October 25 Evening
Alfgard's Home
Alfgard's hired men had already eaten and retired to work or quarters before the greying stable manager ushered his guests in to supper. As people shuffled for places about the long table, a metallic crash and jangling tinkle rang from the kitchen doorway.
"Please forgive a certain amount of disorder," Alfgard said with a wry grin. "Linnet is with the wife of one of my men - their son has the mumps, it seems."
Quiet chuckles punctuated the resumption of preparations to eat. No chair existed stout enough for Russ' great frame, so a heavy bench was found and placed at the foot of the table, where the Beorning would have ample elbow room. Missing were Osric, Tom and Ham, undoubtedly fuelling the fires of ignorance with more cheap ale at The Black Cauldron. Earlier Darien sent Carrick and Bevin to find the three miscreants, but they had yet to return.
Nik was also absent, but his disappearance held no dark significance; instead, Gubbitch had secured a whole roast chicken each for himself, Nik and Lugbac, and the three orcs had retired to the back porch to enjoy their bounty in properly orcish fashion.
Thus the company at supper consisted of an uneasy mix of seven men, one Rohirrim woman, one elf, one hobbit lass, and one great, brooding bear-man. Yet the mood over the hearty if simple meal proved far brighter than anticipated, and indeed revealed a hitherto unexpected wiliness in their host.
Leaning toward Alfgard, Sev said softly, "I fear you have been keeping bad company, sir."
The Rohirrim's blue eyes sparkled with merriment. "Other than your own presence at my table, what would lead you to believe that, Sevil?"
Halbarad seated at Alfgard's other elbow choked, while beside Sev, Anardil grinned unabashedly. Ignoring them both, Sev spoke on.
"You've become a devious man."
"I have?" the trader replied wide-eyed.
"Yes, a most calculating observer would you not agree, Anardil?"
Realising now what Sev had in mind, Anardil winked and grinned. "I don't believe I'd go quite so far in maligning Alfgard's good name, but he has made creditable use of his resources."
"Thank you, sir. That's my Nora. She's a treat, isn't she?" Alfgard exclaimed with a proud smile toward the opposite end of the long table.
Where Darien and Russ previously avoided each other as completely as the space of one seat allowed, that seat now held the vivacious, curly-headed form of Alfgard's ten-year-old daughter. Her dimpled smile and piping voice almost instantly reduced Darien and Horus to simple-minded grins, but even Russ fell under her charms. At the moment, the huge man bent to sketch something on the table for her with one massive finger, while the girl knelt in her chair to eagerly follow whatever tale the Beorning told.
"However I cannot claim the honour of convincing the lass to join us." Alfgard winked genially. "'Twas her own idea. 'Tis my belief she's trying to steal a march on her brothers. Sitting at the table with such company will give her the right to lord it over them all for a few days."
As easy laughter rippled among them, those at Alfgard's end of the table noted that a final touch completed the circle of good spirits beyond. Erin had been seated at Russ' other hand, where she encouraged the child at every turn, which left Celebsul to quietly and genteelly keep his tablemates' cups filled with cheer.
"Whatever her reasoning," Sev said, "it was very good of her to take her mother's place. I do hope Linnet is not delayed too long."
"Now, don't you go worrying yourself." Alfgard waved a half-chewed drumstick in admonition. "Linnet saw the boy earlier and said the lad was doing fine. He'll be up and about in a day or too. She only went this evening to soothe the parents. Boy's their first."
"Ah, it's always hardest with the first one," Sev remarked sagely.
Peace assured by dimples and golden curls, enjoyment of a good meal could be pursued in earnest. The meats and soups were long gone, and pies began to receive serious inroads, when at last the front door thumped and a brisk feminine step trod in the hall.
"Modor," their little hostess cried suddenly and dashed from the table.
The men rose respectfully as Linnet hurried into the room. Nora tugged at her mother's hand and began to blurt introductions as quickly as her tongue would allow, making Linnet laugh.
