The Herald followed Záhovar with unseen eyes as she left the library, Gothmog following her with his gaze fixed on the floor. He couldn't understand why she showed so much interest in the lesser creatures, other than for -scientific- purposes. He turned back to the books again, trying not to think more of the weakness that his pupil showed.
As they crossed a corner into an empty hallway, Záhovar abruptly stopped and turned towards Gothmog.
"What do you believe the Herald thinks of this? What does he think, when a lowly orc, be you warlord or not, comes in, interrupting a meeting, and asking me if I know where his -son- is?"
She spoke with a low, steady voice, but the chill in it gave Gothmog the shivers. She placed her hand, covered with a taloned gauntlet, below his chin, forcing him to look into a pair of eyes that chilled the soul. "We are not in Dushgoi anymore, warlord. I thought you remembered the schemes and intrigues that you got involved in the last time you were here?"
Gothmog shifted nervously. It wasn't easy to forget the event that had bound his life to Záhovar, placing him in debt of blood to her. "So you won't help me find him then," he whispered. She let go of his chin and turned, continuing down the hall.
"Come."
Erishnak was sleeping on the skin mattress in Gothmog's room. Graznikh and Praktâsh had followed him back to his room after helping him back into the building, in case they should meet more humans, and after that, they had stayed a bit longer. Graznikh kept his distance, but Praktâsh, the black Uruk, seemed very curious. He poured questions over Erishnak, about his life, childhood, relations, interests and a number of other things, until Graznikh ripped off a part of Praktâsh's tunic and stuffed his mouth with it. As they continued arguing Erishnak got tired, and fell asleep.
Now they just sat there, watching him sleep.
"Do I look like that when I sleep?" Praktâsh asked.
"Nah. You look uglier."
"Shut up."
"Shh, don't wake him up."
Suddenly a cold breeze went through the room, which was strange since they were deep inside the tower, far from both the surface and the gates. Erishnak mumbled and moved in his sleep. Praktâsh was just about to place a blanket over him when Záhovar showed up in the doorway, closely followed by Gothmog.
"I should have known," she muttered as she caught sight of Praktâsh and Graznikh. "Gothmog, check all places twice the next time before you call for me."
Gothmog came into the room and gave the other orcs a suspicious glance. "Who are you?"
"Gagnaz," Graznikh replied. "We belong to the Master here," he said, bowing towards Záhovar.
Záhovar stared down at Graznikh for a long time, he met the Officer's gaze with an ingratiating look. Suddenly he stood up.
"We are leaving," Záhovar exclaimed and went back into the darkness outside. Graznikh rose and followed her without a word.
At first, Gothmog just looked confused. He then walked over to the sleeping Erishnak, who was watched over by the black Uruk.
"Ya wanna know what happened?" Praktâsh asked. Gothmog nodded slowly, and Praktâsh quietly told him about the events earlier.
"I, erh... owe you a lot, Shakh," Gothmog said afterwards. "For bringing me cub back."
Praktâsh grinned.
"No need for that Warlord, I already have enough people 'owing' me things. This little fellow, for example," he said, brushing a strand of hair back from Erishnak's face.
"Wait.. ye're not gonna put him in debt, will ye? I can pay you back if that's what you want, but don't-" he went quiet as Praktâsh held a hand up.
"His debt to me won't be payed back in that way. All I want," he whispered, brushing a finger along Erishnak's ear with a hungry look, "is a promise." Then he got up and left, giving Gothmog a dirty smile.
As the sound of Praktâsh's footsteps died out in the hallway, Gothmog sat down at Erishnak's side, twisting a corner of the blanket in his hand. As he had caught a glimpse of the black Uruk's face when he left, Gothmog had gotten a flashback of the last time he had caught Poshnak drooling over his son. 'Damn boy,' he thought helplessly. 'What've ye gotten yerself into now?'
"I can't understand how ye can keep that disgusting, filthy, dirty... creature at yer side!" Gothmog roared as he came storming into Záhovar's room. Záhovar, who was sitting at a table reading some scrolls, quickly looked up as Gothmog entered.
"What do you mean?"
"Praktâsh, that's who I mean," he rumbled and told her what had happened the night before. "Can I kill him?" he asked when he had finished. "I won't let him touch my son again!"
Záhovar sighed. "What has he done now?" Gothmog explained and told her about the events of last night.
"You will not kill Praktâsh. He would not harm Erishnak. I believe he tricked you."
