6

Alaesia felt as though she were held in the heart of a blacksmith's forge, the hounds of hellish fire ripping and tearing at nearly every inch of her body. Yet her vision was black. She wondered, struggling to focus on any singular thought for too long, is this death?

She had thought that death would finally free her of the pain. Every once in a while she thought she could sense cool water just beyond her reach, only to suddenly feel as though she were forced beneath waves of a sea, unable to breathe as it flooded her lungs. But even that seared down her throat, conjuring a distant memory.

Alaesia was only around nine at the time, when she snuck away from home. She wanted to peek at a regiment of Gondorian soldiers that had come down from the Black Gate to dispose of a small band of orcs that were resourceful enough to start digging at the base of the gate. The orcs didn't make much headway in their attempt to tunnel under the massive structure, but it was enough to elicit a swift and commanding response from the Gondorians, who snuffed out the lot of orcs with little effort.

Alaesia had been drilled by her parents to stay far away from both orcs and men of the gate, but curiosity was far too powerful to resist. She crept along the fringes of the gate, trying to get close enough to see the men up close as they stacked orc bodies in preparation for a mass grave.

"Ey! Stop right there!" A voice rang out, and the thud of steps came rushing up behind Alaesia. She tried to duck behind a rocky outcropping, but her pursuer caught up easily, grabbed the girl by the ankle, and uttered a curse under his breath, "Ah Mordor's hellfire, yer just a kid… What's a bleedin' child doing down here-"

Alaesia whirled around and kicked her tiny heel into her pursuer's nose, making him yelp mid sentence and stumble backwards. Freed from his grasp, she scampered behind the outcrop and under a suspended slab of stone. He moaned and nursed his bruised ego, while also stemming a small nosebleed, "Ouuwww…Wait! I didn't mean to scare ya."

"I'm no' supposed to talk to you!" She snipped back. When the figure crouched at the alcove's entrance, Alaesia flung a rock at him, beaning the silhouette once more in the center of his forehead.

"ACH! Would ya quit that? I'm not goin'ta hurt ya!" he retorted, holding up both hands on surrender. When Alaesia finally turned to look back, she took a moment to assess her pursuer. It was immediately obvious he was a soldier from the gate, dressed in armored uniform, and looking a little worse for wear; Alaesia's attacks only added to an already roughed up face. He rubbed his head ruefully, "You've got quite an arm, lil lass. Will you come out? Promise, I don't bite."

When there was no response, the Gondorian soldier moved away from the alcove, muttering just loud enough for her to hear, "Wonder if she's hungry..." He made a mental note upon a small shuffle of feet behind him.

"'Course I am!" Alaesia quipped from the fringe of the alcove. She retreated the second he started turning back towards her.

The soldier looked away once more, humming to himself, "Little cave bears need lots to eat after all. Too bad, could've shared my rations if she wanted some." He moved down the slope of the mountain foothill a bit, just so he was in the line of sight of Alaesia's little hideaway. The soldier set his kit on the ground and unwrapped a small bread roll and an apple. He was just about to take a bite, when a trickle of pebbles was knocked loose just up the hill.

Alaesia hesitantly poked her head around the rocky outcropping and crept closer to the soldier. The moment he lifted the food to his mouth, she scooted down the slope until she was an arm's length or so away from him. When he tilted his head in her direction, she tensed.

"I know ya can throw, how about catch?" He gave her a little grin and tossed the apple to her. Alaesia snatched it from the air like a little cat, only to examine it with a look of confusion.

To the soldier's surprise, she held it back out to him, "I don't know how to eat this. Can I 'ave the bread instead?"

"How's about we share 'em? Half 'n half?" He took the apple in hand and carved it into a few slices, then placed it on half of the bread roll and handed it back. Even still, she peeled the slices of apple off, just to eat the roll on its own. He shook his head exasperatedly, "So, what're you doing down here, little cave bear?"

"I live here." Alaesia was not particularly open to his questioning. Her focus was almost entirely consumed with savoring the bread roll.

"How'd you end up here?"

"Um, I just have always been here, I guess?" She pondered for a moment, "My mama 'n papa live here, so I do too."

The soldier's face grew somber with realization, she was a child born to the outcasts; no wonder she had said she wasn't supposed to talk to him. The history between the Gondorians and the outcasts was troubled, and he now realized it affected more than just the parties involved. Though this child was not guilty of any crimes, she bore the same punishment her parents did. The thought sorrowed the soldier's heart with pity, but he smiled at her, "Will you at least try the apple? It's good, I promise. See?"

He ate his own slice of apple to demonstrate, to which Alaesia eyed him carefully, like she was expecting it to be poison. Upon the lack of his sudden death, she caved in and ate a slice herself. The soldier burst out in laughter when her eyes went completely buggy and she very nearly began inhaling her apple slices. It was like nothing she had ever had before!