"Peace, child!" she cried, blue eyes alight with laughter. "I met everyone when they first arrived. Let the poor men finish their pie."
Nevertheless, her gaze fixed with a startled blink on the spectacle of Russbeorn's enormous form filling the entire far end of the table, but she immediately smiled to the man's surprisingly gentle bow of greeting.
Meanwhile, Alfgard accepted his wife's cloak. "Give your mother a chance to sit down," he said, playfully tugging at his daughter's curls. "Run and fetch her a fresh pot of water, lass, and tell Cook to fill her a plate."
"There is no need, Nora. Klarath and his wife insisted I accept their hospitality," Linnet responded.
"But Modor, Cook made the best apple mortrews. Don't you want one? Mistress Erin's had three." Nora nodded toward the table where the hobbit sat.
"Run along and tell her to save me one, I'll come to the kitchen in a few moments."
With a nod and a bobbing curtsy in the direction of the guests, the girl skipped away.
Allowing her husband to escort her to the chair Nora had so recently occupied, Linnet said, "Pray accept my apologies for my absence."
Her sturdy form managed to look positively diminutive next to Russbeorn's massive frame, as the big man resumed his bench at the foot of the table beside her.
"No apologies are necessary, madam," replied Darien, retaking his seat. "Master Alfgard explained your call to a child's sickbed." Then in puzzlement he added, "Mumps, I believe he said. Is it serious?"
"Aye, mumps is what we call it in the Mark. A common childhood ailment," Linnet replied. "But not serious - though I dare say his parents despair of any rest."
"Aye," Sev agreed with a knowing nod. "It is hard when the little ones suffer, for they can't understand why modor and fæder can't banish their ills with a touch."
Glancing to the healer woman, Linnet asked, "'Tis called bolgur here, is it not, Mistress Sevil?"
When Sev agreed that it was, Evan leaned forward and said, "We had a few cases at home in Silverbrook. Perhaps five families, as I recall, spread like a crop of weeds. Most recently the miller's children."
"Evan is interested in the healing arts, Mistress Linnet," explained Darien.
In approval, Sev noted, "Which I am grateful to say his elders are wise enough to encourage."
"A noble occupation for a young man," Linnet responded with a smile for the youth.
Bolder now that he had the attention of both women, Evan asked, "I wonder what you gave the little fellow to ease him."
"You truly want to know?" Linnet cocked her head, and then gladly gave a recitation of the simple treatments she prescribed.
Evan nodded slowly, eyes intent as he drank in every word. When the Rohirrim woman finished, he thanked her and said, "I'll write your treatment down before I sleep tonight. One never knows when that will become useful."
Then, in return, Evan offered hearsay knowledge of various herbals he knew the goodwives of Silverbrook used. Beside him, his brother Neal shook his head in good-natured humour, but said nothing to dissuade the youth.
Eventually pausing, Evan scrunched his face anxiously. "I've heard mumps has some truly frightening affects on grown folk. Especially men. It can make certain things … wither. Have you heard so, Mistress Linnet?"
"Indeed I have, Evan." Linnet's blond eyebrows crept nearly to her hairline, while Sev hid a smile behind her hand. "The effects are said to be ugly to behold, but functionally harmless. However, that is hardly fit discussion for the dinner table."
"No, missus." The youth blushed but grinned nonetheless. "But I reckon it is well to learn wherever I have the chance."
"You are a wise lad, Evan. Now, if all will excuse me, I had best go to the kitchen before Nora comes to fetch me."
As Linnet left, the young man turned back to the remains of his pie, which his brother had just begun sliding from his plate. Dodging a quick backhand, Neal then leaned towards Evan, eyes widening.
"Wither?" he asked.
"Oh, aye." Evan nodded emphatically, forking a chunk of pie. "Just like prunes, so I hear."
