Ushatar did not want these thousand Orcs to smell his terror. But he smelled them, their maleness, their rivalry and levels of dominance, and it make his knees weak.

"Come on, baalak," Aarth-Anghum said firmly. "Gotta meet the Durub if you wanna stay."

Ushatar put on his game face, hoping that the rest of his body would follow along. No one knew here what Dolpan had done. No one would denounce him as a loburz, not for what Dolpan had done, nor for his care for Tarka.

"OHHH…

Five hundred elves, five hundred trolls

And whatta we say to that?

To arms, boys! To arms!

Run 'em down and hunt 'em down

Till they never come a-back!

OHHHH…."

Ushatar entered the crystal hall and saw near a thousand Orcs banging mugs of hard akrum and ale against the table, a splashing singing mess. But amazingly, there was no fighting.

"Durub don't sit up on no throne like a Man or an Elf, just at the head of the table with his brothers. But believe me, his law will keep in the cave, for without it we've no chance to survive as free Orcs."

"OHHH!

Rangers say, No Orcs Be Here

And whatta we say to that?

To arms, boys, to arms,

Chase 'em down and hunt 'em down

Till they never come a-back!

OHHH…."

A young Orc bounded up to Aarth-Anghum, who smelled much the same. "Who's this?" the youngling asked, eyes wide as he looked up to Ushatar. Ushatar stiffened at the direct glance, and Aarth-Anghum smacked his whelp upside the head.

"This the one gonna put ye in the dirt, ye look at him like that. He's a baalak, half-Orc from Isengard."

"Wooow…" the youngling breathed. "Where's your sword? You fought the Power and got away?"

Ushatar cringed at the easy way the boy spoke of the Power, the Master of his Master. But he wasn't about to yet a youngling best him, and so Ushatar stiffened his spine and said, "My name is Ushatar. I left my sword in Isengard, because it was the one I swung for Him. I'll make a new sword now, and if it's all right with Aarth-Anghum, one day I'll show you what I can do with it."

"OHHHHHHH!

The Power rise up from the Shadow,

To turn Free Orcs to slaves!

To arms, boys, to arms!

We fight to death with our last free breath,

E'en if we never come a-back!"

"Ushatar, this is my youngest son Urauk. He's a good lad, a little dreamy, just picked out his mate but ain't set her up yet. Nice little Orcess named Daumani, I'm sure your mate will meet her soon. Urauk, not only is Ushatar a baalak, he's got a sharlob for his udalgurz."

Urauk looked dubious at this, wrinkling his pointy noise. "Why?"

"You don't ask why, stupid boy, not about another Orc's udalgurz. He don't even know why. It's just so, when you meet the one you're meant to pair for life with. But don't you be starin' at her when you go down to the dar, unless you'd like him staring at Daumani. Now get yourself back over there and finish your meat. We're off to see the Durub."

Udalgurz, Ushatar thought, smiling a little. Yes, that made sense. He knew that for the rest of his life, he would walk one step behind Tarka, unless he had to stand between her and danger.

"My sire will make you a new sword, Ushatar, he's the best at the forge. Then we can fight together!"

"Run along, boy!" Aarth-Anghum barked sternly.

Urauk skipped off, and Ushatar realized with sudden shock that the young Orc was years older than him. He didn't have long to consider it, though, for they now made their way to the long wooden tables, and the singing and boasting died, and all the Orcs looked up.

If he'd been around Uruk-hai, or even other Orcs, there would have been snarls and hisses and worse. Ushatar's size alone was a challenge to the more dominant among them. But though there were hissed whispers and flashing eyes, all of it came to a stop when a big, grey Orc with iron bars piercing through his ears and silver chains on his neck stood up from his meat and ale.

"Aarth-Anghum, who is this baalak in our home?"

"Took his freedom from Isengard with his mate Draagh Durub. Ghuribal sent him with his mark."

Draagh came around the table. He was a powerful Orc but barely half Ushatar's size, yet there was a fierce fire in his eyes, and such a strong scent to him, that Ushatar knew he'd have a hell of a fight with the Durub should it come to that. Would they want him to fight? Would have have to prove himself, as he did in his first moments of life at Isengard? Ushatar didn't want to fight tonight. He longed for simple acceptance, but he wasn't sure such a thing existed.

Draagh narrowed his hard stare, and then he nodded and said, "Welcome to our Sanctuary, free baalak. Come and sit beside me, and we shall have some talk with our meat."

Grateful, Ushatar followed behind, wondering if he was a fucking coward after all. Why did he not want to fight, really? Was he truly a bitch like Grashgar now?

