32

As the days passed, Alaesia's cramping grew less frequent and the bleeding began to slow, providing her with much needed relief. No longer was it a daily occurrence, but it had yet to stop entirely. Even as her condition lifted, so too improved Ar-Tashk's hand.

Each time she tended to the olog's wound, a myriad of observations were noted at the back of her mind. Deep scars were starting to heal across the back of his fist, leaving a track of knotted tissue that curled like a strike of lightning up the length of his forearm. Though his skin tone was a pale, chalky color and the bristles of hair sprouting from his arm were oily black, the scarring left a dramatic purplish hue where the injury had been inflicted. The unfamiliar coloration made it difficult for Alaesia to tell if Ar-Tashk had any infection; if there was, his calm expression didn't betray any wincing or pain when she tightened fresh rabbit skins around his arm.

A cold whirl in her stomach made her tense every time she watched nervously as he began to practice wielding his great big ballista once again. Ar-Tashk's greatest struggle it seemed, was to prevent the weapon from recoiling, sending his iron bolts arcing into the distance resulting in the drudgery of having to track it down, seeing as he only had a limited supply of ammunition.

She quickly learned that his grumbles of: "Urk!" and "Skah!" weren't just the grunts of a beast, but rather he was cursing. She was rather inclined to agree with his foul language, as he would drag her along to follow the direction his bolts fired off in. Eventually, he decided it was better to practice by firing into the dirt base of a hill, rather than continue chasing bolts that strayed into the atmosphere.

With a little more time, Alaesia was sure he would have full control over his aim. The flex of his tendons was becoming more pronounced as he gripped the ballista and the scatter of his shots more condensed. He was eager to practice it every chance he got, and had started taking pot shots at the various types of larger prey they came upon, such as wild boar. Once or twice a shot glanced off his preys' hides, just shy of making a kill.

Alaesia knew if she was going to try to escape, she had little time left to do so, whether or not her own body had stopped bleeding. It was now or never, and she couldn't bear the idea of being returned to the dark, dungeon-like kitchen in the fortress.

As night began to creep in through the shadows around them, Ar-Tashk had gone about building a small fire as usual, but rather than delegate preparation of his latest, triumphant kill, a small deer, to Alaesia, he started to skin and gut it himself.

She felt a nervous knot form in her stomach, wondering if she had missed her chance to steal the shortsword; if he could manage preparing a dead beast now, would she ever get the chance again? But, it seemed her worries were unfounded, as the olog tensed, the blade slipped from his hand. The mood quickly snapped from his triumph over the hunt, to irritation. He snarled, trying to pick it back up, but his hand seemed to have seized, "Lorz nahk! Az urk ulog olog!"

Alaesia flinched as his outburst, but as his anger turned to hoarse huffing, she approached him slowly. "May I…?" Her hand extended, reaching for the blade but not grabbing it until he nodded and moved out of her way. Ar-Tashk seemed to sulk as she took over the task of preparing his kill. He turned his broad back to her, while clenching his fist and gripping it with his other hand, as though crushing the scars under his fingers would help.

In a way, Alaesia could understand his frustration; the state of helplessness was a difficult pit of climb out of, perhaps even more so for a proud olog. Does he feel ashamed for being injured? She wondered, but shook the thought forcibly from her mind. The last thing she needed was to pity an olog. If her previous master was anything to go by, pity would be wasted, or worse, taken as a punishable offense. Ku'Gohn the Gourmet had slit the throat of an orc for the slight of looking upon him with pity.

Alaesia dressed the deer in obedient silence, making sure to give Ar-Tashk a wide berth as she moved about the makeshift campfire. When she had completed that task, instead of handing off the shortsword back to its owner, she slid a couple cuts of meat onto the end, to use it like a roasting skewer. While the food was cooking, she started building more cord from all the intestines, and worked on making the most out of the scraps. Any supplies she could make now would be crucial for her escape. Plan in mind, Alaesia carefully slipped her own share of the food into a makeshift bundle from peely wood-bark for rationing, while feeding the majority of the deer to Ar-Tashk.

Ar-Tashk grunted as she passed him a portion of the meat. He devoured everything she gave him until he felt content. Grease dribbled down his broad jaw as he took the deer's femur and cracked it open between his teeth. Like a hollow reed, he sucked the boiling marrow from the bone before casting the empty shell aside. The awful slurping sounds of the olog gorging himself made his slave's skin crawl, that will be my fate if I don't escape.

"Narnulubat." His deep voice cut into her perturbed thoughts. If Ar-Tashk had been more observant, he might have noticed his slave's shoulders stiffen at his voice, but he was too consumed with the mouthwatering scent of the food she had handed him and his ravenous eyes roved the fire's edge for extra rations. It was the first time in over a fortnight that the olog was able to feed and not go hungry for his slave's sake. The bite of his lean stomach's snarling creeped into his voice as he commanded, "Az dash throqum. More meat."

