Isengard, black and forbidding against a frigid white sky. Ushatar spat, then glanced at Baartazgur: he was spooked.
"I got one hundred archers on the walls, facing us," Ras said.
"And sentries in the crows nests every thirty feet, and barracks behind the wall. The grounds can muster twenty thousand."
"We didn't fight near that," Baartazgur said. "They don't got twenty thousand. But they might as well. So: how's we getting in?"
Ushatar scanned the mountains ringing the valley, every bit of them coming back to him so easily. This was his old intimate territory, his and Baartazgur's. He shifted his weight as Morulur turned west, looking down over his shoulder at his companions. "Follow me."
Even Ras was quiet now. They traveled slower, wary of the patrols that would surely be in and out of the fortress all day long. The scent of Men was thick on every icy wind. After a while, though, the scent changed slightly, and then thickened appreciably. Baartazgur began to worry: things weren't the same as in the old days. Loyalties had changed. But he was the sort of Uruk glad for a leader, like most, and so he followed silently, dashing over the frozen earth in Ushatar's wake.
Ras, on the other hand, ran his warg up beside Morulur. "Plan on crashing right into 'em, hey?"
"Just about," Ushatar called back. "Different sort of Men. These ones fought with us against their own in the War. But they won't know we passed until we're long gone."
But then something was wrong. Ushatar couldn't lose the scent. He realized with horror that unless the wind was magicked, the settlement had grown, encircling the entrance to the tunnel. Morulur stopped short just as Baartazgur, lungs bursting, skidded up alongside.
"Sir they ain't friendly as they was!" he gulped. "They've treated with Rohan and Gondor, and most keep to it!"
Momentarily thrown, Ushatar demanded, "They're forgiven, then? For doing all that we did?"
"Who knows what Men do or why? But what are we doing?"
"The stink burns my nose," Ras said, eyes hot. "Let's lessen it a bit."
"Easy!" Ushatar snapped. "Let me think now."
It was hideously frustrating, worse than that. There was also no choice. The obvious answer would be to creep through at night: Dunland settlements were often loose and open, because of the nomadic nature of the hunting tribes. But something about this seemed different, as the truly overpowering Mannish scent indicated. Recalling how Dunland had provisioned Isengard during the War, Ushatar wondered if they weren't doing the same now, if they hadn't created a massive trading camp to store and guard their caches of food and wares.
If that was the case, two Uruk-hai and an Orc trying to slip in under cover of darkness would be taken for raiders and dealt with right out, no questions asked. There'd certainly be some sort of defensive perimeter.
Ushatar rubbed a hand over his face. It was a shitty risk, a dreadful risk. All the same, Ushtar said, "Let's dismount, and approach now on foot. Leave the wargs in the deep woods, waiting."
Ras was confused, but he jumped down quickly, breathing hard and drawing his wicked notched sword.
Ushatar hit the ground, turning on Ras. "We didn't come to kill these Men, brother."
"Where's the good in that?" Ras sneered.
"I get my fucking girl back, that's what's good!" Ushatar growled, hot that Ras couldn't, or wouldn't, work it out himself. But he wasn't fully there anymore. Ushatar would never be able to take his eyes off the grieving Orc. Thankfully, Ras seemed to cool off, and Baartazgur had already pushed his sword back into its sheath. "Right," Ushatar said. "Let's do it."
They began to walk. Before a quarter of an hour had passed, Ushatar knew he'd been right. A high palisade of sharpened wooden stakes twice his height reared out of the forest, the defensive wall ringing land for miles around. Smoke from hundreds of fires puffed grey in the blue twilight.
The immediacy of a fight got Ras going again, lusting for Mannish blood, a vengeful thirst that would never slack, and that bitterly did nothing to help.
"Ras!" Ushatar hissed. The murder in Ushatar's eyes was enough to bring Ras back to sense again. I'll kill you, Ushatar thought, steaming. I'll kill you before you cost me Tara and Ilzin.
Horribly, before Ras dropped his head and hunched his shoulders in a token of submission, Ushatar thought he saw the Orc give a faint but desperate nod.
Ushatar went on, out into the open, taking minimal cover from the archers in a thin grove of white birch. In moments, the baying of hounds announced them, and Men began to shout. Ushatar took another look at Ras, and then then heavy wooden gate began to swing open.
