No burning Orc draught was given, no bark of the willow, no opiates. Sûmatuga turned his red eyes to the sweetmeat and grimaced. Shifting to put his back to it, he fumbled the sticks with his good hand and the cloth strip with his teeth.

Every clumsy movement hurt, yet he was loathe to let the sweetmeat get close. They were not to be trusted, barely to be tolerated. But splinting his own arm was proving an impossible task.

Losing his patience, he turned and threw the sticks and cloth wrap at the sweetmeat. It cried out, startled, and cringed against the wall.

"Bind it!" he roared. The sweetmeat didn't move, except to shake with sobs and cover its head. Lurching awkwardly to his feet, he strode the few steps needed to reach its side and grabbed a fistful of hair. Hauling it up, Sûmatuga looked it over with disgust as it tried to both hide its body and release his grip. High-pitched whimpering came from its ever-moving lips in what he guessed must be its own tongue, for he knew it not.

Pushing it against the wall, he bent to retrieve the things he'd thrown at it and shoved them into its belly. The sweetmeat instinctively clasped them. Pointing to his swelling arm, he snarled slowly, "Bind... it."

Now the stupid meat seemed to get it, and hastily wrapped his arm with violently shaking hands. Like all of its kind, it stank of sweat and fear. It kept whispering, over and over again, the same words: "Yfeliane méc né, yfeliane méc né, yfeliane méc né."

He endured its mutterings long enough to have his arm bound, then he back-handed it into the cell wall. "Enough of your noise." He bared his teeth at it and snapped at the air, and it cowered. Snorting with satisfaction, he turned away and allowed a brief grunt of pain to escape. At least the sweetmeat bound it proper; likely didn't want to do it again. Not as stupid as he thought.

Sûmatuga's count told him two days had passed when he saw one of his clanmates dart down the tunnel. Hurrying to the bars, he bellowed to the Orc's back, "Run! Tell them! Tell them of us!" A handful of those stunted snaga ran after, and Sûmatuga's quick hands got hold of one, yanking it off its feet.

With swift violence, he hauled the squealing snaga closer, and proceeded to bang its head repeatedly against the bars. Though he favored his broken arm, his good one was more than strong enough to compensate. Even when the little fucker went limp and Sûmatuga's hands were warmed by its blood, he still rammed it into the door of his cell until its brains leaked out its ears. In a fury borne of his helplessness, he ripped the ears off and gouged out the eyes. He tore the flesh from its ugly, pulpy face, a mad grin upon his own. Roaring over his kill in triumph, he released the corpse to fall in a heap before his door.

"I am Sûmatuga! Blooded warrior of Shatûpshaatii!" he bellowed. "Hear me, brothers! Rise! Fight the white one and his slaves!" Up and down the tunnel, the sound of answering roars and rattling bars could be heard and Sûmatuga joined the clamor. With his good arm, for the injured one was only made worse by his attack on the snaga, he shook the bars and kicked them with his bare feet.

The upheaval only lasted a few more minutes. Suddenly, a harsh, cold wind blew through the tunnel, guttering the torches and shifting the corpse in front of Sûmatuga's cell a few feet. Shocked, the Orc took several steps back. His red eyes darted about in a panic. What strange magic was this?

Slow footsteps echoed in the silence that followed, and Sûmatuga found he was trembling. He dared a glance at the sweetmeat, as ever huddled in a tight ball, seemingly oblivious to all. Then the white one came into view, stopping to look at the broken snaga on the floor. His cold eyes turned to Sûmatuga.

"Unfortunate," the white one said. Without looking behind him, he gestured, and the Pitmaster stepped up with a leer. "See that he pays for the death of your kin, Pitmaster." Then the white one continued down the tunnel.

Breath coming faster and tensing to spring, Sûmatuga readied himself. The Pitmaster with the heavy whip always coiled at his hip unlocked the door and stepped inside. The Orc barked a challenge and leaped, but a flick of the Pitmaster's wrist blinded him.

Roaring in pain, Sûmatuga staggered back, digging at his befouled eyes with his knuckles. That same grit the Pitmaster put on whip weals must be what he threw into the Orc's eyes, for it burned like fire. He wasn't able to avoid the kick that jarred his kneecap and sent him to his knees.

"No kin'uh mine," the Pitmaster growled as he laid into the much larger Orc with wild abandon. "This is just orders, maggot. Nothin' personal."

