"Dammit, Faalca! This is shit! I want you to go back."
"Ras, I'm really, really going to be sick if I don't get some cold air. And run about a little. And he isn't even looking at you. Least of all me."
"That's because he never looks at anyone. Don't know what he's thinking, can't even catch a scent of it. Even when he's in his cups."
"Well… they were soldiers, right? Warriors? At Isengard? Maybe he's just really, really disciplined. And even if he is unfriendly, that doesn't mean he's thinking about jumping you. Or me."
"Away from the cave? Away from the Durub's law? Who knows? I know the sharlob is a friend of yours but really, Faalca… You shouldn't have gotten involved. It's just not normal to meddle with another Orc—even a half-Orc's—mate and home."
"Well he picked her, but she didn't consent, so really they aren't mated. Not like us, not like Daumani and Urauk. And I don't know if she will consent."
"It's not our affair either way," Ras growled.
Faalca laughed lightly. "Oh, Ras, you need to relax a little. If you don't, however will you catch me?"
The tawny Orc's pale eyes lit up, and he growled, "Think I caught you up pretty good, Faalca."
"Did you? Are you sure?" Faalca reached over, lightning quick, and plucked a fistful of arrows from her mate's quiver. Then she turned and dashed up the tunnel, laughing in delight at her own speed, and the furious pounding of Ras's footsteps behind her.
Ushatar almost jumped out of his skin hearing Orcs running up behind him. He'd never liked anyone behind him, worse now after Dolpan. He jumped out of the way in time to see the sharlob's friend fly past, her fringed tunic and leggings streaming. A lean, hard-faced young Orc tore after her, and she skipped and spun as she ran, taunting him with a fistful of arrows.
"One of our huntresses," Aarth-Anghum said, a moment before he noticed the wildness in the Uruk's eyes. And was that fear? Very fine, very deeply hidden if it was, and the smith couldn't be sure. Of course, he knew that Ushatar's udalgazu had run away from him. There were no secrets among the clan. It wasn't unheard of—sometimes regular mates split up—but the baalak had bonded to the sharlob, and he'd be taking it hard behind his silent front. Ushatar also gave no sign he'd want to talk, no sign he was looking for advice, and so Aarth-Anghum had no way to broach the subject. But the smith wondered, did the baalak even have the ability to reach out? He knew what went on at Isengard, one of the smiths was an escapee who'd told him enough cruel stories. Whatever Ushatar was feeling, he'd guard it closely, coming from that hell. It was extremely rare for any Orc to seek advice from anyone but his sire or the Durub, unless regarding a trade. But the half-breed, Aarth-Anghum thought, was in many ways more of a baby than Urauk, for all his power and size. Aarth-Anghum sucked his teeth a little, thinking what troubles such a combination might lead to.
"I'm glad Daumani doesn't hunt," Urauk said, joining them. Aarth grinned despite his worries for Ushatar. After two days, that pairing at least seemed to be working out well, and the young Orc couldn't be prouder of his mate and his maturity. "I wouldn't be able to hunt, I'd be too busy watching out for her."
"I feel the same way, boy. Now," he said, turning the conversation away from the awkward subject, "There are deer nearby, sluggish in the dark, so that's a possibility for you Ushatar, you're pretty good with that bow. But I want to show you my traps, too. They come in handy when your shot goes to wide and scares the rest of the meat off."
"She likes venison," Ushatar said miserably.
"Oh, sure, who doesn't?" Aarth-Anghum said quickly. "But like I said, trapping is an important skill. And there is a skill to it, baalak. Rabbits and such are dumb as they come, but not so stupid they'll hop right into your snare. Then there's fishing, that's a nice quiet way to catch a meal, if you've a mind to just relax in open air. Faalca's made some good nets, but she prefers the sport of running down her game. Still, we'll ask Ras—if we can catch him—to show you some of her nets. Some are regular nets, some are hooked lines you put meat on to catch the bigger fish. Ras also hunts with a throwing stick, duck and quail and the like. He's been doing that since he was up to my knees, so don't think it's something you learn overnight. But you ask him, he's likely to give you a lesson or two."
Ushatar grunted noncommittally. He wasn't in the business of asking others for anything anymore. But he felt a little comfort around the smith who'd welcomed him into the clan, and if anything, he was happy around Urauk who seemed to know no sorrow at all, and posed no threat whatsoever. They stepped into the deep grey light of pre-dawn, and Ushatar felt a small thrill to be free, about to hunt for his own meat. Hunting, he was learning, gave him a rush much like battle, only cleaner. The Voice didn't break in, there was simply no connection for it to exploit. After all, Ushatar hadn't needed to hunt meat in Isengard. He'd been fed.
But to hunt, to run down game, without the twisting cloud of hate laid on him… To run on the wind, to sight game, to stalk it and defeat it with his wit and weapons made with his own hand, and remember it after… If there was one thing—other than her—that freedom stood for, then it would be hunting with Aarth-Anghum and Urauk. Faalca and Ras already off on their own mission, the two male Orcs and one baalak fell silent, and slipped into the rocky forest together.
