DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HOBBIT.
I apologize for the very late update. There were several reasons for it. (1) I was being a bit lazy because i had to plan alot for writing from Azog's point of view. It turned out to be both hard and easy at the same. (2) I had work. :) (3) I was hooked on the tv series Sherlock...so..i spent alot of time watching out both seasons. (4) I think i also went on vacation.
I also apologize for the short chapter. But i am now getting back into the groove of this fanfiction. So bear with me. More to come.
Azog flung himself into the small cave. He grunted a bit as his shoulder scrapped against the hard cold rock. A wave of stale sweat, reeking fecal matter and bad breath washed over him as the others piled in after him. He was pressed hard into the back of the cave. He jabbed the Orc in front of him with the point of his mother's knife. The Orc took the hint and stood his ground, not allowing the other in front of him to press him into the blade of the knife. It had been almost two weeks since the skirmish that had taken his mother's life. Azog swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked away the blur of tears from his eyes. He would not cry. He had promised her that while she died in his arms. Instead he mentally took hold of the gut wrenching grief and wound around his soul, forming the first of his internal armour. He would get stronger, he would take control, and he would become great. But first of all he needed to survive.
The movement of orc into the cave stopped and the silence was deafening as they listened for any sound of their pursuers. The Orcs that had attacked them had been running them down; playing with them. The Attacking Party would engage them in small skirmishes and then stay, eat the dead and captives while allowing Azog's group to gain a few days head start. Then the Attacking Party would repeat the process. Over the past two weeks there had been a dozen or so of these hunting skirmishes. It was almost as if Azog's group was like a pack of deer being leisurely pursued by a band of hunters. The rage, fear and humiliation boiled inside his chest. But he could do nothing but run, hide and fight. They themselves had resorted to eating their own for they had not been able to stop for food. Those who were not able to keep up with the brutal pace that the Chief had set, were killed and eaten on the run. Azog had grown accustomed to running with a blade in one hand and a body part in the other.
He tried to see to the front of the cave but his sight was blocked. Plus any slight movement caused a wave of stench to ripple through the cave. After what seemed like hours he heard a short screech while was the signal for all clear. The Orc flooded out of the cave and out into the twilight of the morning.
Azog inhaled and then snorted. The wind was cold. He looked around at the other Orcs, whose breath were misting lightly in the air. He looked up at the mountains on the right of them. He had no idea where they were but he had a feeling that this was not a place he wanted to be. A low shout called his attention and the group moved to congregate about the Chief. The Chief raised his hand and the group came to a stop. Azog felt the cold air waft around him like a blanket. He forced himself not to shiver.
"Those damn Orcs have been herding us," the Chief said and spat into the ground beside him, "We've been made to move north."
The silence that fell over the group was even worse than the one in the cave. That silence was a silence of expectation with a glimmer of hope. But this silence… this silence was fear and hopelessness. He looked confused at the stern faces of his fellow orcs.
"So we have a sort of choice here," the Chief said, "We can either turn west and head into Ardor. But we run the risk of being hunted out completely. Or we can keep heading North, following the mountains and head across the Forodwaith and into the Northern Waste. Continue heading along the mountains and find a passage back into Angmar or Rovanion."
The silence from before deepened. The Northern Waste. The name alone sent chills down his spine. He seized those chills and bound them like strands of steel into his soul. Another layer was weaved into his internal armor.
"Take a few seconds and choose," the Chief said, "I will head into the Northern Waste. I will not be hunted any longer."
Azog's mind was already made up before the others dared to venture forth an answer to the choice that lay before them. He looked at the faces of the other Orcs and knew that the group would split almost as certainly as he knew that those who would not follow them would die before the week was up. And split it did. The Chief made no announcement. He simply rose and began running again as if he had never given them a choice. Azog ran after him, listening to the sound of footsteps falling away from him and knowing that he would never see them again.
It took them a week of constant running to reach the edge of the Forodwaith. A plain of low hills was to the their left as the small group of 100 Orcs stood chilled with misting breaths at the last of the mountains that formed the Northern border of Angmar. The Chief stared for a long time across the Forodwaith then without warning continued his running. It took another four days before they crossed the Forodwaith and entered the Northern Waste.
Azog watched in awe and fascination at the glaring white land that lay before him. The light reflecting off the snow hurt his eyes even more than the sunlight. He grunted and flung his hand up to shield them. Every movement was accompanied by a gust of cold air about his limbs. Plus the snow had seeped into his boots and his feet felt like ice. The Chief led them at the base of the Mountains. The scouts that had been sent ahead shouted out to indicate that they had found caves to wait out till the night. Azog was feeling numb and hungry as they stumbled into the snow lined caves. Further to the back the snow thinned out and became normal rock. But it was still icy cold to the touch. Fires were made and stored away limbs were taken out for food.
As Azog chewed on his leg, his eyes were fixed on the glare of the snow from the mouth of the cave. The Northern Waste; the home of ice and frost and the famed land of the Ice Drakes. Azog felt a smile cross his pale face. He felt in a way that this land was his; pale, cold and deadly like himself. He felt that in that land, somehow and in some way, he would begin to truly find himself.