Neal swallowed and sank in his seat, while nearby, Halbarad blanched and Russ suddenly found need to cough into his napkin. Before the conversation could stray any further, the front door thumped again, and the missing men, Carrick and Bevin, appeared shrugging off their cloaks.
"There you are!" exclaimed Darien. "There's food and plates, if you sit. Did you find Osric and the boys?"
"Not a hair." Carrick's dour tone struck warning as he thumped gracelessly into an empty chair. "Thought sure we'd find 'em in the taproom at The Black Cauldron."
Darien stared across the table. "Did you check their rooms?"
Bevin shook his head while helping himself to roast pork. "Vanished into thin air, the three of 'em."
With a growling sigh, Darien pushed his empty plate away and dropped his face into one hand. "Blast the fools!"
"Fellow there said -." Carrick interrupted himself to break a thick chunk of bread. "They was in earlier, but left." He cast a puzzled look at his captain. "Said they were talking to that law lord's clerk, what's-his-name with the eyebrows."
"Khint?" blurted Halbarad, and scowled as he and Anardil exchanged glances. "What would Valthaur's clerk want with those…" His frown evaporated into a look of angry puzzlement.
Straightening in his chair, Anardil said, "That orc at the Cauldron, Lorgarth, he said Khint spoke to them before. At the time I thought nothing of it, since I presumed he aided his employer in organising the hearing."
"Organising?" a sudden deep voice growled.
All heads turned towards the living thundercloud that was Russbeorn. His deep-set eyes fixed Anardil with a stare that should have melted the man on the spot.
Anardil caught himself beginning to fidget, and nodded tightly. "I fear I know as little as you, Russ, about the doings of laws and courts."
"ConFOUND them all!" Darien cried, and flung his napkin onto the table. "Whose words did they use, Carrick? For they did not speak their own. Poetry, for pity's sake - Osric nearly spouted poetry in court, and the man can barely ask for a pint of stout without growling like a fat hound."
Carrick simply stared at his lord, mouth full of bread, for he knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. Russbeorn, however, seemed to broaden ominously in the lamplight, and he turned his deep gaze on Darien.
In a subterranean rumble, he said, "Speak clearly what my ears think they hear. Are these hounds of yours answering to another master?"
"I don't know." Darien's outrage went out like a gust of passing wind. "So help me, I don't know."
In the taut silence, Sev lightly touched Anardil's hand, to which he ducked his head and nodded briefly. Taking her fingers in his, he looked around the table.
"There is another matter," the former Ranger said, "which requires examination now. The Whistling Dog barmaid, Sira, claims she saw the man, Margul, in town yesterday."
When Darien sighed, Halbarad groaned, and Erin dropped her fork with a clatter, Russ' expression grew even darker.
"Who is this Margul?" he asked. "Another miscreant?"
"Worse," Halbarad replied sourly. "An insidious weed whose tendrils seem to spring up everywhere."
In explanation, Sev said, "He is, or rather was a wealthy merchant of Minas Tirith, who took an interest in the orc-rights hearing."
"He's just plain no good," added Erin tartly. "Why, he duped Sira into thinking he would marry her and he set that poor simple Cullen up like some sort of gentleman, when all the time Cullen was nothing but his errand boy. He had the lad sneaking around like a footpad, spying on Sevi and the rest of us before and, for all we know, during the first orc hearing. The very nerve!"
Russ' heavy head lowered between his massive shoulders. "Spying to what purpose?"
Halbarad grimaced. "We never found out. All we knew is what Sira reported, that he opposed any legal rights for orcs and, if the barmaid is to be believed, he was looking for means to throw a stick in the spokes of the process. Fortunately he never succeeded."
Brow furrowed in thought, Anardil turned his fork in his hand. "What was odd is the rather ill-favoured woman who later turned up dead in his house. Cullen said she was some sort of lackey, much as he was. But she died with her purpose a mystery, and Margul immediately disappeared."
