Chapter 1: The Orc
For the Orc it was a calling. He was drawn by the dark power growing in Greenwood. Since the fall of the Dark Lord at the end of the First Age he had wandered without purpose, until he'd felt the pull of darkness here. His path had led him to the southernmost part of the Greenwood and it was here that he met the Sorcerer. At first a nameless being he'd felt compelled to serve in whatever way the Sorcerer deemed fit. Since those early days the woods had become increasingly dark, the power of his new master seeping into the trees and earth, creating a persistent gloom. A gloom which even the hateful rays of the sun dare not penetrate.
Ever since the beginning his duty had been the same; guard the river. At first it had just been him, keeping away any Elf, Man or Orc who happened to stray into this part of the forest. The Elves and Men he'd slain but the Orcs he'd spared to help him with his duty. And in this way he'd built a makeshift troop, to defend against the parties of Elves which were becoming more frequent. The Elves were looking for something, something his master wished to keep from them.
He sat astride his formidable Warg, awaiting the band of Elves the scouts had spotted. The anticipation of battle heightened his senses, made him feel more alive. Through the trees they slunk, the crafty Woodelves, seeking as always the unknown prize. As captain of his Master's troops it was the Orc's duty to stop them. He signalled his troops into position, and at the moment he signalled the charge, a silver arrow glanced off his armour. He commanded his Warg forward, she required no further encouragement from him, she felt the thrill of battle as he did. Among the dark trees the Orc swung his black blade, slicing through flesh, driving it into hearts and guts and faces, spilling much Elvish blood. Enlivening to feel the resistance as he buried his sword in the enemy, to hear their cries, to smell their fear, to taste their blood, to see their deaths. Beneath him, the Wargs fangs sunk bone-deep into Elvish warriors, who looked like nothing more than rag dolls between her jaws when she shook her great head.
Several Elves rushed them at once then. The Orc thrust his blade into the first, and into the second, but in the moment it took his Warg to drop her quarry a third managed to sink a sharp Elvish blade into his upper arm. The heat of battle held the pain at bay but the heat of battle could not repair the muscle damage. His Warg turned her head and clamped her powerful jaws around the wretched Elf's legs with a force so strong the Orc heard the bones shatter. It was music to both of them.
Despite his poorly functioning arm, the Orc battled on ruthlessly and in the end they managed to break the Elvish battle line and claim victory. Victory however was not without losses of their own. For many seasons now they had held the enemy at bay, but something was missing. They lacked whatever it took to drive the enemy off completely. They made plans, they followed them and they worked, but they needed something more, something to guide them that little bit further, something to make these decisive victories. The Orc dismounted the sleek Warg to survey the dead. The battlefield stunk of blood, both Elvish and Orkish, and his Warg trotted off to make the most of the fresh Elf meat. She tore through the garments of a dark-haired Elf, and ripped into his belly, making a hasty meal of his gizzards. A big, rusty-coloured Warg approached the carcass and the Orc's Warg growled at him, her hackles rising in warning. The bigger Warg backed off, it was a clever move the Orc appreciated, no Warg was quicker or fiercer than his.
With the Orc stood the Eagle brothers, the younger of whom owned the big rusty Warg. The brothers were brilliant warriors, made better because they fought for each other as well as the cause. From their hair hung the old feathers of the Great Eagle they had slain, it was a legendary feat among the troops and had pleased their Master greatly.
"Another victory," the elder brother said with subdued satisfaction.
"Hard won," the Orc replied, gripping his wound to stem the bleeding, "but yes, a victory."