His heavy feet pounded the turf, the normally even rhythm ruined by the injured left leg. Eyes fixed on the horizon, he pressed on, the diminishing sounds of his brothers' tortured cries falling away behind him. His mouth was set grimly, hiding sharp, jagged teeth. A single thought filled his mind: Home.
Northward he thundered, pace never slackening. The bright sun burned the top of his head, no longer shielded by the helmet he had lost at some point of the battle. His sword had been broken in half, shoddily made that it was, when the horsemen had come out of the rising sun and rained death upon them. Against all odds, the Uruk-hai were defeated, the few survivors left to find their own manner of death, or the way home. Ashûk shuddered as he ran; he would not meet a victor's welcome in Isengard, but it would be better to face the wrath of his master than that of the trees.
A grove had sprung up in the night, standing between the army and escape. When victory was snatched from their clawed hands, they had thought to find refuge beneath the sheltering branches, but it was not a natural wood. Never once while in the valley of the Isen, had he heard tell of the snaga orcs being ripped limb from limb by the trees, yet he saw it with his own eyes. His left arm hung useless, clutched to his breast by his right, the nightmare memory of his narrow escape still vivid in his mind.
Many things had fallen apart that day, not the least of which was Ashûk's courage in the face of an enemy. It had not failed him when they stormed the breach in the wall; he kept a firm grip on it when the shara-hai burst from the keep in their wrath, mounted on their deadly horses, their horns blaring; he held his ground when the White Rider led reinforcements over the rise to break their lines and turn an orderly retreat into a rout. But when the trees came alive and tore them to pieces, trees that should not have even been there, much less be capable of grasping orc limbs and ripping them from their sockets, he fled.
He tried not to recall that his way to Isengard was blocked by a bloody great forest.
A small stream trickled across his path, and he slowed, dropping to his knees on its muddy bank and plunging his face in the cold water, drinking greedily. He did not know how far he had run, or for how long. The sun was still high in the sky, roasting the back of his neck and baking his body in the battered metal shell he wore. Drawing in great gulps of air, he tried to still his swiftly beating heart. He could hear no sounds of pursuit, detect no scent of men on the wind. Closing his eyes, Ashûk took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Now he could think.
On his own, the Uruk knew he could get back to Isengard faster than the army had marched away from there. But he was alone, with only a dirk for fighting if it came to that. The blade was made by the same smith who crafted his worthless sword, so his confidence in its effectiveness was not high. What he chiefly needed at this moment was cover; he stood out like a beacon on the open plains of this cursed land.
Rising with difficulty, for even such a brief respite had stiffened his leg, he continued on. A dark line between earth and sky ahead told him the forest was not far. While he was warier of the wood now, he needed to get out of this place, before the horsemen caught up to him. He did not fear death, but neither did he believe he should walk boldly up to it and spit in its eye. He was infantry, not berserker.
shara-hai - Men