"This way, Ushatar."

He didn't like this: another tunnel, being led by Cormick and followed by two Men. Ras and Baartazgur could be dead. Yet the female's scent couldn't be faked... unless, he thought sickly, it was magic of some sort.

Cormick stopped before an oaken door, barring the rock-hewn path.

"Mind the torch," a black-haired warrior said, hand out expectantly.

"The torch," Ushatar repeated.

Cormick looked over his shoulder, grinning savagely. "The beast likes it. He'll attack you for it."

"Beast," Ushatar murmured, palming the hilt of his sword. "Don't hold me accountable if I don't like his looks."

A low rumble of Mannish laughter filled the cold, tight air around Ushatar's ears. He growled a sigh, and passed the torch off. Cormick rattled keyes, turned five Isengard made locks, and swung the door into blackness. The Mannish chief set his own torch in an iron cage pounded into the raw stone wall. When Ushatar stepped in, he only saw barrels at first. Then, a curious metal casket, long enough for a Man. Maybe the beast was locked inside.

Cormick spoke. "Did you lay seige to Rohan's mountain fortress with your bretheren, the battle that most of your kind perished in?"

"No. I'd left already."

Ushatar felt like a deserter, saying this. But he wondered if the Dunlending chief knew what it was about to sleep with his eyes open from the day he was born, or to stand in his own filth for half a moon's cycle while his brother warriors taunted him about fucking and eating his woman. But thinking now, Ushatar didn't want to blame the other Uruk-hai for what they'd done, anymore than he wanted to be known only for what he'd done as a slave in Saruman's hell-house. Ushatar looked for signs that the beast was waking; finding none, he met Cormick's dark eyes and explained, "I couldn't bear a Master. Especially such a one."

Cormick grunted, nodding his head faintly. "I can understand that. I killed the chief of this tribe as soon as the War was finished, and built this trading villiage up as it should be. Not so long later, the wizard himself passed through these parts, his dog Grima with him. The Great Lord Saruman was brought very low, and in his meanness, he made an enemy of Grima with his petty cruelty. So Grima betrayed him."

Cormick strode to one of his barrels, using a bright steel dagger to pry the top off. Looked down on whatever was within absolutely lovingly. "Grima had no use for treasure, but he liked women. I knew one willing, and made him a little trade. It's never a shame to take advantage of a wicked fool. If what he gave me turned out to be just rocks and a paper full of nonsense, I lost nothing. But Grima proved true."

Cormick produced a handfull of fine black gravel. Ushatar watched it sift and fall through Cormick's thick pale fingers. Ushatar's heart beat faster: he might have preferred a beast.

"Grima sold you a spell," Ushatar said, voice flat. A fine sweat broke out under Ushatar's silver mail, stolen from Bergemond's dead body and reworked by Aarth-Anghum.

Cormick nodded. Ushatar had seen the same grin on Uruks about to tear into flesh. "Magic, yes. But I know its secrets now."

"And how will this magic help me?" Ushatar asked. This was Cormick's prize possession, obviously. So why would he ever show it to Ushatar?

Cormick dropped the lid on the barrel. Went to the cask, and knelt before it to unlock it. Within, roughly smelted balls of thin iron, each with a length of thin rope sticking out. Cormick stook one up in his hand, and offered it to Ushatar. Ushatar took it instantly, palming it, weighing it, his fingers learning all its curves and making.

"These are all packed with the black powder, and bits of steel, and small nails. You touch the string with fire, and throw it at your enemy, and it bursts in a great ball of fire and death." Cormick's smile was fierce, and his eyes were cold yet full of wonderous plans.

Ushatar breathed hard, imagining the military potential. Countless enemies down in one strike, with no risk to the soldier's own person... No one-no army-in Middle Earth could even imagine such a device, let alone conjure it, and master it.

Except Saruman, and now Cormick.

