Dushrûk was no fool, not like Dalgum. He'd been tasked with breeder selection on raids and in Dunlending villages for years; he knew what to look for. Wider hips and sturdier frames were needed to bear more than one Uruk whelp and live. Master only took four from each female; the strain upon their bodies did not allow for more. So Dushrûk looked for strong, healthy ones.
Two of five he picked had proven themselves by bearing Man-whelps already. Dushrûk had his hands full, dragging those two along to the wagon. Barking an order, he called a couple of idle pizurk over. Not only were the lads obliged to knock some teeth loose to get the females loaded with the boiled leather and dried meat, two Men who apparently owned the females required disembowelment to quell their protests.
It was a waste, really. They might have made good warriors in Master's army if they had not acted so foolishly.
Standing next to the trembling headman, Mauhûr scowled at the thirty Dunlending males standing in a disorderly group near the wagon. He saw many hands on sword hilts as the females were beaten until they stopped their infernal wailing.
"There will be no repeats," Mauhûr growled quietly, startling Drust. The headman glanced sharply at the pizdur. "You had ample warning of our coming; I trust you will be better prepared next time."
"Y-yes, Mauhûr."
The Uruk shot him a hostile look. "You will call me pizdur."
Swallowing thickly, Drust nodded. He tried not to look at the corpses of those women's husbands, already fly-ridden in the hot sun. Their reputation for quick anger discouraged the Dunlendings from provoking the Uruk-hai any further; the Isengarders' better skills and arms ensured it.
The Uruk pizdur turned his head to glare at the headman. "Master needs better than this lot. You will train them as I instructed you. I expect to find another thirty with better skills than these pitiful wretches on my return."
"Of course," Drust agreed. Shifting nervously, he stammered, "Wh-when will you... Should we expect you... how long? A week? A month?"
Snorting, Mauhûr's gaze returned to his Uruk-hai. Now that the goods were loaded, his company was beginning to form ranks. "I will return when my master wills it."
The headman tried not to show his frustration or anger, but Mauhûr was well aware of both. Were he not under orders to maintain at least marginally civil relations with this village, he was tempted to provide more examples of his disapproval. He was certain to be 'gifted' with at least some of these worthless Men in his own ranks. Uruks he could manage; they could endure the lash as a reminder of who was in charge far better than the thin-skinned Dunlendings. A clout to the head with his truncheon knocked sense into an Uruk, whereas it knocked it straight out of a Dunlending. Mauhûr's Uruk-hai knew better than to break ranks and succumb to lust in the field; the Dunlendings he'd marched with lacked such restraint. They let their hate rule them, and its reign was a liability to their success.
Where there was no discipline, there was little chance of victory, he'd found. Allowing Men in the same units with Uruk-hai was as close to a guarantee of defeat as made no difference.
"Is this... all?" Drust asked awkwardly. "You have... these five. Is that all your... our master wants?"
Mauhûr slowly turned. "For now. See to it that we have no repeat of this as well," he snarled, gesturing toward the dead Men.
The headman struggled to swallow, finding it a difficult task. His mind was filled with fears of what his folk would say once the Uruk-hai left. What they might do when told they must send even more women to their deaths.
He was no fool; none of the Dunlendings were. They learned quickly that the women who were called to serve the White Hand never returned. But by the time their fate was understood, it was too late for the Dunlending people to withdraw from the accord with the wizard. They must all make sacrifices; the men and the women.
Mauhûr's thoughts were far away as he marched at the head of the company, Dushrûk at his side. The one-eyed Uruk kept flicking his good eye at his pizdur, trying to assess the Uruk's mood. Something had changed for him in that village, and Mauhûr was not one who embraced change.
"So... what do you think of those Dunlendings now, eh?" Dushrûk ventured.
The silence stretched so long, Dushrûk almost thought Mauhûr hadn't heard him.
"They live in peace," Mauhûr finally said. "There is no taste of war on the wind here; no scent of battle. I wonder how they can stand it." The pizdur kept his second in the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction, waiting for some sign...