The Pitmaster's words were no comfort, and certainly no deterrent. Sûmatuga lunged at the Pitmaster's knees, but his eyes were still clouded, and he couldn't see well enough to strike true. The whipping halted only long enough for the Pitmaster to step out of the way, then kick Sûmatuga in the face with all his strength. Toppled over in a daze, the Orc was more easily dealt with.

When he felt his master's punishment had been properly meted out, the Pitmaster spat on the groaning Orc and fished in a pouch at his side. He pulled out rags and a pot of salve and tossed them on the floor next to the female.

"See to'im," he growled. "Master wants his cock, so the rest of'im gotta keep on. One piece or many don't matter." Smirking at her, he added, "Killin'im ain't gonna spare yuh." Then he let himself out and locked the door behind him.

Sûmatuga stirred, slowly rolling over onto his hands and knees. He sucked in a sharp breath for his injured knee and broken arm, but clenched his jaw and lurched to his feet clumsily. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he staggered to the bars and tried to see down the tunnel, strained his hears to hear any sound of his clanmates.

There were defiant roars further away. The sound of the lash being applied. Ripping flesh and a gurgling cry. More whipping, dwindling in the distance.

He pressed his forehead against the bars and closed his eyes for a moment.

Turning away, he glared balefully at the sweetmeat. It was a smelly nuisance and he rarely paid it any mind. Sighing, he strode over and sat with his back to it, grabbed the salve and bandages, and reached back to push them into its arms. Then he waited, seething. Every breath was a menacing growl. When the sweetmeat hesitated, he barked over his shoulder at it. He was in no mood to be trifled with, least of all by a fucking sweetmeat.

He flinched with the first application of the salve, but only for its unexpected coolness. This was not the grit the Pitmaster used before. Probably because he could not enjoy the Orc's torment in person, Sûmatuga mused.

He didn't like this, being touched by a sweetmeat in the same way as a member of his clan. They saw to one another's hurts, binding the wounds too difficult to manage alone. It made his skin crawl now, and he only endured it for a few minutes before lurching to his feet and striding away.

Again, he went to the bars and watched, not really certain what it was that made him so uneasy. There was a hush in the tunnel, as of a held breath, not merely the silence of cowed prisoners.

The sound of marching feet echoed sharply down the hall, and Sûmatuga's breath quickened once more. He gripped the bars tightly and strained to hear and see. Before long, a troop of snaga appeared in full battle gear and wielding spears. Six halted before his door, yet warily stood against the opposite wall rather than get within striking distance of the Orc. Silence reigned once more as the soldiers took up their positions.

Then Sûmatuga heard the white one's voice, though he was further down the tunnel where the Orc couldn't see him.

"I grow weary of your pathetic defiance," he said, his voice silky smooth and deathly cold. "Though rations should be withheld because of your disobedience, some... choice flesh might convince you that continued resistance is futile. Sup well, Orcs. And remember this day."

The familiar sound of the meat cart rumbling down the hall came to Sûmatuga's ears, and his mouth watered reflexively. He strained to see where the cart was, so he might guess how long it would be before he was fed.

He shook himself angrily. Had he become no better than a beast in this place? Growling at himself, he nevertheless remained where he was, hopeful yet resentful.

A howling began at the far end of the tunnel. Sûmatuga recognized it as the deep-throated mourning thrum of his tribe. He was numb with dread as the snaga across from him moved closer with spears leveled. They drove him back as the wagon rattled to a halt outside.

The pustule-covered Goblin who regularly passed out rations leered at him as he fumbled the key in the lock. "Somethin' special for yuh," he squeaked in his oddly high voice. "Master's regards." Digging in the depths of the cart, he produced a rounded object and tossed it at Sûmatuga's feet. "Better eat it. Master says yuh don't get nothin' else til yuh do." Snickering, the snaga locked the door and moved on down the line.

He must have been the one who tried to escape, Sûmatuga realized as he looked down at the head on the floor. Slowly, he slid to his knees. "Matirz," he murmured, reaching out to put his hand on the forehead. They'd fought the Dwarves in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain together. Their whelps grew strong, Sûmatuga's son bonding to Matirz's daughter. He brought glory to the clan; many horsemen fell beneath his axe.

The snaga took trophies, leaving the head earless and toothless. Sûmatuga's head fell back and he joined the howling that had grown louder with each Orc visited by the wagon.

Yfeliane méc né = don't hurt me (loosely translated)