A/N: So, sorry for the obscenely long absence. In my defense, I'm sure there are plenty of FF.N authors who have gone more than four months without updating. I've been wanting to work on this story for a while, but this -the "Orc Chapter"- has proved exceedingly difficult to write (being in Gorlâk's head makes me feel like I need to take a long shower). Plus, I've been ridiculously busy. Thankfully, now that I have some spare time, I can write this. Oh, and one last thing: I've started a new story, the first in a series called "Inkblots." If anyone would like to check it out (and possibly write a review ;-), that would be awesome!

WARNING: I tried not to make this too gruesome, but Orcs are evil, and I've conveyed that as best I could in this chapter. As a result, this chapter is both more violent and substantially darker in tone. Proceed with caution.

--

Chapter Four: Fiend of the East

Blood!

It sprayed like a geyser from the Man's neck as Gorlâk's blade slid across his throat, red orbs sent spinning through the air like raindrops. Gorlâk watched as the dying Man slumped to the ground, his blood mingling with the grime of the battlefield.

Blood and filth. The two constants of an Orc's life. Into filth the foul race was born, in blood it lived, and in both it died. Gorlâk had thought of this often, in the rare moments he was not preoccupied with thoughts of pain and battle-lust. The fairer races, the accursed Elves and their pet Men, were fixated on things which they thought pleasing to the eye. Obsessed, even. While they sat in their warm manors composing verses and singing of worthless things, Gorlâk's entire life had been a struggle to survive, to hack and kill and betray his way into power.

This was how the world worked. The strong survived, while the weak were destroyed. The petty sentiments of the other races, their endless prattle about "morality," was worthless. There were no such things as good and evil, Gorlâk knew. There was only power. Those who had the strength and ambition to gain power would survive. Those too weak to seek it could only perish.

Gorlâk pulled his knife away from the throat of the Man he had slain, running his tongue along the blade. He cut himself, and his blood mixed with that of the Man's. The scent of it filled his nostrils, and his vision went red with battle-lust. He howled his battle-cry and ran off, searching for a fresh victim.

Not far from him were two Men, partially sheltered from the battle by the corpse of a huge Mûmak, one of the titanic war-beasts of the dark-skinned Men who served the Great Eye as willing slaves. Though Gorlâk feared the awesome beasts, he had nothing but scorn for the Men whom he fought alongside. To be inferior to anything was unbearable, and so Gorlâk fought his way to power, until he became a fearsome and deadly warrior amongst the Orcs. He served others only because he had to, and it was his most powerful desire to be lord of all things that walked Middle-Earth, unopposed by any, even -he scarcely dared dream of it- the Lidless Eye. The dark-skinned Southrons willingly enthralled themselves to another, and for that Gorlâk both despised and scorned them.

To be powerful was everything. To be slave, even to one as great and terrible as his own Master, was worse than death.

The two Men huddled by the Mûmak were not the dark-skinned allies of the Orcs, but they straw-haired horsemen who came from the North, fearsome warriors with fire in their eyes and death on their blades. One kneeled by the other, who lay on the ground, hurt but alive. The corpses of several Orcs lay nearby, and there was blood on the blade of the kneeling North-Man's sword. Gorlâk watched, puzzled, as the kneeling Man, who appeared younger, gave the other a draft from his wineskin.

What motivated these weak, backward creatures to act so completely against their natures? The other Man was weak, defenseless. He should die, and his slayer would receive the spoils of victory. The other Man should kill his wounded comrade, and claim his weapons, his possessions, and his mate for himself. To do otherwise was weakness. That was why the Orcs were superior. That was why the other races were doomed.

A groan interrupted his brooding, and he snapped his head in its direction. A Man, this one of the dark-skinned race, lay in a puddle of mud, his legs horribly mutilated by a series of long, jagged gashes. The strange headdress which typically covered the Southron's face had come undone, and he lay on the battleground, moaning in pain.

A terrifying facsimile of a smile crossed Gorlâk's scarred face. He was not one of the weak race of Man. He was an Orc, bred and born for battle! He knew how to kill. He had shed blood already today, many times over; now he would do it again.

He stalked toward the wounded Man, grinning savagely. To his credit, the Man did not scream when Gorlâk kneeled over him, wickedly curved knife in hand. He merely shrank back into the mud, as far as he could. Gorlâk could smell the fear on him, and the scent was driving him half-mad with the anticipation of bloodshed. He bared his teeth, yellow fangs dripping saliva. The man began to whimper.

"Agh, maggot!" a voice, deep and gravelly, called. Gorlâk stood, turning about to face the speaker.

Another Orc, hideously fat, stood several feet away from Gorlâk. One of his hands was gone, chopped off above the elbow. In his remaining hand he held a long, iron-tipped spear. He scowled at Gorlâk, squinting his red eyes.

"Find yer own kill, scum! That 'un's mine!!"

"Not anymore," Gorlâk snarled, brandishing his knife. "He's mine now. Back off, fatty!"

The other Orc roared, and charged at him. Gorlâk sidestepped his attack, but barely; the Orc clipped him on the shoulder, sending him stumbling. He recovered quickly, and turned to face his attacker.

The fat Orc now stood between him and his prey. He thrust his spear at Gorlâk, feinting. Gorlâk was smaller than the average Orc, and faster, but this one was huge, and had greater reach. With the spear, he could easily keep Gorlâk at bay until he tired out, then finish him off with a killing blow.

As the fat Orc thrust his spear at Gorlâk again, Gorlâk feinted to the left, and then moved swiftly to the right. before his opponent could react, he dashed forward, swinging through the air. He brought the blade down on the other Orc's good hand, severing it at the wrist. The now-handless Orc roared in pain, only to be silenced forever as Gorlâk severed his head from his shoulders.

The fat Orc's body slumped to the ground. Gorlâk walked back to the wounded Man, pausing only to retrieve the fallen Orc's spear. The man stared up at him, fear in his eyes as he realized Gorlâk's intentions.

"Wait!" he cried out, in heavily accented Westron, "Why are you doing this? I thought we were on the same side!"

"You thought wrong," Gorlâk snarled, examining the spear tip. It was sharp enough to pierce armor, but pitted and rusty. Perfect.

"Now," Gorlâk grinned, raising the spear above his head, "Let's see how many holes I can put in you."

He brought the spear down. The man screamed.

"One."

He withdrew the spear, then raised it again, brought it down again.

"Two."

Blood flowed from the man, mingling with the muddy filth of the battlefield.

--

…Only one more chapter left…

--

Ellyn: Sorry it took so long. Now that I've gotten past Gorlâk, the rest should come easily. Although I'm not sure there is anything to like about Gorlâk at all.

Calenlass Greenleaf1: Yeah, Léofric would have been very interesting to watch. I like him. :-)

Virtuella: The meditative aspect is somewhat unavoidable for this piece; I have to write a vignette for each character as they fight, showing their thoughts and feelings, so it ends up being much more slow-motion than a typical fight scene. And "Niggles"?