Sev added, "Beforehand, Sira learned about this strange woman, and naturally being jealous, she confronted her, which became an ugly physical skirmish. So when the woman was found murdered in Margul's own house, Sira feared she might be next, and still fears.""The saddest part was Cullen, though," Erin said, mouth primly set." He was raised the son of good, honest farmers, but that Margul put high and mighty thoughts in his head. That boy tried to put on such airs around town, all dressed in fancy clothes that Margul bought him - and the things he said! Why, he spouted nonsense such as I know his father never taught him, trying to sound like a man of the world. Sounded like a mocking bird, is what."
"A mocking bird…" Anardil stared at Halbarad, who gazed back with a look of dawning realisation.
"By Isildur's beard," Halbarad breathed. "Is he at it again?"
CRASH! The impact of a heavy bench hitting the floor almost stopped every heart. Like a mountain, Russ loomed over them all. For an instant the breath rumbled in his chest as if Mount Doom were feeling indigestive, then the big man visibly restrained himself, though his nostrils flared.
"Master Alfgard," he said, with vast and controlled courtesy, "Please excuse me from your fine table. I must go hunt a louse." Casting a dour glance at Darien, he added, "No, make that three lice."
With that, the Beorning ducked his head and strode from the room, the gust of his passing flickering the lamps as he went. The front door boomed into silence.
Seconds later, Nik's sharp voice cried from the rear of the house, "Teach, where are you going? … Teach?"
A splintering wooden crash was the response.
As one, Anardil and Halbarad bolted for the back door, and nearly flattened Cook as they went. The two men slid to a halt in the darkened yard, to find Nik standing with a baffled mien, while Gubbitch stared down at Lugbac. The huge orc cowered behind the rain barrel with his eyes gleaming in fear, and he waggled one clawed finger towards the back fence.
"It weren't me, I promise!" he cried. "I weren't anywhere near."
A Beorning-sized section of Alfgard's back fence lay strewn in splinters. As two of Alfgard's sentries peered warily around the building, Halbarad plunged both hands into his own hair.
"Please tell me I can wake up now," he said.
Anardil clapped the Ranger captain on the shoulder. "Keep an eye on things, Hal, and … do something Ranger-ish. I'll be back."
Hal dropped his hands and stared after his suddenly-departing friend. "Where are you going?"
"Bear hunting," drifted the reply.
When Anardil vanished through the shattered fence, Halbarad could only hope he knew what he was doing.
Suppressing a groan, the Ranger looked around at the curious faces now appearing from the stable yard's bunkhouse. Then a metallic jangle announced the arrival of two of the Gondorian guards. Hal had some explaining and quick thinking to do.
xxx
Words. Streams, rivers, torrents of words, the big man's ears still rang with them, more than he had heard spoken in the entirety of the past year. The Ranger captain, the elf and even their Rohirrim host had yammered at him until he finally stopped answering just to get some peace. And what had talk gained? Treachery and deceit.
"CONFOUND them all!" Russ roared. His shout echoed in the darkness, startling a dog to frantic yapping.
Nobody peered out from the silent houses, however, and he strode on. He was weary of voices and houses and the stench of too many people living too close together - how could anyone bear such a life? It was time to be done with it all, and he intended to end it now. He would find the truth, and he would bring it back dangling from one massive hand, if he had to. Those he left behind feared what he would do, for none truly knew him. All the same, if fear kept them away while he tended to his task, so be it.
Whether Carrick and Bevin had made an honest search for the missing men, he could not trust. After all, what reason did they have to inform against their own comrades? How much easier would it be to turn a blind eye to their old friends' whereabouts, and come back with yet another lie to explain their desertion? All of them had been orc hunters together, sworn to avenge the deaths of friends and kinsmen in the blood of orc-kind. Russ did not believe those hunters would give up their comrades-in-arms for the sake of a single, undersize Uruk-hai. He did not believe they fully shared in Lord Darien's apparent change of heart.
"No," he rumbled. "A warg does not change its pelt."
