"You don't have to call me that anymore," Uglûk growled bitterly across the table. "We are the same now."

Shaking his head, Mauhûr drank from his cup. The lower ranks had little more than troughs to scoop their rations from, but he and Uglûk had always been privileged to dine among the officers in far better conditions. He wondered now if that was changing. He didn't much care for change.

"You are my mautor," he replied. "I have no wish to call these Dunlending dogs mautor. They haven't earned it."

"Maybe not by your measure, lad, but they've got the rank where Master's concerned," Uglûk reminded his former subordinate. "Master's word is law." It had been a bitter pill to swallow, having fought hard for over twenty years to gain the rank of mautor, only to have it taken away with no better reason than a wizard with no head for military matters needed an incentive in his dealings with the Dunlending elders.

Saruman's Uruk-hai gathered a hundred Dunlending Men a week from their clans, along with trade goods, leather armor, meat, and sometimes breeders. Mauhûr's next assignment was to open trade with one of these clans. It was a formality, really; those who spoke for Dunland had already agreed to the conditions of service. The show of force served as a reminder of who was the master. Saruman would see to it that Dunland regained possession of Rohan. In exchange, Dunland gave its sons and some of its daughters. To compensate for the daughters, the sons were given command-quality ranks in the army, often at the expense of veterans like Uglûk.

Growling low, Mauhûr nodded. "As you say."

"Look," Uglûk snarled in an undertone, leaning closer, "I don't want to lick the boots of those pushdug either. You'll answer to Morcant like you would me. So will I. That's the end of it, understand?"

"I've heard from others," Mauhûr insisted. "They're saying even those they command go pissing off to the Dunlending mautor when it pleases them. I don't want that shit in my army. They follow my rules, obey my orders. They don't go over my fucking head when they don't like what I'm telling them."

"You'd better get used to it," Uglûk muttered. "As should we all."

Mauhûr took a long drink and brooded for a few minutes. "Where will we stand at war's end, mautor?"

Uglûk sighed as much over Mauhûr's insistence on using the title as he did his answer. "That I don't know. With any luck, on a pile of corpses a league deep."

"With no luck, smoldering at the bottom of it," Mauhûr smirked. The two Uruks grunted with grim amusement and tapped their cups together, as they'd seen the Dunlendings do. Though if anyone reminded them that was where the habit came from, blows would likley be exchanged.


Mauhûr looked down the hill at the village, nestled in amongst low scrubby hills and sparse stands of trees. Dunland was a harsh country; those that thrived were few. This clan appeared to be faring better than most, and was likely the reason it was selected to provide resources.

Turning to the company of Uruks he'd led here, Mauhûr stared them down. He hoped he needn't remind them of their duty, but having recently laid waste to a target in Rohan not much different from this one, perhaps a refresher was needed.

"I have master's orders here," he said, holding up a neatly rolled scroll tied with a white ribbon. "I will speak with their headman and secure the goods. We take nothing that is not on the list. If there is a problem, you come to me. Do not attend to matters on your own. Is that clear?"

"Akhoth!" the assembled Uruks barked in unison.

Jerking his chin in a nod, Mauhûr directed the company down the path toward the village. They marched in ranks of five abreast with Mauhûr leading. The pizbûr of this company was Dushrûk; a few longer strides brought him alongside his pizdur.

"Ever been to one of their villages?" the one-eyed Uruk asked quietly.

"No," Mauhûr replied. "I expect it will look no different from the yellowhairs' villages. Men are Men; they are all the same."

Dushrûk smirked. "Not all. Some of the yellowhairs are roamers. Pack up all they own and wander about. Unpack at another spot and stay for a bit. Then do it again. Odd." Shrugging, he added, "Dunlendings do the same, but not since Master came along. They were told to find a good spot and stay there, so we didn't have to go chasin' after'em when we came for their goods."

"Where'd you learn that?"

Shrugging, the Uruk said, "Used to be under Grazhûn, five years ago. Had to chase one of them yellowhair bands down."

Mauhûr snorted. "Sounds like more trouble than it's worth. What did you gain?"

"Lotta horse-flesh," Dushrûk recalled thoughtfully. "Man-flesh, of course. Ten or so breeders." He shrugged. "That's about all. The roamers don't have as much as the settled ones. Travel light."

"Was there a purpose for the roaming?" Mauhûr asked curiously.