Don't fucking die, Ushatar. Gharsh-il's old barked taunt played back at him, and Ushatar shifted his weight and tried not to draw his sword. A massive man with a thick red beard, a bear fur cloak, and bronze torques on his arms lead out a company of thirty Men, armed to the teeth with axes and spears and swords.
"Three tens to three," Baartazgur said with a grin. "Fucking insults these days, eh sir?"
"Shut up," Ushatar murmured gently, as if he didn't feel the sting. He didn't want to allow it, but he remembered how good it felt to move as one crushing wave with any number of Uruk-hai, all brilliantly focused on one goal, like so many well oiled cogs in a siege engine. It was impossible to copy that with Saalcaf's Orcs.
Miraculously, Ushatar's gamble panned out. Where Men of Gondor or Rohan would have rushed to the kill, these Dunlendings stopped at fifty paces. Red Beard called out, "What do you want here?"
"I want to pass through!" Ushatar shouted back immediately. "I've business on the other side, and I can't go around!"
A ripple of conversation passed through the Dunlendings, sounding harsh. Red Beard threw a hand up, and stony silence returned. "Then I'll speak with you alone!" the Mannish chief called, bolding striding forward in the snow.
Ushatar didn't hesitate, but matched the Man's pace, knowing that Ras would be quicker than breath with his short bow, was it needed. They met in the open clearing, sizing each other up. Red Beard was solid and heavily muscled, two immense shining battle axes crossed on his back and a fine sword on his hip. But he only regarded Ushatar with hard, cool confidence.
"You're either mad," Red Beard suggested, "Or spying for an Orcish raiding party."
"Quite mad," Ushatar fired back. "For sure."
Red Beard gave a hard, abrupt belly laugh. "Go on! Tell me why!"
Ushatar tried to swallow his snarl. "That's between me and your new friends in Isengard."
The chieftain stared hard, unyielding.
Ushatar let out his breath, and admitted, "They've got my girl and my little one."
Red Beard's expression shadowed, softened even. "Then they'll be dead already, old friend. Orc lasses don't live long amongst knights. I'm sorry, but you'd do best to go back where you came from, and keep your life."
"My life's my own to spend, Dunlending. And my girl is a woman of Gondor. If you would give me leave, I'd like to pass through. No trouble to your own, you've my word."
"A Mannish girl?" Red Beard asked. He seemed incredulous. "You stole her?"
"You steal yours?" Ushatar demanded. "She's of Gondor, not the tribes, and she'll be waiting for me, and so will my baby, who they'll surely kill as you said. So whatever you want to do with me, let's get it done. I've no more time to spare."
Red Beard sized Ushatar up again, and glanced over his friends as well. The silence was long and tense, and Ushatar's entire body hummed for battle.
"Put your hoods up," Red Beard said finally, "And keep your weapons as they are."
The walk in felt like slow motion. Ushatar had one eye on Ras and the other on the crowds of Men as they moved into the encampment, passing through a bustling late market. Many noticed and pointed, but no one challenged Red Beard for bringing them in. Ushatar and his companions found themselves entering a well-built circular stone hut. A fire roared in the hearth, the smoke rising out of a hole in the center of the thatched roof. Red Beard gestured to a sturdy oak table and chairs, then clapped his hands at his serving Man and called for food. As soon as the customary female servers were exchanged for burly Men, bread, cheese, and a succulent cut roast was laid out. The chieftain himself opened up a barrel of strong ale. "Refresh yourselves," he said, sitting down and beginning to eat.
Ushatar accepted this attention with keen interest, but he said quickly, "I've no time to feast."
Red Beard raised his thick bronze brows and said, "I've never yet met an Isengarder with a full belly!"
Baartazgur, eyes darting between the roast and the juices dripping over the Man's smacking lips, swallowed too loud.
"I've a different sort of appetite right now," Ushatar explained.
"And I'll be straight with you, Captain Uruk. You lead your warriors to senseless death."
Ras broke a growl; Ushatar's hand shot up, palm to the Orc, and his eyes froze Ras's throat. But he remained silent, wondering what the chieftain's point might be.
Red Beard considered the exchange he'd witnessed for a moment. Then he said, "Surely you know the place is new made and filled with Men of Gondor."