Dushrûk sighed and shrugged. "I saw folk scared out of their minds. That lot we took... they're not fighters worth a fuck. Put'em in the front, let'em take the first wave. About all they're good for. That headman better see to the others quick, or master'll send us elsewhere for Men." Then he spat on the ground and growled, "Why we need'em at all..."
"It is master's will," Mauhûr replied automatically.
"Hmph," Dushrûk grunted, yet he did not pursue the subject. All knew where pizdur Mauhûr stood on these matters. Glancing up at his superior, Dushrûk frowned. "You, uh... see somethin' else?"
Mauhûr's eyes darted to the pizbûr, and a warning growl rolled out of him before he could stop it. His face twitched a little as he worked to master himself. Dark eyes...
"No," he snapped. Dushrûk wasn't convinced, but knew better than to probe further.
Mauhûr's thoughts were plagued with that female, waking and sleeping. He started awake that very night, the memory of her eyes filling his mind. The remainder of the journey back to Isengard, he saw again and again the vague shape of her body in the hut entrance, the color of her skin and hair, the deep darkness of her eyes. Every now and then, he felt a strong urge to turn back.
What madness had taken him?
Unsettled and nervous, he sought out Uglûk as soon as he'd seen to the delivery of the goods and Men to the quartermaster. His former mautor was absent, and Mauhûr chafed with unaccustomed indecision. This did not seem like something he should speak to just anyone about. If he was losing his mind, or worse, his fighting edge, he'd rather not address it with someone he didn't trust. Not even Dushrûk, though the temptation was there.
"Ah, good," a gravelly voice spoke, and Mauhûr tensed, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "None'uh that. Ain't we had this conversation before?" Turning, Mauhûr growled at the casual approach of the smirking Pitmaster.
"You learned nothing," Mauhûr snarled. "What do you want?"
"Same as I'm always after," the Pitmaster shrugged. "Come on down to the pits, now. You're next on the list, your high-and-mightiness."
Mauhûr huffed a great, impatient sigh. "Is Uglûk down there?" he asked as he fell into step alongside the Pitmaster.
"Nope," the Orc replied. "He finished his round couple weeks ago. Ain't due for another in a bit yet. You think you can manage with just the boys on hand? I got a load of young comin' out today, and they gotta get themselves named and marked."
"I have never needed your assistance," Mauhûr growled. "Or theirs."
"All the same, I like to be handy, you know," the Pitmaster leered. "All you gotta do's say the word, and I'll be right behind yuh." Wheezing with laughter, the stooped Orc fumbled with the key in the heavy lock. Beyond the door were the breeding rooms and the cells filled with breeders. None held a key but the Pitmaster and the master himself. None were allowed to cross the threshold unless they were on the list and on the schedule. Master had his records.
Mauhûr hadn't the patience to listen to, or any interest in, anything the Pitmaster had to say on any subject. To his mind, the Pitmaster was positively the least admirable of his brethren, simpering and fawning after their master one minute and cursing him to the void the next.
Entering the breeding room always brought a mix of sensations to the pizdur. It was the most tedious part of his job, making whelps on the females gathered in raids or from the alliance with Dunland. Were it by choice, he might actually enjoy it. But it took time away from the duty he found more challenging and valuable: winning his master's war.
Yet the scent of rut and blood stirred him here as it did not in the field. It was a concentrated smell and the atmosphere was well ordered; the females were lined up neatly, spread wide and inviting on tables in a row. The Uruks at work minded their own affairs, only rutting the females they'd been assigned. There was none of the chaos and disruption of a raid, where the scramble for cunt threatened to undermine even Mauhûr's authority. No, the master's will was strong here, and though loathesome, the Pitmaster kept the proceedings comfortably calm.
"Shall I introduce you?" the Pitmaster snorted with cruel amusement, gesturing grandly toward Mauhûr's assignment. Casting a withering look at the vile Orc, Mauhûr stepped up to his table and set to work.