Ushatar swallowed, mouth dry like sand. But he was no fool to be seduced like Grima. In fact, he rarely trusted at all. "You want me to carry this weapon against Gondor. Myself, with only two other swords. You want to see how they'll react. And what form their fury will take against the one who uses the device against them."

If Cormick had hestitated or tried to lie, Ushatar would have hated him. But Cormick had fought with Uruks, and he knew they had preternatural senses. He shrugged. "I know what they'd do to you, or me, but all the same I'd like my weapon tested in battle. As of now, I've no excuse for making war on anyone. But there's more than one way to use the powder, Ushatar. I can blow up one of our feed carts- moldy hay can explode, you know, giving me deniability-and when that draws off the fort's attention, you'll be better off slipping up. I can give you several of these beauties, and if you're any good at all, you won't leave a witness. Just carnage, which won't be understood. Or maybe you don't need anything more than your sword. There won't be many in the Tower, it's inconvienient as a barrack."

If she's not in the Tower, Ushatar thought, it's hopeless. But whatever Cormick's intentions, his devices made Ushatar's chances far better. "All right. Will your beast weapon destroy the tunnel on my way out, if I'm followed?"

"Without a doubt. Throw two, to be sure."


Ushatar hated the idea immediately. Sula was to put them up for the night. But if her mate felt anything like he himself did, the unknown Uruk would resent them around his family at best. At worst, it was a recipe for violence. And at the same time, Ushatar was curious about the couple, especially the Uruk. Ushatar had never thought there were others like himself: not only to have become infatuated with a Mannish female, but to build a life with her.

Sula's Uruk was outside their wattle and daub hut, splitting firewood in the early evening flurries. He looked up expectantly when they came. He was clothed as a Man of Dunland, a hide kilt with furs over his torso. His hair hung all the way down his back, classic Uruk-hai.

In a wooden cradle hanging vertically on a tripod, an Uruk baby, sleeping easily within his sire's sight. Ushatar swallowed hard, guts twisting again. Sula's mate lowered his axe, rested the iron half in the snow, and watched Ushatar steadily.

"My mate," Sula said, "Shaatasi."

It was a common name, meaning troublemaker. But this Uruk had a calm, capable air about him, and the posture of one of Saruman's officers; of course, Ushatar had been a rare private allowed to breed in Isengard's pits. Ushatar gave a bob of his head in greeting, offering his name and the names of his companions.

"Come inside for meat," Shaatasi said. Ushatar followed him, while Sula lifted her baby in his cradleboard from the wooden tripod. Shaatasi's hut was warm and inviting. He'd layered the floor with furs like an Orcish dar, omitting the central hearth. Over the hearth an iron pot bubbled, throwing off the scent of rabbit stew. Shaatasi gestured to the floor, and they sat. Ras was obviously relieved to be out of the company of Men; but unfortunately, Ushatar now had to watch Baartazgur, who was astounded to be in the presence of his second Mannish female not screaming and running away. And of course, this set Shaatasi on edge. Could Cormick have known what a dangerous situation he'd thrown Ushatar into?

It was Sula who soothed everyone. She gave the baby to Shaatasi, who doted, and then served the rich stew. She smiled in an almost motherly way at Baartazgur as she passed him his bowl, then looked at Ushatar and gestured with her thumb as she said, "This one's ready to fall in love. A pity my sister married, and is with another tribe to the south."

"Ushatar's mate is from Isengard as well," she added, sitting beside Shaatasi.

Shaatasi cut his deep river blue eyes at Ushatar, studying him. "You escaped the flood with her as well?"

"We left long before," Ushatar replied, tucking into the stew. It was rich and full of meat. "I had no choice. She was sick, so they planned to kill her. And I wanted out. I'd had enough of slavery."

"Hmm," Shaatasi grunted softly, revealing nothing about how he felt concerning their Master's devious lordship. "We got out in the flood. It was a lucky thing, too."

