly intelligent or strong, but they were clearly more resourceful than they had looked. If Grishnákh had been in better condition he might have roused himself, tried to reclaim or recapture them, but he seemed to have little control over either his body or even his own will. And so he could only lie there listening.
The two little hobbits were still sitting close by in the dark and were evidently eating some sort of food that one of them had kept concealed about its person. After a time the livelier of the two crawled forward in the grass and Grishnákh could sense it feeling about his prone body. Cunning hands found and slipped out the knife he wore belted at his hip. If it felt that he still lived it gave no sign: surely if it had it would have killed him where he lay, but most likely it could not detect the faint movement of his breathing through his heavy leather clothing. In the darkness it cut through the last of its own bindings and those of its friend, and after that Grishnákh heard them little, and then not at all.
-.-.-.-
Disclaimer: Tolkien's works, characters and concepts are copyright J.R.R. Tolkien. Milne's works, characters and concepts are copyright A.A. Milne.
Fangorn Wood and all original characters therein are copyright The Lauderdale (cartoon6 at hotmail dot com). "Chapter I" published December 4, 2014 with acknowledged elements from Tolkien's The Two Towers, "The Uruk-hai," and last edited December 19, 2014.
Although there will be intense scenes and some fairly Orkish language, this story should remain a T.
