***** Author's Note *****

The following chapters may be a bit delayed. I want to refactor a few things to make them flow better, so I'm working on that at the moment as well as writing the following chapters. But you can see content as sooner: Would you like to read YRWYS chapters early as soon as they are finished? Discuss writing, art, and orcs? Share your own creative works and get feedback? Then please join the discord server I made! Link in my bio!

54

Why in the blazes had that STUPID orc accused him of wanting nothing more than a breeder?! Ar-Tashk's blood boiled that his desire for something so rare and so powerful could be reduced to the pitiful notion his Isla was something so wretched and tainted as a bala. His only conclusion was that the orc was an absolute fool! It had only been Ar-Tashk's reverence for his Isla that made him spare the orc in the first place! The olog almost couldn't fathom why she wouldn't just turn a blind eye to the judgement he would have cast upon the orc. That worm had insulted her and yet, had she not begged to spare the orc, Ar-Tashk would have ground him into the earth where he belonged!

Ar-Tashk huffed angrily, scenting at the air, trying to focus, but his temper seemed to stir the Voice from its silence, and it slithered into his ears with a cruel growl, You are the fool, olog. You think a human has any value? A tark can at least throw himself upon orcish blades. A man can at least FIGHT. That female isn't worth her own excrement.

How was it he was the only one who could see his Isla's value? Ar-Tashk wondered with furious scorn. Every orc and uruk seemed to look upon her with the disdain one might when looking at a rat or some other pest. At best, most others seemed to think of her as a tool, or a piece of meat; a fact, Ar-Tashk adamantly didn't want to recall, even though he was not innocent of either. But all that had been before, he didn't see her like that now! Not anymore, at least. He wanted to insist, but he didn't even know if he would be telling the truth. What did he see her as?

"Hoshat..." Ar-Tashk grumbled distractedly as he bent to check tracks that marked up the forest floor. There was an unmistakable scent of that green orc having come through this area. The olog figured to himself, if the orc was telling the truth, it would be easiest to follow his trail to wherever he had spotted the warg. The beast would regret not leaving its territory, he thought with eager bloodlust just barely edging out the Voice.

But it wouldn't go without a fight. She betrayed you, left you, fell in with those orcs! She deserves your punishment!

The betrayal that had cut him so deeply didn't seem quite as simple as he had first assumed. He hated to admit it, but the insolent orc was right about one thing. Ar-Tashk had taken the human woman as a slave first and foremost, and he had never made her swear loyalty to him. He was the only one whose mind had changed, who gave her the title, Isla. She had only called him by titles of subordination, like sire or master, Ar-Tashk realized bitterly, at least until he had demanded she call him by his name. And like an obedient slave, his Isla had done as she was told... ONLY as far as she was told. If in all this time, she still thought she was only his slave, not his Isla, then was she really even to blame for trying to escape? Had she actually betrayed him... Or was it only a foul accusation by the Voice?

"Ruz snaga narzgab madur..." He mumbled back and cracked a loose branch between his tense fingers. "Nar, na zur..."

The Voice pushed back, trying to find an opening to his mind to continue feeding him doubts, but it was overshadowed. His tracker's focus took hold in an instant, readying Ar-Tashk instinctively for a fight. His quarry was yet unseen in the thick underbrush, but Ar-Tashk felt the bristles at the nape of his neck start to prickle and rise, as the heavy musk of warg drifted by in the air. Just there, a good twenty paces or so away, the underbrush was wriggling like a web with a bug stuck in its tendrils. Ar-Tashk paused, slowly drawing one of his few remaining iron bolts from his quiver, and settling it into the channel on his ballista. With surprising silence, even moving through the greenery, he made his way forward, readying the weapon.

A mess of fur grazed across the bushes, just barely visible through the foliage as it dragged its matted pelt on twigs and thorns. The heavy breathing that Ar-Tashk could hear was distinctly animal. Simpering whines now reached his ears, allowing him to pinpoint exactly where his prey was moving to. A few paces to the left, a pause, then back to the right. The motion was repetitive and it was simple to work out the pattern and plan his next move. Ar-Tashk dropped the tip of his ballista into position, taking aim where the beast would be walking. The trigger was taut under his finger as the form of the gray warg passed a small gap in the bushes. The latch clicked, and the bolt launched forward at eye-blinding speed, just as a branch snapped to Ar-Tashk's left flank.

He had been so intent, so focused, that he had failed to realize there were two different warg scents in the air. The second beast had launched itself from the dappled shadows of the forest, flying through the air directly at him; at the same time his initial target, the gray warg, let out a scream at the impact of the ballista bolt. From where the gray beast was in the next patch away, it dropped out of sight and a vivid cerulean light pulsed into the air like lightning. Even as the flash peaked and crackled over the surrounding area, it seemed to wash over every leaf nearby, but Ar-Tashk didn't have a moment to question it.