"Tricked me? What do ye mean?"
"Praktâsh is a prankster, and he is strong. He knows that should anyone attack him, then he can defend himself quite easily. Because of that, he lacks any hint of respect. He has probably heard about the fight going on between you and Poshnak, And so he wanted to play."
Gothmog muttered something.
"What?"
"I said; that's no joking matter."
"To Praktâsh, everything's a joking matter. Simply ignore him, like everyone else." Gothmog muttered something about twisting people's necks.
"Why don't you kill the reason for all this instead? Poshnak is the one who gave you all these troubles from the beginning."
Gothmog made a choking sound. "If I knew I had permission to kill him, I would've done so long ago!" He went silent, then he sighed. "Záhovar, I... I can't let Erishnak become one of them, I just can't! I can't... let him go through the same things as I've done..."
"Who is Erishnak?"
"What?"
"Who is he?"
"Wha... He's my son!"
"What more?"
"He's an orcling... a youngster who can't fend for himself!"
"Why don't you put some trust in him? You can't keep him a child forever, and you cannot always be there when he gets into trouble. Let him stand on his own legs for a while and face the world on his own conditions. I do not believe you will regret it. And even if he -should- get into Poshnak's web, why don't you let him get out of it himself?"
Gothmog hit his fist into a table. "Not if I can prevent it," he growled hotly.
"Hm. I will speak to Praktâsh, he will not do anything without my say-so. But you should loosen your grip on him, unless you want him to become the weakling you think of him to be. Let him learn the hard way, the way that make us strong. You survived, if Erishnak truly are of your blood then he will too."
They stayed in Barad-dûr for many weeks. Gothmog was gone most of the time, leaving Erishnak alone. Graznikh and Praktâsh was often avaliable though, so he spent most of his time with them. When Graznikh heard that his training had been on hiatus since he left Dushgoi, he immediately brought Erishnak down to the armory. Erishnak got a scimitar, and then they went to the cavern where the soldiers were trained to start practicing. At first the Uruks and other soldiers had been sneering at the cub, but when they saw him and Graznikh in action most of them broke their own practice to watch them. Soon a crowd had assembled, cheering and hooting. As the evening came, Erishnak fell asleep on his bed, too tired to even take his boots off.
"There's something I don't understand," Erishnak said one day as he and Záhovar watched the Burning Mountain from a balcony a few levels up in the main Tower. "Everyone here call you 'Lord Záhovar'. Why is that? Aren't you a female?"
"A good question," she answered. "Most call me Lord, because they do not know that I am a female. Most of the orc females here in Lug-burz are used only for breeding, and nothing else. The others are soldiers, just like the males. Most orc soldiers have never heard of females, they do not know what it is. As for the humans, they do know what females are. But in their culture, the females are often lower in ranking than the males, in their eyes they can never reach the ranking of a High Officer. So I am called Lord, to reduce the hostility and loathing of the humans, and keep the orcs from going mad."
"But.. I'm an orc, and I know what you are, but I'm still not mad... or am I?"
"You have yet to come of age and see the differences between males and females... If you live that long."
Erishnak went silent. 'I will live that long,' he thought. 'I won't die. I will live forever!'
Suddenly, he heard a horn sounding from below. The distant sound of a marching army was heard. He went over to the side of the balcony where Záhovar stood and peered over the edge. The height made him a bit dizzy, but from up here, he could easily see the army, a slow river that poured out from the gates below, shimmering from the countless torches.
"What are we waiting for, really?" he asked. "We've been here for so long, and nothing seems to be happening, unless these armies that goes away to the west every day."
"Up here, nothing happens. But the army you see here is just a drop of rain in the huge storm that our Master prepares to unleash upon the western lands. Up north, closer to the Black Gates, many of the soldiers of this land has made camp, and many of them will leave and reassemble in Dushgoi before the first strike falls."
Erishnak looked to the north. Nothing could be seen of the huge encampment Záhovar had spoken of, but he could see that the sky was clearer there, brighter in some strange way, much like he had seen so many times from the walls of Dushgoi when he was smaller.
"Will we ever return to Dushgoi?"
"Of course. Everyone knows that it is on the Ruin City of Osgiliath that the first strike will fall, and we will probably be in the first line."
