Snaga crept stealthily along the wall, searching for the storm drain as he had been instructed to do. He found it easily; it was half broken just as the elf had said it would be. The storm drain was small, but it was no issue because Snaga was smaller. He pried it open and crawled into the tunnel on his hands and knees, dragging the bucket along with him. At one point he tipped the bucket over and the contents tumbled out; glittering elvish daggers fell clinking on the ground as well as a silvery lock pick. Snaga gasped at the glinting steel objects; they looked more like jewelry than weapons and tools. They were unmistakably elvish: if anyone caught Snaga with these objects on his person, there would be absolutely no doubt that he was smuggling elvish instruments. Snaga knew that if he were caught, he would have no way of explaining himself and these enemy objects. He dumped them back into the bucket and slithered further into the tunnel as silently as he could.
When he came to the end of the tunnel, he could see the main courtyard, which was mostly empty. He waited until he felt safe enough before crawling out of the storm drain, being careful not to let the steel objects in the bucket clank together. He remembered this place well enough; after all, he had been stationed here for six months. He was shaking terribly; he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
He supposed that, if he was going to pretend to be bringing the prisoners water, then he should actually have a bucket full of water with him. He made his way to the well (he knew exactly where to find it), and drew some nasty, fetid water to fill his bucket with. After doing so he stopped in his tracks; his heart was racing. The terror he felt was stupefying. The fear was so strong in him that he was forced to take a moment to pause and consider his options. He looked around and saw here-and-there a few orcs in the courtyard.
He considered what would happen to him if he was caught; he would surely be killed. Worse than killed; he would be tortured to death. He felt the sudden urge to turn himself over to his fellow orcs; perhaps he should confess everything now and throw himself on their mercy. But to do that was a gamble; there was no telling how the orcs at Lüg-Gulguh might deal with him. Would they be pleased with this little snaga if he turned on his elvish captors? Or would it be offensive enough, in their eyes, that he had been taken prisoner by the elves at all, and used by them in their attempted plot to liberate the elvish prisoners? That alone might be enough to bring the orcs' arbitrary rage down on Snaga.
Furthermore, Snaga had been slave to Zurgug, who had killed the emissary sent to him, and quarrelled with the Lieutenant, and had defied orders to surrender some of his soldiers to the garrison at Lug-Gülguh. If Snaga turned himself in, they would identify him by his number. By extension, Snaga could very well be punished for Zurgug's wrong doings; such was the way and rationale of orcs. The more Snaga thought about it, the more he realized that he would (more than likely) be hated and despised, an object of retribution for the orcs at Lug-Gülguh. For those reasons, he dared not come forward to his kin.
He thought about hiding somewhere within Lug-Gülguh; it seemed like the best option. But upon further consideration he realized it wasn't as simple as that. If the elves were going to siege the fortress tomorrow, what chance did he have? He knew the fortress well from his time that he had spent there; he raced over in his mind all the places he could think of to hide. There were many; but what good would it do him? Snaga knew in his heart that if Elaenar found his friends dead tomorrow, that vengeful, blood-thirsty elf would search every nook and cranny until he found Snaga and tear him to pieces. Images flashed before Snaga's eyes of his own mangled body strung upside down, flesh hanging off of his corpse. It was enough motivation to compel him to pick up the bucket and walk towards the north tower. He climbed many flights up the stairs until he came to the hall that led to the prison cells; just as he had expected there were two large and heavily armed guards stationed there.
The rightmost guard bared his teeth and growled.
"Where do you think you're going, snaga?"
Snaga felt like he might drop dead from terror. He was shaking and he tried desperately to not let it show. He couldn't even look the guard in the eye; answering him with his gaze stuck to the ground.
"Orders...orders to bring water to the prisoners."
The guard growled but stepped aside, as did the other, allowing Snaga to go forward. Snaga hustled past the glaring guards and went down the hallway, flanked on either side by prison cells.
He trembled as he crept forward, looking left and right for the elvish prisoners. He found them sitting in their cell, bound in iron chains. They were fettered and wretched; wearing a look of profound despair, they stared at the stone floor in silence, neither of them looking up at the orc who approached them timidly in their cage. Snaga set the bucket down close enough so that the prisoners could reach into it through the iron bars. His job done, he turned on his heels to dash away as fast as he could. But halfway down the hall he remembered: the letter! Reluctantly he turned back, pulling it out from where he concealed it beneath the folds of his clothes.
This time the elves did look up at him, confused and suspicious to see the little orc standing and staring at them in their cell. The brunette one glared at him murderously. Snaga started shaking; he couldn't look them in the eye.
"What's the meaning of this?" The brunette hissed.
Snaga gulped. He trembled as he reached through the bars and dropped the letter on the floor. The elf looked at it hatefully.
"Is this a trick, little orc?"
"N-no…" Snaga whispered.
Snaga realized with horror that if the prisoners didn't cooperate, if they didn't act on the instructions Elaenar laid out for them in the letter, then not just the elves' fate would be sealed but his own fate would be too. Hadn't it been made perfectly clear to Snaga that if he didn't return with the elvish prisoners alive then he would be killed?
Snaga started to panic; he wondered if he should entreat with them. He thought perhaps he ought to explain himself and plead with the elves to rescue themselves. The elf, still glaring at him, crawled over to where the letter lay on the floor and swiped it off the ground. Then in a flash, with a kind of lightning-speed that Snaga didn't think the elf was capable of after languishing in prison for days, he crashed against the grate of the prison cell and reached out to grab Snaga.
Snaga yelped and fell backwards. A hand nearly snatched him by his tunic.
"Come here and let me tear your eyeballs out, you filthy little wretch!" The elf raged, shaking the cold, iron bars of his cell.
Snaga picked himself off the floor and dashed down the prison hall as fast as he could; behind his back he could hear more curses being screamed at him. Just as he reached the exit, as he was about to fly past the guards, a foot tripped him, sending him crashing down to the floor. Snaga gasped and struggled to breathe as the air was knocked out of him. He could feel a trickle of blood running down his face from a busted lip. The guard towered over him.
"What's going on in there?" he barked through gritted teeth.
"The elf tried to kill me," Snaga sniveled while cowering on the stone floor. The guards laughed mockingly at him. The leftmost one kicked him in the stomach, making him squeal and double over in pain.
"Get lost, little snaga, before we decide to feed you to the elves for sport. Come now," He said, turning to the other guard.
"Let's teach these elf pigs a lesson."
"No harm in a bit of play. But don't spoil them, mind you, or else they'll be no good to us."
Snaga watched in horror as they marched down the hall, eager to torture the prisoners. This would ruin everything. On impulse he almost screamed "no!", ready to beg them not to go in the prison cell. He choked back his impulse, cursing himself for his own foolish thought.
He staggered to his feet and fled. As he flew down the stairs he froze halfway and turned when he heard shouting coming from above. His eyes widened; he recognized the sounds of throats being slashed and the curdling screams of someone being slayed. Orc screams and elvish shouts reverberated through the stairwell. Then all went quiet except for the pitter-patter of soft footsteps; in the flickering light of a torch on the wall he saw the shadows of two figures coming down the stairwell. Snaga screamed and resumed his flight out of the tower. He dashed out of the courtyard and scurried into the storm drain.