"We keep law here, baalak," the Durub said. "And not all can abide it, so they go on, or they make trouble and they die. Know this from the beginning: I took my own brother's head off for breaking my peace, and I don't hesitate to do it again. Our laws are simple: no attacking other Orcs, no fucking around with another Orc's mate, and if battle comes, every Orc takes up arms against it, whatever it might be. I know of this Eye, I hear his whispers in my sleep, I feel the fear of my fellows enslaved in his service. He will try to come here one day, when he's beaten all the men and elves, and we are resolved to die in freedom. Will you stand with us?"

"With all my strength, sir."

The Durub's face suddenly became friendly, a bizzare transformation. "Good! Then dig in, eat from my plate, as a brother would. Tomorrow you will hunt for yourself, of course, but tonight you are my guest. And another thing: you don't have to sir me, I'm not your fuckin' sire, I just keep the peace."

Ushatar ducked his head into the small cave, still whirling from the Durub's welcome, and from the sight of so many Orcs. It would take a long time before he would feel comfortable around so many males, and longer still before he could jest and sing defiantly about the Power. For sure, it was a strange lot he'd taken up with. He'd had a feeling that the Durub wanted to pick his mind about the Master, and Isengard, but thankfully the talk had ended before that.

And then Ushatar grunted hard, like he was kicked in the gut.

His tarka lay asleep under a fresh blanket of mismatched furs. She was clean, something he hadn't smelled since he first took her. Her face was almost peaceful in repose. Her long hair, black as a crebain and scented with sweet chamomile, was strewn across the furs she lay on. His mark was clear on her naked throat.

Ushatar dropped to his knees, the relief pouring out of him that she was finally safe… and so beautiful.

Takehertakehertakeher, slam her, break her, own her…

Ushatar put his hands to his ears, shaking his head, biting his lip until hot blood spurted into his mouth, and pain clouded the Voice in his mind. But the longing wasn't from the Voice alone, the Voice just preyed on it, relentlessly, as if the wizard was cutting him where he was weakest. Ushatar stretched his hand out, his fingers shaking as they hovered over her cheek, over her throat.

Dammit, just show her, Ushatar thought, just prove to her you won't hurt her. He could do it, he thought of that… that horrifically beautiful last time… when he'd wept inside her… desperate for her comfort, desperately afraid of losing her. He'd loved her, though she didn't know it, and there was no fresh blood but his own on her pale thighs.

His trembling fingers brushed her cheek now, and she stirred. Ushatar's heart banged with desire, he needed her to open her eyes and see him, him, not the monster he'd been. See him, and then embrace him.

And then she woke, and her grey eyes were cloudy with exhaustion for one long moment. Ushatar lowered himself gently to lie beside her, his hand still shaking as it cupped her small, sharp cheek, his breath quivering, his need so strong it made him sick.

Light came into her grey eyes as sleep faded, and Ushatar hazarded as much of a smile as he could. But her eyes… they swelled with horror, pain, agony, flooded with tears, condemning him.

"I'm not… I'm not gonna hurt you…" he promised, suddenly feeling wrong, but so desperate.

Her eyes seemed accusatory now, and she shook her head slightly in his hand. Fear mixed with fury in the flickering light of the fire and Ushatar hung his head, whipped by it. His long braids brushed her neck, her chest. So close… He clenched a fist again, digging claws into flesh. He didn't know what to do. Maybe if he just did, and she didn't get hurt, maybe she'd soften to him…

But Ushatar knew this was no longer good enough. He wanted permission, he wanted welcome. He wanted to be held, for the first time in his life, and there would be no one else for the rest of his life—he knew it in his guts—who he'd ever let hold him, who he'd ever trust with his body. He wanted to smell her desire for him, not her hatred and terror. Gritting his jaw, shaking from the effort of self-denial, he brushed his lips over her brow and reeled away.

Take her! She's yours… the Voice purred, and the sudden sound of her sobbing echoed from his memories into the small, safe cave. Ushatar scrambled to the far side of the fire, his desire throbbing brutally, his heart breaking, the Voice giving him flashes and memories of rape and blood and dominance. Squatting with his back to her, he pressed his fists into his eyes until he could see no more of the Master's malice, or his own bloody memories. "S'okay, Tarka. I'll sleep here. You… you need anything… just… call for me."

She made no reply but a gasped cry, and Ushatar rocked, terrified that she would never call for him, and that he'd deserve it. It was the pain of a thousand swords, a million Dolpans, and worst of all, he had wrought this misery with his own hands.