Chapter II: Heartless
Three years later...Azklâsh lay on his cot quietly, enjoying a moment of silence. The other officers were busy outside his tent, enjoying the grog recently issued them.
Even though three years had passed since his act of courage in the melting pit, Azklâsh had not changed. Though he was a high-ranking officer in the ranks of Mordor, which entitled him to much spoil, he never claimed a single piece of treasure taken from his enemies. He was still silent and grim, though his fellow officers took great pleasure in taunting him.
Azklâsh was the first and only snaga ever to be promoted to an officer's rank. The other officers hated him, for they believed he had the favour of the Eye. After all, why else would the snaga have risen from the ranks?
The other officers failed to recognize that it was Azklâsh's character that raised him through the ranks. His courage, his silence, and his lack of greediness were qualities that the Eye liked in its officers.
Azklâsh closed his eyes for a moment as he heard a scream at the far end of the camp. Earlier that night, his company had captured two Men who had strayed too close to Minas Morgul, the tower that Azklâsh's soldiers guarded. They had been tortured for the past three hours.
"Snaga!" Azklâsh's commanding officer, Piresh, called from outside the tent. Even though he was a lieutenant, his fellow officers still referred to him as a slave.
"You are to relieve Morz. Go!" Azklâsh nodded. Morz was the Orc torturing the two Men. It was not the duty of a captain to torture captured enemies, but Captain Piresh enjoyed giving Azklâsh a sergeant's job.
Azklâsh walked through the camp, silence greeting him. He was feared by all lesser soldiers, for all knew of his acts in battle. In the many skirmishes between the Orcs and the much hated Rangers of Gondor, Azklâsh killed with singular cruelty and talent. He had few war wounds, but had many a time exited the battlefield bathed in the crimson blood of Men.
Though none would admit it, he was the greatest Orc warrior ever to serve the Eye. He was feared by Men and Orc alike, though he had never once struck down a fellow Orc. There was only one Orc that he ever intended to kill: the overseer, Mâzurl.
Azklâsh had not seen Mâzurl ever since the day he had struck down the troll. But his hatred for the overseer had never dimmed. He planned to kill Mâzurl upon his return to Barad-dûr.
If he was to ever return to that cursed place.
"Come to take over, eh?" Morz asked, wiping some blood, not his own, from his face. Azklâsh nodded.
"Have fun, Hoshat. The smaller one's 'bout to kick off, but the other bugger could last a few more hours." Azklâsh looked past the sergeant, gazing at the prisoners.
One, a large one with long dark hair, met his gaze with ferocity. But the other, smaller and younger, simply hung limp the stake he was bound to, his face hidden by his ragged, blonde hair.
Azklâsh approached the blonde youth slowly, despite the older one's protests.
"Leave him alone, you brute!" He cried, though he knew the Orc couldn't understand. "He's just a boy!"
The boy began to whimper as Azklâsh placed his hand on the prisoner's shoulder. The boy looked up, startling the Orc.
"Pweath, ont hurt me," the human whispered.
The boy's eyes were gone, as was his tongue. Blood stained his face, his naked body, and the ground around him. One ear lay on the ground amidst the scarlet pool. Large flaps of skin, peeled from his legs, hung limp at his ankles, as if Morz had forgotten to sever them from the body. He had also been emasculated, but the sergeant had taken that as a trophy. The boy was obviously in great agony, and was obviously dying.
Azklâsh drew from his belt a knife. He could not bear to see the wretch in such pain.
With one quick slash, he slit the boy's throat. Blood sprayed forth as the other prisoner screamed what Azklâsh supposed was the boy's name.
Azklâsh closed his eyes as the blood splashed against his skin. He knew he should resist the urge, for the sake of the other human, but he could not. He kissed the boy's neck, drinking in the boy's sweet essence. The crimson liquid filled his mouth, and slipped down his throat, instantly warming his insides. He dug deeper into the boy's flesh, his thirst for blood overwhelming. He drank and drank, helplessly enchanted by the metallic taste of the blood.
He pulled back, and began to lick the boy's bloodstained chest, slowly cleaning the boy.
All the while, the other Gondorian screamed, tears pouring down his face. He could only watch as the cruel Orc desecrated his brother's body. He cursed the Orc with every curse he knew, and cursed himself for failing his brother. Again and again, he pulled against the bonds that kept him from ending the bloodlust, but they would not break. The skin on his wrists soon broke open, tormented by the metal chains and the wooden stake that imprisoned him. Pain ripped through the prisoner, but still he fought, the chains cutting deeper into his wrists. Blood spurted out of his wrist in an endless splatter. The artery had been severed.
The dark world began to spin and the soldier realized he was dying. He fell to the ground, splinters piercing his back and arms. How could it end like this?
"Brother," he whispered, and he slumped forward into peaceful blackness.
Suddenly, the bloodlust died inside Azklâsh when he saw the other soldier fall to his knees, dying. The look of agony on the man's face pierced Azklâsh, and suddenly, the Orc began to feel sick. A heaviness settled upon him, a heaviness he could not comprehend.
"By the Eye," a quiet voice behind Azklâsh murmured. He spun, his bloodstained teeth bared. It was Morz.
"And I thought I was good. Now I see why they made you a lieutenant, Hoshat."
Azklâsh turned away from the Orc, afraid that Morz would see the horror in his eyes. For the first time in his life, Azklâsh felt fear. He was greatly ashamed, for what he feared was not worth fearing.
He feared himself.
The rest of the night, Azklâsh could not sleep. The image of the mutilated boy haunted him. He would toss and turn, but no matter where he look, he saw the boy's ruined face.
Is this how others feel? He asked himself. The heaviness that had gripped him upon the older soldier's death still remained.
Azklâsh did not know that the heaviness he could not cast away was guilt, a guilt so heavy that it threatened to reveal a dangerous truth about the Orc.