****Author's note****

Be advised: This chapter contains content that may be distressing for some. Read at your own discretion with the tags/rating of this story in mind. If you do not want to read such content, a summary of important plot details is available at the end of the chapter.

7

The night was as still as a grave, and no moon cast any shadows in the dense underbrush of the Nurn region. Any utterance in the depths of the night were sure to signal or elicit a calculated slaughter. Ar-Tashk's company swept across each campground as marked by the overlord, with precision.

The great hulking olog was surprisingly silent as he navigated over the moss-slicked rocks along the coast. The only hint that anything lurked in the darkness was when the crickets ceased their chirping. By the time the still air was noticed, it was often too late for Ar-Tashk's targets.

Alongside the olog, Vezhir had placed a band of about fifteen uruks, all hand-picked from those the overlord believed to be the most loyal and obedient. If the olog was hardly noticeable as a shadow that passed through the campgrounds, the uruks were nigh invisible. They were each well trained in the art of stealth and assassination. Their job was to ensure the cleansing of the region was kept in silent secrecy, to prevent any pushback. Sure, killing off orcs by stabbing them in the back, or slitting their throat, wasn't very sportsman-like, but executing Vezhir's plan was far more important than giving his enemies a fair chance to fight back.

Ar-Task would have his underlings scout each camp in the daytime, devise a plan of attack by twilight, and then strike when the pitch of night would cover the carnage they wrought. The olog took great pleasure in impaling the lead orc over each campground, often as they were mid-sentence talking to their own underlings, only to have the assassins silence any horrified onlookers before they could so much as curse.

Ar-Tashk wasn't keen on stopping his followers from indulging themselves after each task was completed. The resulting slaughter made for a perfect feast, as orc bodies piled up. In fact it was the perfect way to keep any passing orc patrols from suspecting anything was wrong at the campgrounds. Letting his assassin's ransack the various supplies, chug grog, and tearing into the bodies of their victims kept their bellies full so they wouldn't try to get at the slaves Ar-Tashk had been commanded to take from each campground.

Vezhir had been very adamant that any human slaves they found were to be spared and contained until further orders were given. Ar-Tashk wasn't sure why, but it didn't particularly concern him, except for the need to keep the assassins from trying to claim a slave for themselves once or twice. After beating one particularly enthusiastic uruk with an iron bolt, the rest were quick to keep their claws off.

Still, keeping chainlines of slaves in his sight at all times was simultaneously irritating and only served to remind Ar-Tashk that he had his own slave that he was allowed to torture, waiting for him back at the fort. The sooner he finished this cleanse of orcs, the sooner he could actually satisfy his building sense of aggravation.

After the first couple nights on the prowl, Ar-Tashk had amassed a good dozen or so slaves from one camp. As he went to retrieve one out of a wrought iron cage, it tried desperately to resist.

"Let me go! Please!" It besieged Ar-Tashk, trying to shove with all its might against his grip. "I'll do anything you want, just let me go!"

"Be quiet!" one of the assassin's hissed at the human from where he was crouching over his latest kill. "Shut up if you want to live, you stupid snaga!"

The slave's face visibly paled, but abject fear clouded their better judgement, "Spare me! I can't die! Not like this!"

A sick sense of satisfaction and cruel mockery of a smile marred Ar-Tashk's face. He'd been craving this exact feeling, total power over life, where he could make others beg for mercy. The Reaper was plenty merciful, after all, he could make their suffering long and painful, or short and even more painful. The delicious sound of the slave's blubbering whine set Ar-Tashk's blood on fire. The flood of instinctual power was impossible to control.

"Please! NO–!"

The olog's hand grabbed the human with ease and clamped down as though it had a mind of its own. Ar-Tashk felt the slave's ribcage collapse like a brittle wicker basket in his grip, and the violent gush of blood and innards soaked the olog's hand. Shards of bone punctured outwards, needling his palm. The last gurgle of the slave fainted away into silence. Ar-Tashk whirled on the remaining slaves and flung the corpse down at their feet with a baneful look. Before any of them moved or made a sound, he snapped, "Hoshat! Silence to live."

The slaves huddled together, totally consumed by the sight of their once-companion, now an unrecognizable pile of meat thrown to the ground like a scrap for dogs. Even the uruk assassins in the vicinity exchanged glances, which Ar-Tashk was well aware of. Vezhir wouldn't be happy to have lost a slave, but the olog shook the thought from his mind. He simply couldn't let such a dumb, weeping animal alert his enemies, that was all. A slave that couldn't obey was a liability, and he assumed Vezhir would understand the cost of killing a slave was far less than whatever plan he was scheming falling through because one slave couldn't shut up.

Yet, as he thought about the sensation of the human's fragile body shatter under his hand, he was left dissatisfied. Ar-Tashk's mind had gone blank in the moment, all that mattered was keeping the operation secret, and his instincts had blinded him. He felt cheated. He hadn't even had time to take pleasure in the slave's demise.

He hated not being allowed to kill as he wanted, especially when such a vulnerable chattel was right under his nose. Just as much as his underlings wanted to have at the slaves, to tear them to pieces, the olog wanted to as well. Realistically, not even the assassins could, or would, stop him, if he did it. They answered to him first, while in the field.

Ar-Tashk let out an agitated growl as the assassin who had tried to order the slave to shut up, interjected into the olog's incensed thoughts, "Ey, what wos tha, boss..? You hav'n a go?"

Ar-Tashk scowled, "Made example. Nothing else."

"Roight…" The assassin shifted his eyes to the carcass, "Shame to waste it, I thinks… sir."

Ar-Tashk followed the assassin's gaze, and was briefly tempted to take a share of the body, but he waved his hand dismissively, "Sorkh-ishi naga vrast-ik."

The assassin lunged at the carcass the moment Ar-Tashk gave him permission, only to have others join him. They shoved back and forth, trying to tear a bite of the human meat for themselves. Everyone knew tarks were softer and sweeter than orc flesh. To the horror of the other slaves, the body was demolished in less than a minute. When the olog came around to command them to their feet, each swiftly complied for fear of what he would do to them.

Ar-Tashk couldn't do much to fight the urge to slaughter the lot of them, but withheld only for the fact that he didn't want to have to hunt down extra slaves for Vezhir. The only thing he could do to sate his urges was to picture making his own slave beg for her life before taking it.

The idea of having command of life and death over her made Ar-Tashk purr a deep rumble in the pit of his chest. When this was all over and Ar-Tashk was finished with Vezhir's campaign, he would be able to take the slaves the caves, he would be free to torment his slave finally.

****Summary To Skip Violent/Gory Sequence****

While Ar-Tashk is carrying out Vezhir's plans to destroy orc encampments in the secrecy of nightfall, a human slave, taken into custody by Ar-Tashk, panics and fails to obey orders to be silent. In order to keep a low profile, Ar-Tashk crushes the slave to death. He fantasizes about being able to torture his own slave, Alaesia, back at the fort.

****Translations****

Tark - Human

Snaga - Slave

Hoshat! - Silence!

Sorkh-ishi naga vrast-ik - Share with the other assassins