"-and then the Lord Sauron actually let him go!" a hoarse voice exclaimed contemptuously, while its companions grunted in surprise and disbelief. Grishnákh, on his way to get a good helping of dinner – word was that some particularly succulent carrion had been brought in from the last Man-village raid, and he knew just which of the soldiers to beat up to get some extra – frowned upon hearing the disparaging tone.

Turning around, his blackened lips twisted instinctively into a derisive curl as he beheld a group of wild Orcs huddled together around a miserable little campfire. Pathetic swine. Like every proper Mordor-born Orc, Grishnákh held his wild cousins in the greatest disdain. Though exceedingly skilled at village raiding and guerrilla warfare, the wild Orcs sorely lacked the strict discipline and fearful obedience to the Dark Lord which had been pounded into proper Orc soldiers like Grishnákh. Slowing his steps, he strained to hear more.

Meanwhile, far above on the mountaintop, the Great Eye of Sauron lazily swiveled around to focus upon the group of Orcs who were bandying his name about so cavalierly.

"Stupid," snickered a squinty-eyed Orc, gnawing on a piece of moldy bone. "Used to be that He'd never let go of anything he's interested in. Remember that miserable little Gollum creature? Before this Crow-Man came along, that was the last time I'd ever saw Him as focused on one project. Kept the Gollum creature trapped and tortured for years, He did, squeezed out every last piece of information it coulda had, and was in a bad mood for ages after He let it escape to the Outside! Never made sense to me, why He let it go, if He liked the creature so much," he continued contemplatively, picking at a rotten tooth with a dirt-encrusted claw. None of them noticed Grishnákh drawing closer with a disapproving scowl, "but this Crow-Man business makes even less sense. The Lord Sauron was interested in him for days before he even got here, and he finally did, all they did was talk? That's plain stupid, is what it is!"

Grishnákh rumbled warningly at this, but the wild Orcs paid him no heed, too fascinated as they were with their gossip.

Ah, Crow-Man. How interesting you be. The Great Eye glinted, but for once, dark speculation, rather than anger, swirled within. Dredging up the memory from the dark, twisted molasses of his mind, Sauron reveled over the remembrance of the moment he had first sensed the odd magical explosion emanating from Lossarnach. The first few Orc groups who'd been sent out to investigate it found nothing - until a strange Man had appeared. An interesting Man. A Man with a flock of Crebain as his pets and a wealth of power which made the attacking Orcs cringe.

That was when Sauron had grown truly curious. Rather than waiting to see if the Man was Dark and would come to him of his own volition, as was his wont, he'd decided to send out more Orcs to capture and interrogate the interesting new specimen. But oh, nothing could have prepared him for the treasure he'd found.

Nothing could have prepared him for his new slave.

Howling winds blew around the monstrous black mountain, a grotesque, eldritch noise reminiscent of twisted, triumphant laughter.

"A bad business altogether," another Orc grumbled, piggish eyes gleaming in the gloom of the night. Huddling closer to the campfire, he ignored the dark winds swirling outside the fortress walls. "There was just something about Crow-Man which felt wrong from the very start. All creepy, and itchy, like he was sending fire-ants burrowing into our skin. It was like...like getting close to the Witch King," Hacking out a phlegmy gob, his voice dropped to an uneasy whisper at this admission. "None of us wanted to be the one to catch him cos of that creepy-crawly feeling all over him, but, well, orders are orders. But we never could land any blows on him anyway, and then there were those accursed Rangers who kept trying to protect him, and those stupid crows which kept on pecking and pecking at us, and the Crow-Man would just glare at you till you felt like you were going mad. I'd been hankering to tenderize him up a bit for that, tear that snobby glare off his face, suck the marrow from his bones, make him scream, make him..."

Minions these days. Derision swept through Sauron in a thick, black wave. No intelligence, no discernment, no talent, no appreciation for anything except oafish brutality. Which was why the Crow-Man had been such a prize. He knew the value of patience and subtlety. A perfect slave, a perfect tool, with a mind as finely honed as a Morgul blade, all wrapped in a delightfully twisted package of rage and ambition and need. Far too valuable to damage through torture, far too useful to leave unused. The seething winds howled ever louder, as Sauron remembered with vicious glee precisely how he'd realized that the Crow-Man was more than he seemed – and it was all thanks to the two weakling Rangers. A single moment of carelessness, an overheard conversation, was all that was needed for them to betray the 'heir to Gondor' that they'd worked so hard to protect.

Cackling laughter rolled once more through the dark mass of broiling clouds as Sauron reveled in the delicious irony and absurdity of that thought. Heir to Gondor, indeed! Not for one moment had he believed the Crow-Man to be anything other than an imposter, but then, but then, all the incongruity surrounding the Crow-Man had made him think, made him suspicious. All the signs - the power the Orcs had complained about, the false identity as the heir – had pointed to a conspiracy in the making. And one sign had pointed to Saruman as the instigator - the Crebain.