"Probably for the horses," Dushrûk suggested. "Spend too long in one place, they'll eat all the grass. Nothing left for them, then. Makes a bit of sense."

Mauhûr nodded, accepting this logic.

When they reached the village outskirts, Mauhûr called a halt. His Uruks stood still where he'd stopped them, awaiting commands.

"Dushrûk, fan them out," Mauhûr informed his second. "Show them our numbers so they will not be left guessing."

The one-eyed Uruk saluted and began barking orders. Ranks split off to position themselves in a shallow crescent. Mauhûr left them to it and strode purposefully into the village.

As expected, the headman scurried forward to meet him.

"I am Drust," the man said nervously. Sweat stood out on his forehead and he trembled slightly. His eyes flicked from the Uruk to his troops, standing alert and ready not ten yards beyond. Mauhûr was nearly the Man's equal in height, yet somehow managed to look down on him all the same. "Wel-welcome to our..."

Mauhûr held up the scroll and snarled, "Pizdur Mauhûr. I have come for what is on this list, by order of Saruman the White. How long will it take you to fill the order?"

Swallowing nervously, Drust accepted the scroll and fumbled the ribbon loose. It fluttered forgotten to the ground.

As the headman read over the items required, Mauhûr's gaze drifted to the village. Word must have reached them before his company arrived; few folk were about. Men stood by their yurts, frowns on their faces, arms crossed defiantly. No females were in evidence, but he suspected they were hiding them. As if to prove his assumption, his eyes fell on a small Man-child, standing outside a shelter sucking furiously on its thumb and staring at the Uruk-hai with wide, terrified eyes. Within moments, a female darted from the shelter and grabbed the child, pulling it inside. The hide drape over the entrance twitched back into place.

"You... come for five?" the headman breathed, and Mauhûr looked at him again.

"Thirty," he snarled. "Can you not read?"

"I can read," Drust retorted defensively, then cringed as the Uruk's eyes flashed. "I was not speaking of the men your... our master requires. I meant... the women." He said the last in a whisper, closing his eyes for a moment. His jaw clenched and he looked on the verge of a protest he knew better than to voice.

"Do I need to remind you of your elders' agreement?" Mauhûr growled, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "Dunlending blood is required."

"Yes, yes, of course," Drust nodded quickly, swallowing hard again. "We... we must make... sacrifices... our homeland..." His voice trailed off as he fought to steady his breathing.

"Your kind should be honored to bear ours," Mauhûr snarled.

"We are!" the headman insisted too hastily. "Most... honorable..." Gasping for breath for a moment, his eyes darting in a panic, Drust said, "Are there... any particular... that you are seeking...?"

Gesturing over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the Dunlending, Mauhûr beckoned Dushrûk forward. The pizbûr obediently joined him.

"You will show the females to Dushrûk," Mauhûr informed him. "He will choose. For now, show us the men. We need strong and capable fighters. I do not want whelps too weak to swing a blade."

"This way," Drust said, relief at the distraction from the inevitably painful duty clear in his voice. He led the Uruk officers through the village, and again Mauhûr's eyes wandered.

It was quiet here, he mused. The shelters were neat and ordered, arranged in clusters of five with a common fire in the middle. Though none but men could be seen in the open, Mauhûr smelled the females all around. He also smelled their fear. It was satisfying; if they feared him, they would give little trouble. The practical side of him was pleased.

Another part of Mauhûr felt a strange pull, a tug in his chest. This was where the Dunlendings lived, where they went when there was no war. He almost sneered; what was life, after all, without battle? Except that he had held a sword in his hand ever since he first opened his eyes and knew he was alive. He had fought tooth and nail among his brothers for scraps, for dominance, for respect. He suddenly felt the weight of his fifteen years settling upon his shoulders as he looked about him.

What was life without battle? Was it this? And did he want it? Rest and quiet, something to call his own...

As they passed one cluster, Mauhûr's drifting gaze fell upon a shelter with a dark doorway. Unlike the others, this one had the hide drape held aside so that a brave female could peer out. The Uruk's attention was captured by this difference: darkness against the canvas of earth-colored yurts, and he found himself focusing intently upon the figure in the shadows.

Later, Mauhûr would not recall anything but the eyes: dark eyes that would haunt his dreams ever after. He blinked, and she was gone.