At that moment, Erishnak heard something stir behind them. He turned around, and caught sight of a strange, terrifying being. Too tall to be a human, with a strange, huge helmet and long black robes with intricate red patterns. The being didn't take notice of him, and went straight over to Záhovar, who didn't seem to have noticed the being behind her. Just as it slowly reached out a pale, bony hand to touch her neck, she moved her head slightly.
"Greetings, my Lord," she said.
"Záhovar," the being said reproachingly. "I thought you had learned not to speak to a higher Officer before being spoken to."
"And now you have come to punish me for it?" she said confidently as she turned.
"Not this time. Come, I have something to show you. My greatest work, in all means, is almost finished."
Záhovar moved a hand in Erishnak's direction. "Can this... orcling, come as well?"
The being's head moved slightly towards him. He didn't understand how the being could see through what seemed like solid iron, but it was obvious that it -could- see, because its mouth twisted in a disgusted way.
"I do not understand why you show so much affection for these lesser creatures, Záhovar. They should be kept on shorter leash."
"Herald, I thought we had already finished the discussion on this matter," Záhovar said. The being that Záhovar referred to as Herald got a stern look, at least it could be taken for that since not much of his face, except for the mouth, could be seen below the helmet.
"Are you getting soft, Záhovar? Are you losing your strength?"
Záhovar's face twisted in anger. "I am NOT losing anything of my strength! I keep these dorûti as my slaves because I want to, and for no other reason!"
Upon hearing this, Erishnak could not stay quiet any longer. "But Záhovar, I thou-"
"Be silent!" she snapped. Erishnak fell to his knees in terror, for what he had seen in Záhovar's eyes the short second when their eyes met, was his own death. Why was she angry? What had he done? Záhovar turned back to the Herald.
"Slave?" Erishnak heard the Herald ask mockingly.
"I will punish him later. He will not be uppish again after a taste of the whip you gave me." Erishnak felt like his blood froze in his veins. Whip?
"So, why this good mood?" Záhovar asked. "What have you come up with this time?"
"A true masterpiece. In all means this is my greatest work ever. Truly, the bare sight of it will scare the western people to death, and if that doesn't work, its bite will kill the rest of them," he declared with a sadistic grin. Záhovar allowed herself to smile a bit, a smile that never reached her eyes.
"Meet me in the armory in a few days, and I will show it to you." With that, the Herald left. Záhovar turned and slowly went over to Erishnak, who still lay shaking like a leaf on the cold stone floor.
"Get up." No response.
"Get - up!" He moved slightly, but then lay still again. A choked sobbing could be heard. She fell to her knees in front of him.
"Erishnak, look at me," she said in the kindest voice she could procure. Still no answer. "Erishnak, listen to me. I did this for your own sake. If I hadn't shouted, then the Herald would have punished you himself, and believe me you do not wish to get under his pleasant care."
"But..." Erishnak sobbed, "You s-said th-that you would... w-whip me..." Záhovar put her hand under his chin and lifted Erishnak's face upwards so he faced her.
"I lied."
Erishnak looked at her for a long time, as if he didn't believe her. Then he did something he'd never done before. He suddenly got up, placed his arms around her neck and nuzzled his tearwet face into the corner of her neck. Erishnak didn't know why he did it. Somehow he just knew that it felt good, and that he should do it. So he hugged her.
Záhovar froze. Few living beings, especially no orcling, had ever gone this close to her before for as long as she could remember, not unpunished. And never to seek comfort! Erishnak sobbed a few more times, then he slowly fell asleep, oblivious of the raging emotions he caused his unlikely protector.
"Stupid bastard. Stupid, stupid bastard!"
Graznikh paced to and fro in his and Praktâsh's room while Praktâsh, lying on his bed, followed his raging friend's movements.
"Why are you so upset? It's nothing wrong with that."
"Why I am upset? Why am I upset? You broke the promise! I thought we were agreed on this matter! We're supposed to protect the critter, not use him for our own pleasures!"
Praktâsh smiled a bit. "What if he wants it as well then?" Graznikh gave him a disgusted look. "Praktâsh, he's a cub."
The smile disappeared from Praktâsh's mouth and was replaced by a troubled look.
"What do you mean with that? I'm a cub too, and you never see me protesting, do you?" Graznikh stared at him for a moment, then he sighed. "There are some differences between black Uruks and regular Orcs, Praktâsh. This is one of them. Orc cubs aren't fully developed when they're born, they have to grow for some years before they can even lift a sword, and even longer before they get the kind of needs you're referring to." Praktâsh thought for a moment before replying. "So... you mean they're like... complete weaklings when they're newborn? Wait... you mean that I have to wait for years before I can... Oh, shit!" Praktâsh looked like he was about to cry. "You're kidding me, right?"