"That's my own problem," Ushatar replied. But he looked to Ras and Baartazgur, indicating the food with a nod. Baartazgur tore in. Ras wet his lips once with ale, then returned to staring fiercely at the polished table.
"Of course," Red Beard agreed. "But seeing as I'm mannerly enough to consider your passage-which could unhinge my whole fucking business here, if found out by my customers-I thought you'd maybe indulge my curiosity."
Ushatar himself took a deep drink, considering. "I might."
Red Beard was genuinely interested, shaking his head in disbelief as he asked, "What sort of female, of any race, could possibly warrant such a risk!? Some three thousands against three? Even for one gone mad!"
Ushatar went still. Beneath all of the focus the presence of Men and mission brought about, and all his mental preparation for battle that soothed his nerves, Tara's absence cranked tight his guts and made his body tingle uncomfortably. He couldn't truly breathe, knowing the danger she and Ilzin were in; he couldn't even think about the fact that she had every cause to leave him, especially now she had the choice and chance. Only moving towards her felt right. For a moment, Red Beard's question made a look cross Ushatar's face as if he'd been struck with a battering ram in his belly.
"She's just a little bit of girl," Ushatar said, in such a quiet voice that the chieftain leaned in to hear him beneath the sound of the other Uruk working over the board and well into the barrel. "But she's the whole world for me. Her hair... Black like the clearest night. Her eyes are steel and fire. She's... got more guts than the both of us," Ushatar assured Red Beard. The Man began to grin, and then to laugh, and Ushatar added pointedly, "She's got more heart than every swinging dick in this entire camp, I promise you. Scares me to death, she does. And I'd be glad to die for her, in a moment, because I cannot live without her."
Red Beard's laughter fell away, and he looked long and hard at Ushatar. Finally he called to his serving Man, a thick swarthy fellow who waited just outside. "Fetch me Sula!"
The Dunlending chief turned back to Ushatar. "If my cousin approves, I'll see if I can't help you fetch your woman back."
Ushatar shook his head quickly, full of mistrust. "You don't have to get involved."
"I know that," Red Beard said amicably.
"Then I don't want you to."
"I'm not trying to cross you, Isengarder. But you can't do this alone. Not even if you get under the wall and come up through the earth."
Ushatar's jaw unhinged in dismay to find Red Beard aware of the tunnel, but he was immediately drawn to the scent of a female approaching, one whose scent caught the instant attention of both half and full Orcs. They looked up in unison, disbelieving it.
"Ah! Cousin Sula!"
A statuesque woman with flaming red hair entered the hut, dipped head to toe in the thick musk of a male Uruk.
"Lovely evening, cousin Cormick!" Sula said merrily, glancing over Ushatar and company. "Interesting guests."
"Join us, dear one."
Sula dropped into a chair, ripped a piece of bread, and dipped it into the cup of ale the chieftain himself poured for her.
"Tell them about the tunnels under Isengard," Red Beard instructed.
"Fatal," Sula replied, popping a cube of cheese through her lips.
"This fellow here is planning on rescuing one of Gondor's women he calls his own."
"And my baby," Ushatar added gruffly, almost undone by shock. The scent was too strong on the woman, too deep in her skin. One of his kind had to be in the camp. But how, and why?
The flame-haired woman appraised him with nearly tragic dark eyes. "How'd you lose them?"
"It was a battle. Gondor snatched them while I was fighting."
"Oh dear," Sula murmured. "And you must have them back. But the entire pit was destroyed. Now much of the water's drained off, but what isn't flooded underground is surely full of the wreck."
"I'm going to try anyway," Ushatar said desperately.
"I know you have no time," Sula said, "but if my cousin wants to help you somehow, you should let him. He's a friend to your cause, Uruk-hai like yourself who love women. He took me and my mate in, once Gondor's little hunts started up. So, you've a baby now. Surely your woman was in Isengard as well?"
As well? Ushatar stared, unblinking.
"Well, I was in Isengard's service. Sold up by my own father. My mate was my third match, and a good one for once. We were lucky enough for him to have broken his arm at the Fords, and be down with me when the trees came in. We got out like a pair of drowned rats. Our son should be about your baby's age."
Ushatar couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe a bit. Was terrified that after all, his eyes were about to leak.
Cormick turned full on to Ushatar, but knew not to put a friendly hand on that thick, chain mail encased shoulder. "So: will you let us help try to get your family back?"