The big man met no one on the narrow, silent ways of the village, or if anyone saw his towering form, they swiftly shrank from sight. Let them, for he did not wish interference. Soon the acrid scent of spilt ale and other, less savoury odours told him he had reached The Black Cauldron. A musky pong marked the shacks where lived the orcs who worked in the tavern. If Carrick and Bevin spoke truly, this pub was the last place the three missing men had been seen. As he prowled around the building in the shadows, Russ could see clearly through the tavern's lighted windows. But of course, he spied no trace of his quarry in the taproom or kitchen. He paused, listening keenly to the muffled sounds of voices. None were those he sought.
Well then. Perhaps other senses were called for. It was chancy, perhaps, but his temper had cooled to steady purpose. Where human means did not suffice, others must do. He decided to risk the change. Retreating into a dark stand of trees behind the tavern, he bent and began to remove his boots.
xxx
Anardil pushed his long stride with growing anxiety, the echo of a familiar distant roar lingering in his mind. He reminded himself that Beornings were peaceful folk, and that no one ever heard of a bear-man attacking an innocent person. However, he also remembered that black night before the cave-in that nearly took Sev's and Nik's lives, when one of Darien's men foolishly attacked the giant shape-shifter. That imprudence cost the fellow his life. Would Osric be stupid enough to goad Ham and Tom into violence, especially to save his own skin? Depending on how much liquor the threesome found by now, the outcome was anybody's guess.
And Anardil hated guessing.
Within moments, he arrived at The Black Cauldron, but a swift, silent circuit of the building told him two things: Osric, Ham and Tom were not to be seen, and Russ had likewise disappeared.
However, something turned Anardil's head when he rounded the back of the tavern, clinging to shadows as a Ranger ought. Some ancient instinct piqued his notice, and he stepped back to look - straight at an enormous pair of boots. They almost looked like two horseshoe kegs standing there beneath a birch sapling, an equally huge set of clothes folded neatly beside them. Anardil's stomach dropped straight to his feet.
"Master Celebsul," he whispered to the silence. "I could really use you, about now."
He also remembered that Celebsul had been the only person who could still Russ' wrath when in bear-form, and he shivered to think what the alternative might have been. With Russ changed now, would the giant still think in logical human terms? But then again, it became increasingly apparent that Russ lived by his own logic, while that of ordinary men often made precious little sense to him.
"And it makes sense to me?" Anardil muttered.
Grimly he moved on, wondering how one followed a giant bear in the dark of early night. He soon found the matter fairly simple - one merely followed the trail of hysterically barking house dogs.
xxx
A knobby spur of pine digging into his back, Odbut listened to the baying hounds. Head turning carefully and moon-sheened eyes scanning the shadows, the orc waited for some sign the dogs had been loosed for a purpose. Sharp teeth bared in a silent grin at the thought of a quick battle - something to loosen the muscles and set the blood stirring. He'd been idle too long. Set to fetch and carry for stinkin' tarks like a snaga.
Flexing his fingers, he left a weeping scar in the pine's bark. The time had almost come when his master could take up his old life, and Odbut would be allowed to return to tasks he was better suited for - just a few more days of watching every word, every movement.
The frantic barking faded away to the south, and Odbut gave a small hiss of regret before turning his attention once again to the road visible through the overhanging branches. The task before him was not worthy of his abilities. There was small hope his quarry would dare to fight the trap Odbut had been given to spring. The only pleasure to be gained would be the brief enjoyment of the tark's fear. Soon though, his master promised he would be allowed real sport.
Slow warmth grew as Odbut made plans for the other he had been set to watch: the female. Once before, she had escaped his master, proving far wilier than expected. Perhaps she was worthy of special handling. It had been years since he had taken a breeder. Would his master allow it?
The soft plod of boots brought him back to the task at hand, and he crept from beneath the draping branches. The pale, moon-faced tark weaving past set him to salivating. No good for a fight, there was only one true use for such soft meat. But mindful of his master's instructions, he kept his voice low and without threat.