Graznikh shook his head.
"But... you think Poshnak know about this?" Praktâsh asked. "Oh, I'm sure he does," Graznikh replied. "But he hates Gothmog, and he knows Gothmog hates him as well, and he probably drools over Erishnak just to make Gothmog mad. He won't care if Erishnak gets hurt in the process." Praktâsh began growling. "I could kill him. I swear, if he hurts Erishnak, I -will- kill him, and make it hurt too."
Graznikh began scratching his ear with a nervous look. His long time of duty in Záhovar's presence had teached him to sense Záhovar's rather sublime telepathic ability. But that didn't mean that he liked the times when he felt his mistress scrape against his mind. "I should go to Záhovar. Right now." Praktâsh got to his feet at the same time as Graznikh. "I come with you." Graznikh eyed him. "Yeah, you should come too."
A few days later, Záhovar summoned them all to a narrow corridor near the huge forge below the Tower. The noise of the forge echoed from the doorway in the other edge of the corridor.
"Had I followed the Herald's orders properly, then I should have gone here alone. However, I will let you come with me, if I can trust you to be completely silent for as long as we are in the Herald's presence. Can I trust you?" They all nodded. "Good. Follow me." They walked down through the corridor to the doorway, and into the forge. Here the noise was even louder, mixed with the stench of the fires, and all the slaves that worked there made the place look like an ants' nest. Erishnak looked around while keeping a tight grip onto Gothmog's swordbelt, to keep from getting lost in the huge smithy.
The weapon forge consisted of a huge shaft in the middle, and along the walls of the shaft there was terraces where one could walk between the levels of the forge. Záhovar and her following were on the fifth level, and walked along the winding terraces and tunnels to finally reach the bottom. This level consisted of a huge cave, split up in two parts by gigantic gates, one at the entrance and one closer to the back of the cave. This was where all the machines of war were designed and made, the workshop of the Mouth of Sauron, Lieutenant and Herald of the Black Tower. The Herald himself stood alone beside a small door that led to the second part of the cave with an excited smile. Záhovar reminded herself that he had never been very good at concealing emotions.
Erishnak never got used to the looks of the Herald, although he had seen him some times before. The strange helmet that covered all features, that almost hysterical grin which seemed to be his usual expression, the fact that he towered several feet over both Uruks and Záhovar... all this freaked him out. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, but realised that if that... being would try something, few would be able to stop him.
"Always these creatures at your feet, Záhovar," the Herald said as Záhovar greeted him. "Surely there must be more stimulating company than these? You've kept them long now, do you never tire of them?"
"No my Lord," she replied. "They can be a pest, but they do not speak up against me as some other races might." She threw a hateful glance towards the humans standing in a chattering crowd at the far wall. The Herald shrugged. "You continue as you have always done. But I did not send after you to still my need for small talk." With that, he turned and walked over to the small door in the gate. A snaga opened the door and bowed as Záhovar and the other orcs followed the Herald inside. As the door closed behind them, the Herald lifted his hand upwards. "Behold!"
A huge wooden stand on wheels towered before them. In huge iron chains, a battering ram in the shape of a wolf hung. It was very detailed, and the wolf's jaws was opened into a raging grin.
"Had I not known that you hate the word, then I would have said that it is a true piece of art," Záhovar said approvingly. "It is... I lack of words. If this do not bestow fear and panic in the enemy lines, then I do not know what would."
"Oh, they will flee in fear when they hear the rumour of it," the Herald exclaimed. "For this is Grond."
Záhovar looked at him. "You named it after... the legendary Hammer of the Underworld?"
"Oh, I did not name it. The Great Eye himself did, he said that he wished to honour his.. I did not catch what word he used. Something about... 'Táno', I think. But we all know the tellings. Shaped like a wolf and named after the weapon used by..." He went silent, and Záhovar nodded slowly. She knew. Speaking the name of The Great Shadow was nothing one did lightly, and it was forbidden in Mordor.
Erishnak simply stared. Never before had he seen a construction this huge.
"It's so huge," he whispered to Praktâsh after he had squatted down to hear what Erishnak wanted.
"Too huge. What kind of monsters will be able to pull that thing? Dragons?"