Before he knew what was going on a pint-size warg had latched onto his shoulder, clawing and ripping into him. The brown-pelted beast was trying its best to climb up the olog's side to gain purchase in his thick neck, but it was a futile effort for how easily Ar-Tashk could shrug and throw off its balance. Undeterred, the little beast buried its half-grown fangs into the olog's forearm as he swung it around. As if savoring the taste, the pup ground its crushing molars into Ar-Tashk's flesh.

"Lath madr, lat nardur alai" Ar-Tashk snarled, easily palming the young wargs' head with his free hand. Prying it away was almost impossible for how its muzzle sunk into his muscles until it was flush into the skin around it. It growled defiantly back at him and locked its jaws in harder, refusing to let him go. Each attempt to pull it away only made the thick fangs pierce deeper. It clung and gnawed, just out of reach of Ar-Tashk's other hand as he swung around, trying to swipe at it. There seemed to be little chance to remove the creature, other than smashing its skull in, which Ar-Tashk knew was going to hurt himself just as much as it would the pup, but he didn't get the chance to make that decision. Another yelp sounded out from where the gray warg had dropped out of sight. As quickly as the little bastard had set into its attack, at the call of its elder packmate, the warg pup detached itself and kicked off Ar-Tashk's gut, knocking the wind out of the olog.

Ar-Tashk whirled, knowing he couldn't take even a moment to regain his breath. Blood and shreds of flesh rolled down his wrist as he quickly readied himself for the elder beast, the big gray one, to come charging in. Yet to his surprise instead, the yearling backed away with a reluctant and threatening snap of its jaws in the olog's direction and then scurried off towards its packmate.

For a moment, Ar-Tashk was left dumbfounded, but he raced after it, trampling every branch or plant in his path. When he broke through to where he figured the gray warg would be, he found only a pool of blood staining the ground. Neither his iron bolt nor his prey were anywhere to be seen. In the distance, heading in the opposite direction from the den site, he could hear the pair of wargs slinking away together.

They seemed to have gotten the message that they were no longer the masters of this territory, which was good enough for Ar-Tashk. It would be a waste to try hunting the older one. The amount of blood left trailing behind it meant it wouldn't last too long. Maybe a day at most. It would be simple to track it down and retrieve the bolt later, he figured to himself. And the pup wouldn't get a second chance to sneak up on him again if it even dared to come back on its own. That was all that mattered really. With the wargs driven away, there wouldn't be many other things that could harm his Isla.

Ar-Tashk leaned back against a tree, trying to see the damage done to his arm. The last few days of tracking and fighting constantly were starting to take a toll on him. Exhaustion was creeping into his muscles, particularly where he had sustained his multiple injuries. A frown furrowed his brow; had living at the fort lessened his stamina? Sure, he was just as capable a warrior as ever, but a few weeks of travel wasn't usually this tiring. More likely than not, he mused, subsisting on rabbits for weeks on end hadn't done him any favors. The thought of the warg carcasses awaiting him back at the den site make his stomach growl. Certainly, he'd feel a lot better with a proper meal.

As he took note of his injuries, curses coursed through his head at the little beast for shredding the opposite limb to the one that was just scarring over. Now both were thoroughly torn, which made Ar-Tashk grimace. He had only just started regaining control over the first injured arm. The whole situation left him feeling uncomfortably similar to how helpless he had been, so many years ago before he had left the desertous wastes of the south. The olog let out a low growl at the memory. He NEVER wanted to feel that weak again!

At the clearing just outside the warg den, at the exact moment Ar-Tashk's bolt had sunk into the gray warg's body, Zathra, who was still laying prone trying to summon every drop of magic he could, felt the impact of the iron shaft as if the olog's iron bolt had struck his own chest. The sudden disembodied feeling of impalement hit him like a ton of bricks, and for a moment silent shock seized his tongue. Something had shifted, the trickle of magic within him stagnating briefly...

He hesitated, ignoring whatever Barbaurak was jabbering on about. "What the... what was th-"

Then, the torrent struck.

Nothing in all of Middle Earth could quite describe the burning, searing agony that poured into Zathra all at once, starting from the crown of his head and tearing all the way down to his toes. It didn't matter that he pinched his eyes shut, a blinding blue light seemed to blare out from his own skull and he couldn't block it out in the slightest. At the same time as the excruciating pain, he could feel parts of his body that had been shattered by the olog start to reform, even without him intentionally willing the magic to do so. The orc curled involuntarily into a ball, kicking and writhing, biting back wails of agony.