"Ho there, Master Cullen."
Eyes gleaming with inner delight at the rabbit-like scream and the fear written plainly on the young man's countenance, Odbut stepped forward with arms open to show he held no weapon. As if he would need one against such a creature.
"Just yer ol' friend, Odbut, Master Cullen. Naught to be fright of."
xxx
Many things Russ scented as his big paws padded along. The musk of autumn leaves, the sourness of a tomcat's mark, the interesting tangle of aromas in a trash pit, and once the delicious fragrance of baked apples. He actually paused and champed his jaws over that one, for he did so love baked apples with lots of honey and cinnamon. Clean linens drying on a line, the pungent warmth of a horse, the earthy, piquant smell of a hog pen.
And men, everywhere he tasted the odour of men; men who were healthy, men who were ill, men who were drunk or overly fed on onions. As a librarian thumbs through a sheaf of pages, so the great bear noted and passed over the aromas of his travels. He knew the smell of those he sought, had smelled it enough over the past days' farce, a mixture of sweat and beer and just plain not enough bathing. Dirty people, he thought, seldom had tidy minds.
Then another aroma electrified every hair he owned, and the ruff rose stiffly on his neck: orc. He knew that bitter musk from many years of fighting the goblins of the high passes, and while he accepted the acquaintance of Nik's local orcish friends, he remained wary of the scent of a stranger. A moment's reflection identified the smell as one he had sniffed at the shacks behind The Black Cauldron, and thus the orc must be one of the workers there. Whoever it was, Russ had no desire to make a closer acquaintance. Best he turn away now, before the orc's own beast-like senses detected his presence.
However, something else caught his attention; voices. Two voices, one the harsh, guttural tones of an orc using the Common Tongue, and the other the unsteady notes of a young man. Against his better judgement, the great bear paused, keen ears sharply tuned.
xxx
Cullen closed his eyes tightly, then grimaced and stammered, "Y-y-you startled me, Odbut."
Swallowing desperately, the farm lad wished Sira had never told him the orc was connected with Margul. After a sleepless night reviewing every word he ever spoke to Odbut, he had congratulated himself on the fact that never once did he make mention of any dealings with the mysterious silver-eyed man. But now, face to face with the creature once more, he felt an overwhelming urge to babble pleas of contrition, that he would never whisper a word of Margul ever in his whole life. Of course, to do so would be to admit that he knew the orc had been in Margul's employ and might be now. That, Cullen would prefer not to speak aloud.
"Didn't mean to surprise you, Master Cullen." Odbut stepped closer and gave an open-mouthed grin. "I thought we were friends."
For the first time, the youth noticed how carefully filed the sharp teeth were, how the orc had an uncomfortable habit of cocking his head so it sort of hunched into one shoulder. Unable to stop a small whimper, his high-pitched reply sounded unnaturally loud in the darkness.
"Of course, we're friends, Odbut. It's only th… th.. that I was thinking so hard."
Odbut nodded, and his eyes shone with pleasure. The tark's fear was palpable now; the ripe tang of sweat, the convulsive swallowing and the way his eyes darted about seeking escape - far more entertaining than fishing.
"Lots to be thinkin' about. Lots of excitement in town."
Cullen dragged his eyes from the orc's gleaming teeth and tried to adopt a nonchalance totally at odds with the sweat beading his brow. "Oh, I wouldn't know."
"Why, Master Cullen, thought you'd know all the news. Your father being so outspoken and all." The orc stepped even closer and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, "Be a shame if your father came to any harm. Or that pretty little sister of yours."
Gaping like a newly caught trout, Cullen could not find breath to respond. Here was his worst nightmare come true. Not only was his own life to be held forfeit for his former foolishness - and he had never been so acutely aware of a physical presence as he was of the orc looming mere inches away - but his family's lives were in jeopardy as well.
Finally, he choked, "What does he want?"
"He?" Odbut cocked his head and asked in a low grumble, "Why, who do you mean?"