"Y-Yes, sire…" She uttered hesitantly, before realizing her mistake.

"No sire–" he started to growl until she corrected herself.

"I m-mean, yes, Ar…T-tashk," she wished she could spit his name from her mouth with the loathing she held in her heart for the olog, but something had stolen the firmness from her voice during her time in captivity, leaving it shaky and broken. She hated how piteous and small her voice had become.

Ar-Tashk's leering gaze seemed to bore a hole through Alaesia. She could almost hear the hunger in his own voice as the olog nodded satisfactorily, "Meat, now, Isla-izub."

Alaesia bit her tongue to keep from snapping and correcting him. For all the defiant thoughts that passed through her mind, she still could not bring herself to defy him. The memories of Vezhir's retaliation for daring open defiance made the many scars across her skin sting. Ar-Tashk had yet to strike her, but it's only a matter of time til he will have his way with me. Alaesia bowed her head obediently; after all, it didn't matter if he knew or called her by her real name. In fact, she preferred to keep her name from crossing his brutish tongue. He would never utter it, and once she made her escape, she'd never hear him call her isla-izub again.

While she returned to cooking more of the meat at his order, she monitored the olog, watching a stupor of meat-drunkenness make his attention wane with each passing mouthful. She thought she could see a blissful expression cross his features, like the smile of a big cat that just gorged itself on rats. The thought of an olog being similar to a cat almost made the corner of Alaesia's mouth curl, but she shook the thought from her mind. He's a monster. Not just some animal. A monster! she repeated silently, only to have the memory of the olog saying, not a monster jump involuntarily into her head. No… No, he IS a monster, she insisted, as if trying to convince herself. I must escape tonight, it's now or never!

The meal seemed to drag on and on, yet the olog's eyes began to droop and with little resistance they finally closed. When she began to feel the deep vibration of his breathing through the very air itself, she knew, it was time! Alaesia carefully began to gather all she needed, and could carry. She moved as delicately as she could, while clinging desperately to the chains hanging from her collar and shackles, hoping the clatter and shift of the metal wouldn't wake Ar-Tashk.

She glanced anxiously at the shortsword where it rested, unattended and unclaimed, by the fire, and for a split second mused about turning it on her master; Ar-Tashk's critical mistake could be to her advantage. All it would take was a well placed strike, and perhaps she could be entirely rid of the hulking brute. But olog hides were exceptionally tough, she wondered with passing dismay if she'd even be able to draw blood before waking him; and if so, would she even do enough damage to disable him before he could retaliate? The odds were against her, unless I strike his arm! The partially healed wound of his arm would be the perfect place to dig a blade into for the fresh scarring was still tender and vulnerable. I could cut into the wound, tear it back open! I might even be able to bleed him out if I move quickly enough!

Suddenly, unbidden, her mantra towards the olog turned on her and a sick nausea rolled up her throat; what am I even thinking?! He is not a monster… I am.

She couldn't bring herself to strike the olog, no matter how much her instinct screamed at her. It felt as though her mind was trying to split in two as she argued with herself. He had kept her alive, saving her from Ku'Gohn and Vezhir, treating her wounds and nursing her back from the edge of death. She owed him her life! But he had also tormented her, scarred her permanently. She wouldn't have fallen victim to Vezhir's abuse had he not taken her to the fort in the first place, but at the same time, she probably would have died by Ku'Gohn's hand if he hadn't raided the Gourmet's camp that fateful night. The indecision was gut wrenching, but finally, Alaesia stayed her hand; for keeping her alive, she would spare his life. I refuse to become a monster, like these orcs and ologs… like him.

She finished gathering her supplies in silence, both vocally and in her mind. If she allowed the internal debate to continue, she would waste the precious moments she had while Ar-Tashk was unconscious. She moved to grab the sword, it would be still be useful, even if she wasn't going to use it against the olog. The blade was charred with smoke from the fire and the oil of the meat that had cooked upon it. She made a mental note that she would need to clean it when she had a moment, only to have a massive wave of pain strike her stomach, nearly sending her to her knees.

The woman stifled a cry, clenching her jaw through the agony, just so she could painstakingly extract the end of her chain from under Ar-Tashk's arm. She was finally free. The slack of her chain felt lighter than it ever had in her hands. A breath of sweet relief rose in Alaesia's lungs but she choked it back down; she didn't have time to savor her success. If she started bleeding again now, her captor would undoubtedly be awoken by the scent.

