Uglútz mowed through the Lugbúrtzers as a thresher through ripe wheat. They were better-armed, but their snatching, gangling bodies were nothing before her reach and power. When her serrated knife lodged in some orc's spine and snapped, she wrenched scimitars off two more victims and plunged on. Battle-thirst roared in her veins. She was inexorable, driven.
And a moment – where she saw the outline of a bow, and heard a mewling cry, and saw a tall figure lit as if by starlight, and a scrawl of dark shapes rushing towards it – the golg! My Maggot is there! – and she threw herself upon the foes blocking her way to them, clawed and bit and slashed. Then a horse screamed and the figure was gone, and so was the thought connected with it. She forgot all about Maggot, forgot the reason for her fury. There was only the hunger for blood.
She clove heads, split shields, smashed limbs, stove in breastplates until she ran with gore. Her own wounds did not register. Her strength did not wane.
Then, as she swept her scimitar to remove another grotesque, gargling head, a tall, green-clad thing ducked past her blade. The dying goblin's blood splattered the interloper, colliding with his scent – man flesh – then he was gone, his battle-cry receding behind her. She made to chase him. But already there were more enemies rushing her ravenous blades. The thought of the green-clad man stretched and broke. There was only blood and carnage, foes ripe for slaughter, the fierce exaltation of smashing, hacking, destroying.
And then… nothing.
The battlefield lay grey and void, reeking of death.
Uglútz heaved great breaths and snarled a challenge at the mangled bodies and torn grass.
She did not feel her wounds. The frenzy yet lay upon her.
The battle was done: she had won. Good. Now to feed.
The sun laid tremulous fingers on the horizon, but Uglútz took no notice of it as she feasted. The fight when she was captured had depleted her energies; carrying and birthing Maggot had taken yet more. The scanty meal she'd received the previous night had barely whetted her appetite, but the flesh of her enemies was tender, warm, blood-rich and nourishing.
She ate until gorged. Then, sated and swollen, her thoughts turned to the next thing.
It is said the orcs were made from elves. Taken by Morgoth after their awakening, they were mutilated and corrupted. What should have been delight in music was twisted into a thrill for tortured screaming; love of beauty mutated into a desire to ruin as they had been ruined; joy in stewarding the world turned into a thirst to conquer and debase it. But elves – even thus corrupted – did not make ideal soldiers. While they healed rapidly and did not die of illness or old age, the orcs still died, too often at the hands of their fellows. And elves reproduce slowly, taking their delights chiefly in music and poetry. It was an advantage to have soldiers that never grew distracted from their cruelty; but the orcs could not be allowed to die out. And so the solution was reached – if something so hideous can be called a solution. Post-victory, their battle-lust was reconditioned, deformed into an alternative manner of desire to conquer and subdue.
And so, Uglútz hunted the battle-field for partners. She had dropped Maggot only days before, but she was ready to carry again. Despite her stuffed belly, she felt empty. She could not rest until she was full.
But the Lugbúrtzers were useless – those not dead or fled were too grievously injured to be any good to her. Why were there none of her own kind here? No strong ones? Why must she be the single survivor? She bellowed, her blood cooling, and shrank into a simmering frustration. Her injuries began to hurt. She sniffed the air. She could chase the Lugbúrtzers that remained. Would they not cower before her? Would they not give satisfaction? She might hunt them and demand it. She could still run. If she had to.
But wait – something else was nearby. Horses, yes, two of them, and alive. No good. Golg – horrible, smarting in her nose, the stink of him turning her stomach. Worse. A dwarf, too – harsh, metallic, almost as bad. And a man.
The man smelled… not like an orc. Not quite right. But there was something there, something…
The man would do.
She had been so caught up with killing and feasting and then scenting the air, she'd neglected to pay attention to what her eyes could see. Downwind, on the far side of the battlefield, three figures stood as silhouettes against the new sun.
They were watching her.
She snuffled again. There. That was what she wanted. The one on the left.
She started towards him in a loping walk. Corpses rolled stiff under her feet.
And pain, bursting and fiery, tore her calf.
She howled, searched for what was wrong.
A white-feathered arrow stuck from her thigh.
Filthy golg!
She roared, began to run.
The golg would die. She would crush him. Just let him wait!
Another arrow rent her thigh, then another. She stumbled, kept going. He would regret this!
The fourth arrow ripped the muscle of her calf. She screamed, but threw herself on.
Then a catastrophic, splintering pain at her shoulder.
She fell to her knees. Her claws grasped for what was wrong.
An axe-head protruded from her flesh, alien and cold.
She grabbed it, pulled it out; flung it away, running with black blood.
But when she tried to rise, her arrow-pierced leg gave way. She roared, but it made her breathless; spots of shadow crowded her eyes.
She snapped back into full awareness – her aching body, pitted with wounds; the full sun; the piles of dead orcs; the fires of her blood cooling and spent.
And her three captors, eyes on her, reeking of disgust. And Maggot, wailing for milk.
Memories of the battle rose and choked her. The waves of enemies; the man running under her blade; the elf taking the horse and Maggot, and riding away before she could reach him.
'Filthy golg wretch!' she wheezed. 'I saved your life, let you escape, and you shoot me four times and throw an axe at me!'
'That was my axe,' the dwarf said. 'No elf could have—'
The tark was shouting at his companions. 'Why did you attack her? She is hurt and unarmed; she was returning to her crying child!'
'The orc did not look at its child, but at you – did you not see its fell intent? It meant to kill you, Aragorn!'
Uglútz snarled, stung into denial. She tried to stand again. 'Stupid golg! Was not going to kill Manflesh!'
'Legolas, you attacked her without warning—'
'You'd trust the word of an orc?' snapped the golg. 'When it names you as food? When it even lies about whether its own child is male or female?'
Their voices rose and intertwined. Uglútz couldn't keep track of them. They were too far away. She was tired – exhausted. Her skin was sticky, and under her, the grass lay slick and black. The plains went dark; the sky greyed; the sun faded to nothing.
Uglútz fainted.