"Your master." Cullen could not halt the words spilling from his lips. "Sira told me. She remembered Minna saying your name."
The orc chuckled low. The female was indeed worthy of his attentions, but business before pleasure.
"He's your master, too. And it would be best if you didn't forget it. There's no telling who might be hurt otherwise."
Cullen moaned again. There was no way out of this trap. He had known this since the meeting before the Grand Council in Minas Tirith. Now he only prayed he could escape from this moment unscathed.
Head bowed, defeated, the young man said, "What does he want me to do?"
Odbut reached out and caressed Cullen's cheek with a sharp nail. "Nothing too taxing. You attend the hearing tomorrow and look for a signal from the judge's clerk, Khint. You know him? If you see it, you come running straight to me. If you mess this one up, Margul swears he'll kill you."
Having the threat spoken so clearly was almost a relief after all the months of imagining when and how it would come. "What kind of signal?"
xxx
Margul! Khint! The great bear needed to hear no more. Behind every puppet was hidden a puppeteer, and Russ knew but one sure way to uncover him - simply grab the puppet. So he decided to do just that.
Cullen never heard an answer to his question. His gaze riveted just over the orc's shoulder – or actually, over his head – and a huge, coughing roar shattered the darkness. Odbut could not react because he was too busy flipping end over end from the blow of a huge, clawed paw.
The orc's howl cut short when he impacted the ground, knocking the air from his lungs, but Cullen's shriek immediately took over. His scream soared to piercing decibels while he frantically back-pedalled from the horror of an enormous bear leaping from the shadows. A second roar coughed from slavering jaws as the bear's massive weight pounced and pinned the fallen orc to the ground. Thereupon Cullen promptly tripped, fell, and sucked a second breath to scream like a helpless girl.
For the bear was changing, impossibly, horribly changing. The great shape writhed and undulated as if seen through the fumes of an unseen fire, and it elongated and stretched and shrank and grew and its hair – its thick hair seemed to suck back into pallid skin. Then Cullen sat on his arse with no voice left to do anything but wheeze, while the hugest, hairiest and most naked man he had ever seen in his life picked Odbut up as if weightless.
Remarkably, the orc still lived. In fact, he lived rather loudly. Howling once more, Odbut kicked and flailed like a frog plucked from a pond, there at the end of the giant's hard-muscled arm.
That is, until the shape-shifter jerked the orc close to his own bearded face and bellowed, "SHUT UP!"
The following silence was simply marvellous. The giant's vast, muscular chest rose and fell with the wind of his exertion, while he took stock of the situation. His lip curled beneath his beard as his deep gaze raked the now-compliant orc, still dangling captive from one hand, and then the fallen youth staring up from the ground.
When the giant took a step towards Cullen, the terrified youth scrunched his eyes tight shut. Nonetheless, Cullen could plainly feel the crushing weight of a massive foot as it pinned him firmly to the earth.
"Now," rumbled the shape-shifter in deep, cavernous tones, "you will tell me all you know about this Margul person, or I will pull off your arms and legs. Who wants to talk, first?"
A helpless mewling sound seemed all Cullen could produce. Odbut meanwhile merely made strangling noises as his clothing tightened in the massive fist that held him.
"What's that?" the big man growled. "I can't hear you."
Odbut clawed at the giant's imprisoning hand, but of course to no avail. Hatred simmered in the orc's eyes as he struggled for proper breath, and then his lip abruptly sneered over craggy teeth. Whatever words he spat next came in no tongue Cullen had ever heard, but the very sound assaulted his ears with the promise of things black and perverted and unclean.
The bear-man snarled and swung his orc-laden arm back, clearly intent on launching Odbut on a very short and final flight. But a clear voice rang from the dark.
"Russ, NO! We don't want him dead, yet!"
xxx
TBC ...
Ed. note: My apologies for delays in posting! I got busy this weekend and completely lost track of time! Mea culpa!