"I am not content," Lord Captain Bergemond mused grimly, fixating on a map of Middle Earth, centered around the reclaimed tower of Orthanc. "Examine here, Corporal, the villages attacked, and the dates."

Bergemond took up a quill and dipped it in ink as black as Orc blood, and sliced a curving line through the scattering of villages, an area some two hundred and forty miles long, then cast his hard grey eyes around the table to his subordinates. "All survivors say the same thing: this was no large army. We hear one hundred, one hundred fifty as the high count, and two dozen as the lowest. We may assume somewhere in between."

"So, more survivors, making their way northwest?"

Bergemond tightened his thin lips in thought. "This was no mindless attack. Indeed, we do not even see blood-lust, though there have been many deaths. We ought to look for locals, perhaps those who remained behind when the Enemy called. Yes, I suspect they are local raiders. Think, in comparison: a well run street gang, from the slum quarter of Osgiliath."

The young Corporal flinched a little, thinking of the loss.

"These goblins, these Orcs, are making systematic chaos on the people of Rohan for plunder—and likely we would see some attacks on the Men of the Wood who have sued us for peace, if they reported them. If you look at the pattern of villages attacked, you begin to see a clear arc, a crescent if you will. The question is, where do these paths radiate from? Somewhere in here—" Bergemond thrust the quill in again, tapped off the splashing black drips, and drew a hard circle over the southern half of the Misty Mountains, "—is their nest, where they bring their spoils and multiply in the darkness. Now, the Orcs who lived in these mountains not terribly long ago were annihilated in battle, but there are always some survivors. We also have a community in Mount Gram, but most of those answered Sauron's Call, the same for many in the Ettenmoors. Both groups had been seen moving south in the Mountains in days past, and could have colonized. Those Orcs were bigger. We will start with the assumption that these are the survivors and descendants of the Battle of Five Armies—thus would travel twenty to thirty miles in a night—and work our way out for Greater Orcs."

"What shall we do when we find them, sir?"

Beregemond tossed the quill like a knife, point down into the pool of ink. "We eradicate them and move on to the next lot, Lord Darian. Quite simple."

Ushatar—fist in mouth—bit his forefinger. He couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't trust himself. Now he knew why he'd been able to restrain himself around Tara for so long: she'd been pregnant and the dual scents of her and the baby had soothed him to a point he could ignore his insane need to possess her always.

Now that she was not pregnant, Ushatar's cock seemed to be convinced that she should be that way again, as quickly as possible. Just a few days ago, he'd caught the subtle change in her scent indicating she was about to be ripe and fertile. He was relieved that he'd stopped sleeping in her cave—at Tara's insistence as her body shrank and her blood dried up—because he didn't trust himself anywhere near Tara lying down.

Ushatar spent the afternoon setting up his dar, honored to have a place near Saalcaf. Though he was frustrated and hopeless, in despair of ever mating again, and a little unnerved to have his daughter sleeping away from him, Ushatar was determined to have the little one in comfort whenever Tara allowed it.

They had named the beautiful Uruk-hai child Ilzin, after the cold, polar star. Ushatar had been surprised and pleased when Tara was adamant about finding a name in Black Speech. She wanted him to speak his own tongue to Ilzin; she hinted that she wanted to learn, from him, not from Faalca or Brodha.

And maybe, if his cock wouldn't smack him in the belly every time she got too close, he might get around to teaching her... Ushatar sighed and dropped the heavy wooden trunk into the small pit he'd dug out. He'd done well with Saalcaf and the Brotherhood. His trunk was full of copper coins and bracelets, nothing elaborate, but the horse-breeders were a prosperous people and even the simple villages had wealth. Shiny things didn't mean shit to Ushatar, but he knew enough about the world to think that Tara and Ilzin should have a treasury.

"Ushatar! You in there?"

"Be right there, Angha!" Ushatar put the wooden planks back into place and lay down the thick bear-fur rug. He stood with his hands on his hips and examined his dar. It was a sanctuary of comfort. The only bit of bare earth was around the hearth, and the path leading to it from the entranceway. The rest of the floor was covered in rich, warm furs for Ilzin to crawl on. His scraped hides hung from the tent walls, insulating the dar, but also displaying his two largest drawings: the view from the promontory, and a full portrait of a wolf that Ushatar had come across while hunting in the forest. Aside from the drawing of Tara, kept in his trunk, Ushatar thought the wolf was by far his best work yet.

He had a good set of carved ivory cups, and two red silks, and some jewelry for Tara including a precious silver torque bracelet with horseheads on the ends; all of that he hid. He had a feeling that Tara knew he went on raids, but he was afraid she'd pull away from him when she learned he'd been attacking villages of Men. That would have to be shared later, if ever.

And painfully, Ushatar doubted if later would ever come. She let him close—sometimes holding his hand while playing with Ilzin, sometimes leaning her head on his shoulder—and she laughed openly; she even nursed her baby beside him, albeit covered up by her clothes. But then—for no reason at all, and usually when she seemed happiest—she'd turn cold and run away from him. Maybe he was to be punished forever for taking her. When that thought was too bitter, he remembered what Brodha said: Tara had scars, he'd torn her up, and if she never allowed him to mate with her again it was only what he deserved.

But even if he deserved it, it still felt like fucking death.

Ushatar stepped out of his dar. He noted Aarth Anghum's alarm immediately. "Trouble?"

"I don't know. Five hunters went out this morning and didn't return. There can be avalanches this time of year, hungry wargs—who we no longer ally with—coming down from the interior, all types of new dangers in winter. Twilight's coming, I thought I'd take a look around for our kin."

"I'll join you," Ushatar said quickly. "I'll take my spears, too, fucking wargs. Can't stand them."