"I want it to scar light," Daumani insisted, holding up a small, polished bronze mirror. Nemlii held up a larger mirror of precious silver behind Daumani, plunder from a raid Daghri'd gone on years before. Shari knelt behind Daumani, smoothing a clear salve onto the mark Urauk had left above her shoulder-blade.
Tara swallowed her revulsion diligently. "What about you?" she asked Nemlii. "You all marked up, too?"
Nemlii smiled gently. "Got my own scars, Tara. There was a fire. Daghri got me out. Was his own people raiding, you see, but the fire was out of control, not his people's doing, and we both got penned in. I knew the way out, but was afraid to go through the fire. Daghri carried me out. He'd been left for dead and my folk were dead, and I was burned the worst. He patched me up and we lived in the mountains for a while. See here," Nemlii said, twitching her skirt up to show raw burns along her legs. "Got them other places too, but not my face, thank Daghri. And not burned so much as I died from it, because of him as well. He had a cloak, he put the flames out. He carried me and ran through the fire."
Tara grit her jaw, trying not to show that Nemlii's story made her feel a thousand times worse. Daghri had been an enemy, but he'd saved Nemlii. It wouldn't count as saving if Daghri had lit the fire himself, thrown her in, danced around the fire in glee as she burned and then changed his mind.
"You want some too?" Shari asked Tara, climbing around Daumani to sit by the hearthfire. She held out a clay pot of minty-smelling ointment. "It's pretty late, but it will still help the healing."
Tara flushed, frozen for a moment. Stay calm, she told herself. It's not a bad idea, and it doesn't mean anything. Might as well try to heal the thing. She was upset, though, that her efforts to conceal had been so useless. "Sure," Tara said, pushing a smile.
Shari squatted before her, pursing her own very full lips into a smile. She was the most feminine of them, almost like Mela, completely preoccupied with mating and breeding.
"Still bright red," Shari murmured, brushing Tara's thick black hair behind her shoulder. She ran her fingers lightly over the raw scar. Tara shivered, remembering the hard, stinging pressure, the deep pulling that had sent spasms through her entire body, the feeling of his chin digging into her windpipe, squeezing her breath. The scar ringed just over her collarbone to just under the top of her shoulder, covering the entire hollow of her neck.
"Kind of a scary place to get marked," Daumani said, looking on. "If you didn't know, I mean…"
"I didn't know," Tara returned quietly. "Shari, why aren't you… mated?"
Shari shrugged. "There was someone a year or so back, but he died fighting with Men who attacked him when he was hunting. There are a few… hopefuls," she said with a sly grin, "but nothing firm yet. They don't really approach the female, but her family first. And my sire is pretty tough."
"But she's ready," Daumani laughed. "Has her trunk all filled up with supplies for her dar, clothes for her little ones. When someone does brave her sire, she'll land on his lap faster than he can spit."
Shari tilted her head, her loose braids of tough black hair hanging prettily. "That's not true, Daumani. I just won't be so scared, like you. Making little Urauk wait so long! What for? And see, it wasn't so bad after all, not if that glow in your eyes means anything. And your cheeks must hurt from grinning. Or is that gloating?"
Daumani took a swat at Shari, laughing.
"Urauk's a sweetie," Nemlii said. "Not a troublemaker like my boys, who take after their father in all ways. Don't have the patience it takes to carve good work, it's all hunting and wrestling and whatever else they won't tell me about. But here, enough talk about mates and babes," Nemlii said, her wise eyes on Tara. The Dwarf bustled to one of her many trunks and brought out some fresh skins as well as some old, scrapped dresses. "Tara needs more than one dress, and it wouldn't hurt to start on some swaddling for her little one. I've skins and some bone-beads, and knives and needles aplenty. What do you say we put our hands to work along with our mouths?"
Tara touched her heart a little, and mouthed an embarrassed thank you to Nemlii. The stout Dwarf woman grinned and winked back.
"I think the doe ran down here!" Urauk shouted, dashing through the ferns and tearing down a trail.
"Skai," Aarth-Anghum growled, picking up the pace again. "Trying to teach the boy… to make clean kills… If that doe don't drop… we'll not be able to get any more huntin'…in this morning. Damn, boy's got my old speed! Guess… age… catchin' up…"
"I got it," Ushatar offered, bursting from his comfortable lope to his full speed, near twice that of a Man's. It felt incredible to open up this way, stretching out his powerful body, chasing a scent down. It allowed him to forget his misery about his tarka, who seemed to be lost to him. Ushatar launched himself over logs, enjoying the feeling of branches lashing at him, the frigid wind rushing his face. He leaped over a gulch, savoring a brief moment of flight.