"What in Mordor's hellfire..." Barbaurak hissed, trying to scoot away and out of range of those slashing claws, while notice a strange web of blue energy crawling across the ground towards Zathra. He watched in vague horror as his subordinate contorted like a ghul, burying his claws into the earth and stone chunks around him all while the energy seemed to coalesce and slither onto Zathra's limbs. Barbaurak could hear the gristle and sinew of Zathra's body protesting even from a distance as it creaked and snapped. Zathra's mouth was agape in a choking silent scream, but a hum reverberated out of his chest. Bones cracked, and his skin seemed to look like it was boiling where the bruises had marred him. All Barbaurak could do was watch with morbid curiosity, "What the shrakh is wrong with you?!"

A brilliant blue glow seeped from between Zathra's eyelids and seemed to follow his veins with the pulse of his heart. Contusions across his skin started to knit together as the light passed through them subcutaneously. The orc's hips pulled and twisted, and he could feel where the ball of the joint had broken away welding itself back together with his femur, with just as much heat as a forge. It felt for a moment that even as his body was being reassembled, he might not survive the process. The pain ripping through him was too much to bear!

When the thrashing finally slowed and glowing stopped, Barbaurak hefted himself closer to Zathra. There wasn't a hint of breath in his chest; if there was even a pulse, it was too faint for Barbaurak to hear. Was Snake-Tongue dead? He wondered, utterly lost at what in the world had just happened. One moment, they had been discussing the incident of his conversation with the olog, and the next Zathra looked like he started cooking alive without any warning. Barbaurak was plenty familiar with watching things cook alive, it was a pleasure really, but this was different, spontaneous like some unseen entity had decided to curse Zathra in particular. What witchcraft had befallen him, Barbaurak could only assume was the result of Zathra's own dabbling in elvish powers he had no control over. Yet, even as Barbaurak started to suspect his subordinate to have finally been consumed, he could see blue light still flickering.

The light was gathering on the other side of Zathra's still form, and Barbaurak leaned, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening now. As he did, the orc watched, unable to look away, as Zathra's stump of an arm was filling with the glow and it seemed to be seeping from the end of his arm like worms crawling out of a wound. Tiny strings of magic reached out, twisting and binding together to make ropes that slithered like they had a mind of their own. The more strings that fused the more solid and clear the image became as to what was happening. Even as Zathra lay there, dead to the world for all Barbaurak knew, the magic coursing through him was forming an ethereal visage of his missing arm, down to the very detail of ghostly, orcish claws.

***** Translations *****

Isla - Lifemaker
Bala - Breeder
Tark - Human (Contextually referring to a male human)
Hoshat... - Silence... (or Shut up...)
Ruz snaga narzgab madur... - Of course a slave wants freedom...
Nar, na zur... - No, she was clever...
Lath madr, lat nardur alai! - Let go, you little beast!

***** Author's Note *****

I hope that what is happening in this chapter is clear. I was trying to hint at it through previous chapters, but I wasn't sure if I was being too vague or too obvious. It's a difficult balance to strike. I'd love to know if anyone picked up on what I was alluding to!

Ch 43 - The Gray Warg and Zathra square up. Zathra channels almost all of his magic into his hand to use as a decoy.

Ch 45 - The Gray Warg rips off Zathra's arm (containing almost all of his magic and eats it.)

Ch 48 - 51 - Zathra has now been nearly pulverized by Ar-Tashk and can barely keep himself alive, because 99.9% of his magic is no longer in his body.

Ch 52 - This is because the magic in Zathra's arm is still busy fulfilling his goal in Ch 43/ Ch 45, making the Gray Warg's life miserable as a distraction. (Frogblood witnesses the Gray Warg acting weird because it's being driven mad by the magic inside its body, which is why the warg didn't attack him.)

Ch 54 - (You are here! :D) The Gray Warg is still trying to fight the magic inside itself, when Ar-Tashk makes a sneak attack. Ar-Tashk shoots the Gray Warg, but then he himself gets jumped by the Warg Pup. The distraction of injury that Ar-Tashk's attack inflicts upon the Gray Warg allows the magic to overpower the warg, and thus with its job done, it returns to Zathra full force. With all of Zathra's attempts to force himself to heal, when the magic does return to him, he is immediately overwhelmed, so even though he is healing, he might not survive the power of the magic (remaining to be seen), but the magic, using Zathra's intent to heal himself, decides (sort of by its own accord) to form a new, ghostly hand where his stump is.