Sula offered, "Had Shaatasi done anything differently-not being injured at the Fords, lingered a little over his morning meal before coming to me-had the pitmaster not been so distracted and had he remembered to lock us in, we would have drowned like everyone else. All of those women..."

She closed her eyes abruptly. Somewhere beneath the woman's vivacious strength, the horror of Isengard still existed for her. She even courted the pain of the place, trading off shifts with the women who worked as cooks and servers for the Gondorians, as if through hardening herself through self-inflicted torture could erase the worst of her memories.

Shaatasi turned to her, took her face in his hands. Her eyes focused on his, and the shadow of agony melted away as she spoke to him with her big dark eyes. Ushatar had the uncomfortable feeling that he was intruding into their private world; it seemed, too, that this was a customary way Shaatasi drew her out of her pain, because his face, his eyes, for her, invoked safety and peace. "We're alive," he reminded her. "That's what matters. You kept your promise."

"I know," Sula said quietly. She looked at Ushatar and explained, "When my father told me that he had to sell one of us off, my sister or myself, for grain and oil to get through the winter, I volunteered to go. My sister wasn't strong enough by half, but I was dumb and bold and I thought I might have a chance at surviving. I promised her, and myself, that I'd stay alive. I wouldn't make any trouble for the Uruk officers, I'd give the Old Man four or five warriors, and earn my freedom. It was a foolish delusion: being assigned to the breeding pits was a death sentance, no matter what. You tear inside and bleed to death. Your slashed and bitten until infection sets in, or you catch a fever after they take the baby out. You scream in pain or terror, and it sets your partner off and he rips you to pieces and eats you before anyone can get the gate open. I survived because of luck only: that Shaatasi was given to me instead of someone else, someone more like the first two I had. We women, whether we sold ourselves not to starve or our families sold us, or the ones who were taken against their will as captives, were lambs for the slaughter. I'll be praying for you tomorrow, Ushatar, mostly for the sake of your woman. To find happiness, and love, in such a place, is miraculous."

Bile rose in Ushatar's throat, and suddenly the heat of the hut was stiffling. "I need some air," he choked, leaving Sula and Shaatasi bewildered as he fled their home. The biting, icy cold revived him somewhat, but the misery remained, the pain in his chest and his belly and most of all, the torment in his mind. If it wasn't for Ilzin, Ushatar thought, would the right thing be to leave Tara with her people? Was she hoping, even now, that he'd died in battle? Did she consider the knights her captors, or, horribly, her rescuers? He wondered if the last two months had been a dream, or an illusion. He could feel Tara even now in his arms, as if she was there with him. He could close his eyes and feel her warm, sweet breath, could hear her sigh in his ear... Surely that had been real! Ushatar sunk down in the snow and hid his face in shaking hands. By this time tomorrow, the misery of his waiting and wondering would be over, and he'd know for certain if Tara would return to him of her own free choice... or he'd be dead, and past his pain.

When Ushatar returned, Shaatasi was asleep sprawled on his back, Sula curled under one strong arm, his infant son snuggled beneath his other. Baartazgur was snoring heavily. Ras was lying awake, staring at the smoke as it curled out of the hole in the roof and into the star-filled sky. Ushatar crumpled to the fur-covered floor, and forced himself to rest. But before he drifted away, Ras said softly, "She's waiting for you right now. Both of them are. You'll see."

Ushatar opened his eyes, turning his face to the lanky brown Orc. Ushatar had thought Ras lost in his own hell, but somehow the Orc had seen through Ushatar, seen into his conflicted mind and read the agony there. But as perceptive as Ras was, his once flame colored eyes were a sick, dull orange. His face was ragged with undying grief; his life was unendurable. No matter if Tara chose to stay with her kind, at the very least she was alive. When had Ushatar become so spoiled, that he assumed he deserved happiness?