"Well.. I don't think they will use dragons. They're too unreliable. Graznikh comes from east of Rhûn, he knows that better than I do."
"I'll tell you later," Graznikh whispered. "When they're done here."
As they walked back from the smithy, Erishnak leaped onto Graznikh with thousands of questions.
"You said you'd tell me when we were done in the smithy; what kind of beasts will pull that ram?"
Well... Nórkhan-beasts or mûmakil. Probably Nórkhans, they're easier to command."
"Nórkhans, what's that?"
"The plains of Nórkhan is a huge high plateau far into the East. There lives many strange creatures, including Manjaki, the last population of dragons and these Nórkhan-beasts. Those beasts are huge, Praktâsh would only reach up to half of their height, and they have a huge thick horn pointing forward from the forehead down to the muzzle and one and a half length more. Their muzzles are hard and bony, almost like a beak. They are grass eaters, not dangerous unless you start hacking away on them with an axe or something. But who wouldn't get angry if that happened."
"Cool.. They can pull this thing?"
"Heheh. If I took ten Nórkhans and chained them to the gate, and made them angry enough to start running, they would probably pull down the entire Black Gate, with towers and everything."
"What are those other creatures you named?"
"Manjaki?"
"Yeah."
"All right... Manjaki are extremely rare. You can travel back and forth over the Nórkhan plains for years without ever spotting a single manjak. Most of the sightings has been done at night time, some people claim that they are some kind of magical lunar beings. And some times they might seem so... They sing at full moon."
"They sing?"
"Yeah. Like... like some mix between a swan and a wolf, full of sorrow and longing for something that was lost. But you've never heard swans or wolves, have you? Then I don't think I can-"
The silence in the archway was abruptly broken by a vibrating howl. Záhovar had thrown back her head and let hear a strange, hypnotizing sound. Erishnak could almost -feel- the sound in the air around him, the feeling of moonlight, clear air, frost on the ground and eternal space, freedom without any boundaries or cares. And it was chill, so cold, full of sadness and sorrow, longing for some companion that was lost before time begun. Then it ended, as abruptly as it had begun. Graznikh smiled.
"That was a good interpretation," he said. "Almost felt real for a moment."
"Almost?" Praktâsh gasped. "To me it felt real enough."
"Why all the sadness?" Erishnak asked.
"Well... No one really knows," Graznikh said. "But there is a theory. There are almost no elves in the north east, and whenever an elf comes up onto the plains, the manjaki seems to know it and gather like vultures on a carcass." A loud snort was heard from Záhovar. She seemed quite furious.
"I have had more than enough of those manjak beasts," she proclaimed and left them.
"Oh, great, I forgot," Graznikh said to himself.
"Forgot what?" Praktâsh gave him a worried look.
"Oh, nothing, it's just... that's a secret between me and her really, and she would kill me if I spread it. Not that I don't trust you, but an oath's an oath."
Tell me more!" Erishnak begged. "What do they look like? Have you ever seen one?" Graznikh grinned. "Not seen, but heard. With Záhovar, when I first traveled along with the other warriors from my home in the East to Mordor to join the army. Záhovar led the expedition, and t he Manjaki seemed to follow our every footstep for some reason, singing every night. But we never saw them. But from what I've heard and seen on pictures, the head and neck is that of a swan, the legs and feet of a very slender deer, and the body is like a very starved dog. They have long wispy manes and tails and are said to be faster than the wind. I've heard some old legends of a people in a forgotten kingdom in the far East, long long ago, who had managed to tame Manjaki, using them to pull their wagons. But I don't believe in that, they're impossible to catch, nothing can outrun them."
"Oh..."
"There are more to them than I know, perhaps you can find something in the library if you want to know more."
"But I can't read..."
"What? Great... I'll teach you that too when I have the time."
Gothmog mumbled something unintelligible. Graznikh turned to look at him.
"What?"
"Hm... Ye really think that's a good idea? Reading an' that stuff makes ye soft, I don't want Erishnak to be all soft..." He trailed off as he saw Praktâsh's expression. Graznikh smirked. "Do I look soft to you? Does lord Záhovar seem soft? Books can be really useful sometimes. You might even find some interesting things about elves in the library, heheh." He glanced at Praktâsh, who hummed silently as he tried to oppress a grin. "Praktâsh, shut up." The Uruk looked at him innocently.