She wrapped the chain in an 'x' over her shoulders to minimize the clanking. With her food, weapon, and various small bits of animal-sourced materials, she crept quietly away from the light of the dying fire, and off into the hills.

Alaesia walked with a soft step for about an hour or so, only then feeling she had reached a point that even an olog couldn't hear her. The whole while she prayed for grace that she might disappear without any trace so he couldn't track her. But it wasn't long before she felt the warm drip of blood down her leg. She would have to make her way to the river if she wanted any chance at erasing her trail. But who knew just what she might attract by taking such a risk.

Ar-Tashk was immediately aware of his isolation as he began to wake up. The sun was cresting the horizon, cutting into his eyes, but it was the lack of his slave's presence that snapped him into wakefulness. He scrambled to his feet, whirling around and trying to make sure he wasn't just missing where Alaesia had gone to rest. "Isla-izub! Mal ta…"

When his eyes fell upon the ground, he noticed the drag marks just beside where he had been laying, marks that matched the size and shape of the chains that bound her. He tried thinking back, why or even how he hadn't noticed, but his mind came up blank. Surely, she didn't slip away of her own accord, and yet if any other inhabitants of Mordor had stolen her, they definitely wouldn't have left the olog alive. He certainly wouldn't have been able to sleep through that. With sudden realization, he patted his hands up and down his geared body, finding the scabbard of the shortsword empty. She had taken it.

Ar-Tashk felt a familiar flash of anger boiling from within; it rushed up from the depths of his gut, like a pressure that had been suppressed until reaching a critical mass. His whole head began to ring and buzz with a fog of red that filled his vision; for all the pain he had put himself through, his attempt to take her out of the lands of the Dark Lord, that foolish human woman had decided to flee into the depths of Mordor alone and horribly unprepared! They were still weeks of travel from the Ephel Duath, if not more, and even so, the closer they came to the mountains, the more natural perils there were!

He snarled and scattered the fire remains with a kick; he wanted so badly to grab Alaesia and shake some sense into her; she would never make it out of Mordor alive in her condition. But in place of where he had become accustomed to Alaesia standing in his shadow, was an emptiness that reverberated in the olog himself. The emptiness somehow hurt worse than any wound.

Ar-Tashk gathered his supplies in a gruff fit. When his scarring hand protested in pain, he grabbed the rabbit skin bandage that was still tied around it, ripped it off, and threw the skin aside. He didn't want any reminder of how she had tended to his injuries; it only left him with a foul bile rising in his chest. As if bidden by some voice, not his own, he wanted nothing more than to track her down.

Hunt her… a voice breathed into his mind, she is yours. Hunt her. Have her. Take her.

No punishment was too soft for betrayal, casting aside an olog's loyalty! A proud olog as he was, like a wild beast, should have never permitted a stupid pinkskin to entice him into submission. All the beast tamers Ar-Tashk had ever observed had one thing in common; beasts were expendable. He was expendable in the eyes of that furalurz snaga. The olog flexed his hand, forcing past the protesting muscles, then hefted his ballista. His escapee slave would regret taking his submission for granted, she would suffer for expending his newfound empathy!

Picking up Alaesia's trail was simple for the olog. She wasn't well equipped with any formal training to obscure or misdirect her tracks and her scent had engrained itself into his brain, though it now caused his body to tense in anger. The voice in his head goaded him to follow, to hunt.

It didn't take long for Ar-Tashk to pin point out the direction she had gone, and he swiftly found his way along the rocks and crags until he found blood staining the ground. It was only a small amount, he surmised, probably only from her lingering wounds. The sight of the slave's blood at one time had evoked a desire of cruelty, and now once more awoke that same animal instinct. He could feel it overwhelming whatever part of him had softened for the human, turning his heart hard again, back into the heart of a real olog. Her bloody trail would be her downfall, she would never be able to outmaneuver the olog's tracking.

He checked the ground carefully as he followed, noting that shortly after the bleeding began, she turned Southwards, towards the river. No doubt to cleanse the blood away in the water, just as he had made her do in days previous. It would, after all, allow all manner of hunters to track her down with relative ease. Ar-Tashk paused mid-track, noting a distinctive odor filling the air, and a deeply gouged trail of prints that converged inline with Alaesia's path. His facial features curled in contempt; it seemed he wasn't the only one who had their sights set on finding whatever was at the end of the trail. He hurried onward, remiss to let anything else to interfere with the matters between slave and master.

****Translations****

Urk - Damn

Skah - Mispronunciation of "Skai" meaning shit

Lorz nahk! Az urk ulog olog! - Stupid hand! I'm a damn crippled olog!"

Narnulubat - Thank you

Az dash throqum - I still hunger

Isla-izub - my life-maker

Mal ta? - Where is she?

Furalurz snaga - traitorous slave