That, more than anything else, had worried him enough that he'd decided to send out his most trusted Nazgul to capture the Crow-Man, and oh, how gleeful he was now at his decision. For it was then that the Crow-Man had shown his powers as a sorcerer. A sorcerer, insinuating his way into the ranks of Gondorian royalty! Sauron knew not how the Crow-Man had came to be so proficient in the lost Dark Arts; nor did he care. All that mattered was that the sorcerer had sworn allegiance to him, him, thereby allowing Sauron to cast his power over the sorcerer's mind. The sorcerer had submitted much more readily to Sauron's manipulations than Saruman ever did.

Indeed, Saruman's loyalty was exceedingly suspect at the moment. Even after the sorcerer had admitted to having stolen the Crebain from Saruman – and what talent, what daring that showed, to have one-upped the haughty Maia in such a fashion! – thereby acquitting Saruman of any involvement in this matter, Sauron still wondered at Saruman's motives at pitting Gandalf against Sauron via the palantir. Though he'd defeated Gandalf, the fight had inflicted quite some wounds upon his powers. Indeed, he was still healing, still incapable of exercising his mental powers to the fullest.

That had annoyed him exceedingly, especially when he'd been trying to ascertain the true nature of the sorcerer. It was quite fortunate that the sorcerer, for all his power, still appeared untrained in mental magic.

Grishnákh growled again. Just how stupid are these wild Orcs, to be complaining about the Dark Lord right within his realm? He could only hope that they would stop while they were ahead – but no. He could see the squinty-eyed one take on an expression of sullen daring, as he grated out,

"Well, you know what I think? I think that maybe He's going soft."

...And that was his cue to act. Taking two steps forward, Grishnákh swung a meaty hand at the squinty-eyed idiot's head. He smiled in satisfaction to hear the yelp of pain and anger.

Twisting around, fists swinging, the unfortunate Orc howled as Grishnákh punched him in the head again, this time sending him flying. Eager for a brawl, his companions surged to their feet, only to falter at Grishnákh's snarl.

"Have you all no sense? Enough talk about the Man. You don't want to be catching His attention, do ye?"

"Aw, it was just a joke!" an Orc whined. "And it's not like it wasn't all true, anyway!"

"You think that He'll care about what you think? Shut your traps if you know what's good for you!"

"Oh don't you be going all high and mighty!" the squinty-eyed Orc spoke up belligerently, nursing his wounded head. Muscling to the front of the rabble, he flexed his arms threateningly. "Leave us alone, will you? Just 'cos you're a lieutenant doesn't give you any leeway to order us around!"

Grishnákh snorted in disbelief. Well, he'd tried. Turning around, he threw over his shoulder one last warning."On your own head be it, then. I'm not gonna help you outta this mess."

"Oh yea, like any of us wanted the likes of you helping us!" The squinty-eyed Orc jeered at Grishnákh's retreating back. Seeing one of the famed soldiers in flight was well worth a sore head. One of his companions gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder as he smirked, "Well that's put him in his place, Urkkû!"

Fools. What utter, utter fools. For a moment, Sauron felt tempted to dismiss them as the Orc guards' problem, as usual. But today, he felt...rejuvenated. Like a young Maia, gorging himself upon his first blood sacrifice under the sadistically gleeful eyes of his mentor. Perhaps... perhaps it was time to reassert his dominance once more.

Urkkû turned and smiled viciously, as he tried to ignore the increasing headache. The soldier sure had hit his head hard. Resentment made him bite out, "Yea, the soldiers are all going soft, one way or another. Been too busy kissing up to the Dark Lord to do proper hard work like we do!"

His friends laughed raucously. Encouraged, he continued, squinting his eyes even more to ward off the pain, "Don't know why we follow all those stupid orders, really. We...ugh. We're the ones who get killed, while...while the Dark Lord and his favorites are all sitting all nice and safe here. We should...ugh. We...we should..."

"Hey, what's wrong? You've gone all pasty looking," said another Orc. Urkkû didn't answer, caught up as he was in dizzying agony. Surely the soldier hadn't hit that hard? Gripping his head as the pain swirled higher, he was barely aware of the cries of alarm from his companions as blood began pouring out of his nose and ears. Trembling, sweating, he opened his mouth, trying to speak, to call for help, but all that came out was a low keening noise which steadily grew higher and higher.

Halfway through terrorizing the soldier guarding the fresh carrion – and oh, he could smell its sickening, rotten, wonderful odor even through the storehouse door – Grishnákh paused and cocked his head to the side at the sound of rising screams. The voice making those screams were satisfyingly familiar. Huh. He hadn't expected his superiors to act so quickly...he blinked in surprise as the idiot Orc suddenly stumbled into view, blood pouring from every orifice on his head. It was a horrifying sight, made even more so by the lack of anyone inflicting the punishment.

Huh. That could only mean one thing.

The Dark Lord had come out to play.

Smirking, Grishnákh turned slightly more northwards and offered a deep, deferential bow in the general direction of the Great Eye.

Just in case the Dark Lord decided to play with him as well, he thought, suppressing the cold chill running down his back as other voices began to shriek in pain as well. Just in case the Lord hadn't appreciated his show of loyalty when castigating that idiot Orc.

Just in case.

Far above, the Great Eye glinted ever redder as it reached deep into the minds of the hapless Orcs, wrenching out yet another agonized scream.