"What've I done?"
"We've already figured out what kind of books you read, and we're NOT interested in discussing them, thank you." Praktâsh gave him a friendly smile and fluttered his long black eyelashes. Graznikh shuddered in disgust.
Záhovar stormed through the hallway on the way to her room. Graznikh, such a fool he was! She had almost forgotten about that accursed journey, and now he slandered about it like... like... well, whatever! It was common knowledge that manjaki were drawn to elves, and when they had followed her every step over the plains... She had used every ounce of her strength and power to keep them at bay, and to kill as many as possible, but the humans had been suspicious none the less. Luckily, it was never spread to Lug-bûrz, Graznikh being the only one who still remembered it except for herself.
She sighed, and it was then she realised that the air was cold. Too cold. She turned and bowed to the Nazgûl who had been standing hidden in the shadows. One glance at the handle of the Nazgûl's sword told her that it was Khamûl, the lieutenant of Dol Guldur. He was rarely seen in Lug-bûrz, staying most of his time in Mirkwood. The fact that he was here now meant that something big was going to happen.
"It is soon time," the wraith hissed. "The Dark Lord wishes to see thee... Thee, and that warlord of yours."
"Ah, yes. Gothmog. When?"
"He will send word when it is time." Záhovar was confused. She had thought that He had sent Khamûl as messenger, but obviously, He hadn't. But the Nazgûl had no will of their own, they were mere extensions of the Dark Lord's will, why did Khamûl tell her this?
Some hours later when the world began to calm down, Záhovar slowly strolled down the huge collonade that led to the throne room. As she passed one of the narrower archways, however, she stopped shortly. Someone was plucking on a harp in a delicate melody, although it was silent and a bit uncertain, as if the player was holding the harp for the first time in many years.
Záhovar spun around and walked back to the archway. She wanted to know who the fool was that dared to openly play an elvish tune on an elvish instrument this close to the Dark Lord's chambers. And who it could be that had the skill to do so. As she reached around the first corner, she spotted Praktâsh sitting with his back leaned onto a pillar with a small black harp in his knee. He had his armour on, and his sword laid carelessly thrown on the floor at his feet. If the circumstances had been different and Záhovar had known anything of elven culture, she probably would have laughed out loud at the mocking sight; it looked like a negative image of an elven bard. This time, however, that was not to be. For the first time in countless years, Záhovar lost her emotionless mask and stared at him with mouth and eyes wide open. "What are you doing!"
Praktâsh didn't seem to hear, concentrated on the harp as he was, a look of calm contentment covering his rough Uruk features. She spoke again, this time with more determination in her voice. Now Praktâsh twitched and he lifted his head, looking wildly around before spotting her in the dim light at the corner.
"Oh.. Greetings, Shakh! What can I do for ya?"
"Well... I heard the music and became a little... curious about who it was playing, in here of all places," she said, nodding towards the harp. Praktâsh got a pondering look, then he looked down at the harp and his eyes widened, as if he saw it for the first time.
"That's odd," he muttered, scratching his head. "How did this end up here?"
"I was just about to ask you the same," Záhovar replied, leaning against the corner pillar.
"Well... I was just, y'know, roaming, then I found this in a dusty old storage corner. No one was about, so I thought I could go to a quiet place and, well... try playin' a bit. Didn't know I would get stuck here for so long," he said, now and then throwing nervous glances at the harp. "You... won't tell anyone of this, will ya?"
"I will not. But it is interesting indeed. Either that thing there is magical in nature, or you have some secret talents." Záhovar had gotten control over her expressions again, now she arched one of the corners of her mouth into the smallest of smiles. Praktâsh looked like he was about to throw the instrument into a pit and run until his legs couldn't carry him any longer. "Well, that's sooo sick!" he exclaimed.
"That it might be magical?"
He looked at her. "No, that I might have a talent. As far as I'm concerned, I don't have any talents." He paused for a while, the slightest darkening of his skin telling Záhovar that he blushed. "Well, I might be good at some things... but certainly not that!" He looked meekly at her. "Or... y'think so?"
Záhovar shrugged, the metal in her armour creaking with every movement. Praktâsh swallowed. "I think I'll go put this back where I found it," he said with a nervous smile. "No worries, I won't go touching that thing again. Promise!"
With that he ran away. Záhovar sighed and picked up the heavy sword which Praktâsh had forgotten. She doubted the Uruk would ever grow up.