"The most important thing-the only important thing-is that I free her and Ilzin from that prison. Whatever Tara wants to do, wherever she wants to go after that, is her choice, and I'll see her safely wherever she wants to go."

This was a melancholy but strangely comforting thought. The mission was no longer about Ushatar winning his girl back; it was about winning Tara her freedom, even if she took her freedom and used it to tear his heart out. Even that would be success. Fatigue set in quickly, then, and Ushatar drifted into a dreamless sleep.


The air tasted the same as that first free breath, taken almost exactly a year before. With his back to the line of huts approaching the mountainside, the entrance to the tunnel looked exactly as it was on the day Ushatar had claimed his life for his own.

He looked to Cormick, and his two attendants. "How will you count the time?"

"We're Men of Dunland; with song, of course! When you return, the wagon will set out, and the driver will sing the song to himself as many times as needed. Now remember: if your torch goes out, you'll still have the firestarters and kindling, but that's a waste of time if you're under attack. I won't see you again, Ushatar, unless fate crosses our paths once more. I hope I've been of help to you."

"I hope one day I'll be able to repay you," Ushatar said.

Cormick bobbed his ruddy head in a nod. "When I'm the King of Men," he said with a wry grin, "you'll have plenty of opportunity."

Ushatar joined in the laughter, but he wondered how serious Cormick was. Would he truly manufacture so much of the black powder that he could challenge the present King of Men for mastry of the world?

"If that day comes," Ushatar said, "then hopefully you'll be a friend to Orc-kind, and lift the curse that's been put on us, condemning us to eternal battle and slaughter simply because we live."

"That's a promise," Cormick chuckled. "Sula'd have my balls otherwise."

Ushatar extened his hand, in mimicry of the gesture Men used to show friendship and make pacts. The red-bearded chief shook it firmly. "Good luck, Captain Uruk. And to you as well, friends."

Baartazgur shook with Cormick. Ras stared scornfully at the Man's rough, pale outstretched hand. Ushatar had told Cormick what the knights had done to Ras's innocent mate, and the chief took no offense. But as Cormick gave his Men a last instruction, then left, Ras said quietly, "That one might deserve to keep breathing."

"I think so, brother," Ushatar agreed, dropping a hand on Ras's tight shoulder. "So: I thank you both for coming with me. But one more time I'll say that this is my problem, and likely we're going to our death. If you don't want to risk yourselves, I couldn't blame you. I'll go on alone."

Ras laughed gruffly. "Not a chance, Azathorn!"

"I owe you a life, Sir" Baartazgur said. "I'm your shield."

Ushatar nodded gratefully. He adjusted the heavy leather satchel Cormick had given him, holding eight of the precious fire-weapons. And then he drew his sword and stepped into the cold, dank tunnel, so dark that it swallowed the sun's light immediately.

They walked along in silence, with only Baartazgur's heavy footfalls, and the snapping of his torch, making any noise. As they went along, descending into the bowels of the earth, the dank air became damp and musky.

"I don't like this," Ras hissed. His night seeing eyes ranged anxiously around him, down the tunnel into blackness. In the distance, they all could hear the babbling of water, but it was another thing entirely that set the Orc's teeth on edge.

"Keep moving," Ushatar murmured.

"Something lives down here," Ras said.

Ushatar nodded shortly.

"That fucking torch," Ras growled.

"Is worth the risk," Ushatar said. "Anything comes out at us can be blown to rubble. And I don't feel like breaking my leg or drowning much either."

Ushatar walked on, leading them down further. He'd run the entire thing when he'd passed under the mountain before, but now the footing was mucky and treacherous, and it was any guess how sound the tunnel even was, after the raging flood had thundered down on Isengard.

The horrible feeling of being watched filled them; or more acurately, being sensed, as if the vibrations from their footfalls were blaring drums, and their earthy scents flashes of lightning igniting their way through another creature's lair.