"I'm sure it's nothing," Aarth-Anghum said. "You know as well as I that sometimes you can chase game a little too far from home, and then the sun gets strong, so Orcs will hunker down in the shade until the sun weakens enough to be safe. All the same, they could need our help."

Tara loved the Orcish baby-slings. Made from skins—usually doeskin—and worked lovingly until near as soft and supple as linen, Tara could hold Ilzin to her chest and with her gown discretely unlaced, the baby could nurse as she needed. Or if Tara had to work-ever so grateful she was to be herself again, and strong-sharing large tasks like butchering meat, scraping hides, or even making clothes, then she could position Ilzin on her back and the baby would be lulled to sleep by Tara's motion.

Ilzin had taught Tara beyond all doubts what love was. She could laugh now at herself, scorning babies since she was one herself, mocking the girls who seemed to live for nothing else but the day they got pregnant. Her love for Ilzin had no depth and no limits. She loved her more perhaps for being unique: not only Uruk-hai, but female. Tara wept the night Ushatar told her what would have happened to Ilzin had they not left. Having no use for females, Ushatar's old Master would have disposed of her as soon as her gender was known. Tara was all the more fiercely protective of the baby after that… if that was even possible.

Ilzin was much bigger already than the Orc babies of the same age. She was even bigger than Brogud, and at two moons she was up on hands and knees, rocking back and forth and cooing, eager to crawl. She was brighter for certain than a Man's child: her alert eyes followed the smallest motion, and already her lips curved into a small open-mouthed smile, as if she was laughing at the same time. When Ushatar picked her up she squealed, so that Tara could believe she was delighted. She made the same little rumbles and purrs as Ushatar did, though without any depth or danger, and Tara studied her hard, learning much about both dag and sire.

Tara loved to bring Ilzin to play with Brogud. Both babies were extremely different than human babies would be, already recognizing each other, already encouraging each other to move about and try to get close. Faalca predicted they would wrestle with they finally did crawl to each other. She also said Ilzin had dreamy eyes, and Tara too noticed that the baby spent a long while staring at things, delighting in their form. Tara had smiled to herself, a secret smile, and thought, she gets that from her father. Tara hoped Ushatar would put his charcoal in Ilzin's little hands in years to come, to see what the Uruk girl would draw.

"Faalca!" Tara called, walking up on Faalca and Ras's dar. Tara knew that Ras would be in the smithy, as most of the warrior Orcs did what Tara could only call apprenticeships with the master smiths like Aarth-Anghum. Ushatar went as well, and had made some decent knives.

"Come in, Tara!" Faalca called, a hurried note to her voice. Going into Faalca's comfortable dar, Tara widened her eyes. Brogud was nowhere to be found, and Faalca was slipping a leather gauntlet onto her arm. She had her bow and quiver on her back, and a warm leather coat lined with rabbit fur, and her long braids were knotted at the nape of her smooth dark neck. Faalca met Tara's eyes as she buckled the last strap. "I have to get out for a while, Tara. I can't stay pent up in here anymore. I need to run."

"Where's the baby? What about Ras?"

Faalca shrugged roughly. "Brogud's with my sister, she's nursing now and will feed him if he hungers. Ras doesn't want me to go, but he has no good reason for it. He should know better by now, then to tell me where and when to hunt!"

"Faalca, no." Tara shook her head, grimacing a little at the idea. "I've been attacked within an hour's walk of here. No one should go out alone, especially a female."

"I know these mountains like the lines on my palms, Tara! And I know everything in them, and straight truth, my senses are a whole lot stronger than yours. I've shot a warg down before, and stroked one that I met watering at the stream. You don't have to worry about me."

Ilzin, peering out of Tara's sling, squealed quietly when Faalca stood up.

"Just wait for Ras, Faalca? He won't be long!"

Faalca grinned. "I'll be back soon, stop fussing!"

Tara shook her head. "You're too damn stubborn, Faalca," she said, but her friend dashed away.

Ushatar growled with deep, gut anger. Someone had made a line, as long as perhaps ten of Ushatar lying down, on one side of the rushing mountain tributary. They had stuck spears in the ground along the line; on those spears, the heads of the five clan hunters. Their bodies lay in the river, half eaten by scavengers, their blood carried away by the crashing whitewater.

"Horses," Aarth-Anghum said quietly.

"Men of Rohan?" Ushatar hissed

"Most likely. Though—There is the new tark Durub," Aarth-Anghum said quietly. "We'd better run back, tell the others."

"What about them!?" Ushatar demanded wildly. "We can't just leave them! That's what my Master did, that's not our way!"

"Ushatar…" Aarth-Anghum, wise in his advanced years, murmured sickly, "If Men are hunting Orcs here, the clan must know right away. Before anyone else goes out unaware. That is most important."

Ushatar and Aarth-Anghum ran into the cavern so fast they still puffed icy breaths into the warm, smoky air. They dashed toward's Saalcaf's dar, and filled him in quickly.

"Call a meeting to the upper hall," Saalcaf ordered, his face grim. "No—display—like this has been shown from Men since the last great battle, when our kind fought Elves and Men, and the wizard who commanded the Eagles."

Ushatar growled low, low in his throat, thinking of wizards.

"May be they want battle again," Aarth-Anghum warned.

Saalfac curled his lips contemptuously, angrily, and bereaved for his clansmen. "Then let them come. We will face any threat, and live or die on our feet, never our knees!"

Suddenly a mad howl echoed from the entrance to the cavern. Someone was roaring, screaming, and soon Ushatar saw what it was.

Ras, wild with fury and grief, held Faalca in his arms, but for a moment Ushatar didn't understand how he held her so bent up.

Then it came to him in hideous understanding.

The Men had cut Ras's mate into pieces.