A chunk happened to slip down the wrong tube in her haste, making her break into a coughing fit. The soldier gave her a couple good taps on her back to dislodge it, then with great hesitation, held out his canteen for her to drink from. He was mid sentence warning her to be sparing, when she snatched it and took a giant swig of Gondorian "firewater."

The memory was a welcome comfort to Alaesia's dark mind, but a similar burning sensation poured down her throat. She sputtered and choked until she could finally catch a single breath, but still her vision remained black. At some point, she slowly became aware that something or someone was lifting her by her neck, and was actually pouring some sort of foul ale into her mouth.

She tried to kick it away, but wasn't even sure if her legs responded to her intent. Behind her eyelids, she could see the slightest hint of light, being overshadowed by her hulking captor as he forced a waterskin between his slaves lips, forcing her to drink a portion of his grog rations.

Ar-Tashk was simultaneously disgusted and bemused at what ridiculous instinct was driving him to keep this pathetic slave alive. It had been a couple days since he had cauterized her wounds, to prevent infection from robbing the life that was rightfully his to take. The last she had spoken, she had again tried to order the olog take her life, which only angered the Reaper more. Death was his to command, and his only; so every time she failed to beg for her life, it enraged the olog even more.

He knew he wouldn't have much time before Vezhir would have another raid for him to leave the fortress; Ar-Tashk was becoming more and more agitated to revive the pinkskin, so he could have the full pleasure of snuffing out her life. But a day passed, and another, and she did not stir. Eventually, a goblin breached the olog's quarters to request his presence on behalf of Vezhir.

Ar-Tashk had not seen the overlord since he had first returned with his slave; he had assumed the uruk was simply in his chambers, scheming as usual. The olog wondered briefly, before donning his armor, if his slave would simply die while he was sent off to do Vezhir's bidding. As he buckled his armor straps, Ar-Tashk looked over her small, starved and scarred form that he had manhandled without a second thought over the last few days; she seemed as fragile as the corpse of a newborn fawn.

He supposed it made sense for something with a natural existence bordering so close to death to seek after it. Perhaps there was fun to be had by keeping something so weak from slipping to the afterlife; the thought of that cruel irony made him snort and a strange hope that she would live until his return flickered in the back of his mind.

It made him pause, just long enough to decide she would be better off chained to the base of the column, rather than hanging from it. He lifted her chains off the sconces where he had lashed them and used one of his massive iron bolts to pin it into the stone floor. Then he hung his grog-filled waterskin from the top of the bolt where she could retrieve it if she awoke and, finally satisfied, exited the chamber to meet with his overlord.

Vezhir was waiting, perched at the edge of the fortress's throne, a relic of whomever originally built the structure. He welcomed Ar-Tashk with a hooked grasp of his hand. Other uruks and ologs of the war lord's most trusted allies began arriving shortly afterwards to gather in the meeting hall.

Some of the warriors present held no love for each other, and openly spit at each other. But Vezhir's command held their loyalty first and foremost. While a malformed crow-like creature sat on his shoulder, Vezhir gestured towards it, "You've all been summoned here to be a part of my plan to build an army truly worthy of the Dark Lord. Sniveling tarks, orc snaga, the weak will be culled to pave the way for the strong with their bones. To make this a reality, I've recruited a dum-shatraug..."

The title meant nothing to Ar-Tashk, but he wasn't stupid enough to ask. A thicker orc present wasn't so witted, "Wot's a dum-trashug... shatrab?"

The other captains present scoffed at the orc only to elicit a silencing, shrill hiss from Vezhir, who curtly explained, "A dum-shatraug, a goblin witch, is known for their unnatural majicks that twist and bind, souls and time. My servant has successfully located such a witch and is bringing her to the fort to serve me. That is where the rest of you come into the plan. We need to strike, swift and immediate, to prepare for the witch's arrival. Eight camps in particular have the fuel we need for this witch's majick."

He unfurled a map for all to see, and marked each camp with a strike of his owlish claws, in quick succession. As he reached to point out the final camp, the foolish orc who had questioned Vezhir just prior was taken aback to realize it was his own camp marked for destruction.

He snarled in outrage and leapt from his seat at the table readying his weapon. Vezhir didn't need to even flinch, as before the orc could make his attack, Ar-Tashk had struck like a tiger and smashed the orc into the floor. There was a loud crack as the orc's head was very audibly split in two by the force of a half-ton olog dropping all of his weight on him.

The others at the table roared at the bloodied mess and beat their weapons on the table like war drums, Vezhir's eyes flashed a warning glare to each in turn, before settling on Ar-Tashk with an unsettling smile. Silence retook the room as the olog rose from his prey, black blood dripping from his face and hands. Vezhir nodded at Ar-Tashk, "The Reaper will lead the cleansing of the camps."

****Translations****

Tark - Human

Snaga - Slave

Majick - A mispronunciation of magic

Dum-shatraug - Fate Witch