But they reached the crossroads without incident... and saw that the entire thing was flooded. Baartazgur's torch threw streaks of orange over the still inky surface. The Uruk eyed the water with revolted terror, and felt the weight of his tattered old Isengard armor.

"I can go first," Ras offered. "I'm the strongest swimmer and I can see the other side clear."

"Right," Ushatar agreed. "Then Baartazgur."

None of them wondered if whatever lived in the tunnel liked water. The water was frigid and stale, a stagnant trapped pool. But not terribly deep, and Baartazgur was able to walk. Ushatar walked as well, holding them precious bag over his head. Ras cut through the water like a fish, and was first up on the muddy bank beyond.

Once they were up on the other side, the air felt slightly more wholesome. They walked uphill, the tunnel tightening in on them, until finally seeming to disappear into the rock wall.

"Hold this." Ushatar passed the bag to Ras, and took the torch from Baartazgur. He got down on his belly, and dug himself forward with one elbow, the fire extended before him.

Finally, the other side. He was in the bowels of Orthanc, infuriatingly close to Tara and Ilzin. He crawled out and turned about in the torchlight. The way was clear at first, until Ushatar saw a mound of rubble some thirty feet up, blocking the stone hewn hallway halfway to the ceiling. Ushatar jogged closer. When he held his torch out, he saw five rotten corpses partially buried in shattered boards of timber, rocks, and thick plugs of mud.

Ushatar turned and ran back to the hole. Crawled his way through again, then stood before his companions. His fist clenched and his heart rebelled, but he said, "Now we hurry back to our allies, and let them send their distraction."


"Thank you, Galad," Simeon said, taking a wooden bowl of thick warm gruel. He walked out of the wooden mess and out into the busy courtyard tucked between two rows of barracks, greeting other soldiers as they stood on line at the smithy or the barber or the cobbler, or sat on neatly arranged logs breaking their fasts and chatting in the brisk dawn. The post war mood was buoyant; their detail of Orc hunting-euphamistically termed 'keeping the peace'-was generally easy and for most of them, fulfilling. The high from the recent battle, not quite a rout but fairly victorious thanks to the assistance of the Elves, still glowed on the young soldiers' faces.

" 'Morning Thain," Simeon said, taking a seat beside a twenty year old knight who, like Simeon, came from a modest family, and had lost a father in the War.

"Snow's coming in," Thain said, grinning into his gruel. A snowy day now meant light drilling, and tucking in the rest of the day to drink, tell tales, and make merry.

"But it's as fair as can be!" Simeon argued. The sun was a pale, bright disk just peeking over the vale of Rohan. The creamy sky was already warming into a golden blue.

"Still and the same," Thain persisted stubbornly. "I can smell it, you know."

Simeon surely hoped not; he'd resolved to help Tara and Ilzin escape, and then they would go to Minas Tirith where King Elessar was holding court and throw themselves on his mercy. He'd not told Tara about this yet, but it was the only possible thing to do. Abandoning a young girl and her strange child in the back country in winter, because she hoped to be found by her Uruk mate, would have been criminal on Simeon's part. Lord Darian could even brand her a fugitive and hunt her down. But to escort her to Minas Tirith would be of great service to her, and to the baby. Simeon was certain that his king would pardon Tara's theft, and issue her some protection.

"I've had a letter from that dairy shop girl," Thain said. "You're brilliant, Simeon. Because of your gallant, poetic words, she'll be meetin' me the very night I get back home. I've been all but promised we'll be... churning butter... all night long!"

"You're the galant, all right," Simeon laughed, shaking his head; but his laughter dissolved into a frown.

"What's the matter? Wish you signed your name to the letter?"

"Why isn't Rivalt on duty guarding the girl we picked up?"

"He got let off a few minutes ago. I suppose the Captain's going to question her, or whatever it is he does with her."

Simeon dropped his bowl into the snow at Thain's feet. "Finish it," he said, his voice tight. He bolted off across the court, leaving Thain staring in confusion.