And then he heard Urauk's high, terrified scream. Suddenly the feelings of pleasure and freedom were replaced with dread urgency. Ushatar tore down the hillside, following Urauk's terrified scent. But a new smell intruded then, pungent and malicious and old, something Ushatar didn't recognize.
When he emerged in the clearing, Ushatar skidded to a stop, wondering if a piece of the cliffs surrounding the clearing had broken off and come to life. The troll stood twice Ushatar's height and many times his weight. Ushatar had never seen a creature bigger than himself before, unless it was an uncommonly huge Uruk, and his amber-green eyes were wide with amazement.
Then he saw that the troll dangled Urauk by one ankle, the young Orc flailing helplessly. The only thought in Ushatar's mind was how good Aarth-Anghum and Urauk had been to him, and how he didn't want the young Orc to die. The troll began to swing Urauk over his head, planning to smash Urauk on the side of the cliff.
Ushatar let out a vicious, bellowing roar and launched himself onto the troll's back, digging into the tough troll-hide with his sharp claws. The troll dropped Urauk, knocking him unconscious instantly. Ushatar reached for the knife at his belt but the troll grabbed him by his long hair and lifted him into the air. Kicking and swinging for the troll's hand, Ushatar was as helpless as Urauk had been before. Ushatar was used to striking terror into his opponents, but the troll's dumb dark eyes showed no fear at all, no recognition for a Fighting Uruk-hai, nothing but mindless fury. It flung Ushatar brutally into the cliff-side. Ushatar felt his body break as he hit the merciless rocks, and lights flashing before his eyes. Dazed on the ground, his head ringing painfully, Ushatar realized that the enormous troll was stomping right towards him.
Ushatar rolled away just as a mighty fist pounded the bit of earth Ushatar had just vacated, cratering it. Summoning all the strength he'd been bred to, Ushatar sprang up from the ground, only to be smacked down again by the troll's hard, huge hand. It's claws slashed across Ushatar's chest, and Ushatar hit the ground once more.
"Ai, filth! Over here!" Aarth Anghum shouted, shooting two arrows into the troll's back. Bellowing with rage, the troll spun around. It's slow eyes locked on Aarth-Anghum, and the Orc stumbled backwards as the troll charged.
I've only got one chance, Ushatar thought desperately. He forced himself up again, forced himself back into the mindset of Saruman's dark gift, where pain and weakness and fear couldn't touch him. Ushatar drew his biggest knife and charged the troll, flinging himself once more onto the troll's back. Gripping the troll with his powerful thighs, Ushatar used both hands to plunge his knife into the back of the troll's neck, breaking the blade off in the tough, bumpy grey hide.
The troll's roar died into a gurgle as its dark blood sprayed Ushatar in the face. The Uruk snarled viciously, mouth open, tongue out, taking the delicious spray all over his face and chest. He shook his head and roared in victory, then sprang off the troll and landed in a cat-like squat on the ground, his heart pounding, his blood racing, his mouth watering for ripped bloody flesh. Ushatar quivered at the release of his pent up darkness.
For a moment, Ushatar thought that incredibly, the troll would fight on. Then the sky broke, and the first rays of pale sun sliced through. The troll seized up, shaking its fist in agonized fury at the sky, and then toppled to the ground.
As soon as the threat was gone, pain and nausea rocked Ushatar. He staggered over to Urauk, shaking his ringing head hard in a desperate attempt to clear away the impending battle-haze that might have made him attack the very Orcs he had just saved.
Aarth-Anghum was hastily wrapping his son in his cloak, to keep the sun away from the youngling's dark skin. The Orc pulled his own wide hood up, then looked to Ushatar with deep gratitude. "You saved my boy."
"He's all right?" Ushatar asked urgently.
"Thanks to you, he will be. Got a lump on his head but no blood coming from anywhere. But you… you think you can make it?"
Ushatar took inventory of his hurt. His head pounded, like someone was sticking it with a knife, and there was darkness in the corners of his vision. His ribs were doubtlessly broken—he'd dealt with that before—but the worst was the sharp pinching in his back that sent cruel spasms down his right leg. His tunic front was slashed open and covered in blood.
"I'll make it," Ushatar said dismissively.
"Brodha'll take a good look at you when we get back," Aarth-Anghum said urgently. "We'd better hurry now. The sun burns us if we're out too long in it."
Aarth-Anghum lifted his son, and Ushatar tried not to limp walking alongside him. Anxiously, Ushatar said, "I don't need no one looking at me. I'm fine."
"This ain't Isengard, boy," Aarth-Anghum said, his voice rough with emotion for the big young baalak. "Here we take care of our hurt, we don't cut 'em up and eat 'em."
Ushatar grunted a little, nodding his head, though the terror of having his injuries exposed to others had him in a tight grip. But by the time they reached the entrance of the cave, Ushatar wasn't thinking about anything anymore. The pain in his body had overwhelmed him, and the darkness in his eyes closed in, and Ushatar fell to the cold, rocky floor.