Unexpected Fallout

Subsisting on the white earth that quenched his thirst if nothing else, Nargratûrz passed a few monotonous days on the mountain, occasionally visited by the beast. Hungry as he was, he could not bring himself to slay his guest. The creature had a childlike innocence to it that he felt drawn to. It was certainly playful; throwing wads of the white earth for it to catch in its snapping jaws seemed to be its favorite game.

It was also the only living thing he'd seen, and he drew some comfort from its presence. The shara voice on the wind was troublesome, and he sometimes heard it calling to the beast, but it kept its distance. He would not have known which direction to run in any case, for the voice seemed to come from several at once.

There was almost nothing to eat save the slimy sheafs of brown and yellow he found at the feet of the trees when he dug through the white earth. Elongated things with tiered blades from end to end that he found around the trees with green spines provided crunchy sustenance, but were not particularly satisfying.

In his wanderings close to the hollow, he discovered a stand of plants with hard red pebbles, each with its own black spot like a small Red Eye. Hunkering down with fascination, he turned one over and over in his hand, remembering the old stories only the most ancient Uruk wise women told.

The Red Eye was the Conqueror, he recalled. Mighty and powerful, seeking dominance over all others. The White Hand was his general. What was remembered by Nargratûrz's folk, the children of the White Hand, was that the Hand was defeated first, for his children were few and directionless. They were warriors only; they were not given mates to protect or homes to guard. They only fought, and it was not enough.

It was the Eye who had foresight. To his children were given homes and hearths, mates and young as incentive not just to fight, but to win. Where the Hand fashioned his children when needed, the Eye nurtured his over generations. Their loyalty to the Eye was unwavering, and still held. The Uruk-hai were nearly indifferent to the Hand.

Nargratûrz had always thought the war-mongering of the Eye and the Hand was unsettling. Orcs and Uruks were hunted by shara-hai when the Eye and Hand were defeated. Though huddled together in vast warrens against a common enemy, they still strove against one another. He wondered if there might have been peace had their makers not demanded otherwise of their children.

Sighing, he popped the red pebble into his mouth and chewed its hard rind. His powerful jaws and strong teeth made short work of it. Perhaps if he consumed the Red Eye, he might be granted its foresight, or at the least the strength of its children. Taking a handful off the nearest bush, he settled in and ate.

Hunger drove Nargratûrz further afield, as far as a few hours from his hollow. Gradual adjustment to this new world taught him the scent of that place, allowing him to return to it. Knowing he could find his place again, he grew bolder in his wandering search for food. Strengthened by the pebbles of the Red Eye the day before, he was some distance from the hollow when he caught a whiff of something on the wind.

The cold air diminished his sense of smell a bit, but not enough to miss a scent very like red blood. It was not a scent he often encountered; only occasionally were the bottoms of the dead falls blessed with a beast from Outside, and then the meat was claimed by the chieftain. Stealth and desperate curiosity were what gave him his first taste of aapskarn, for which he paid in his own blood.

Hope in his heart for the first time, Nargratûrz loped toward the scent, gripping his crude spear with both hands. He was rewarded with a stronger odor as he neared; it called to mind that long-ago feast of khlaatkû, the aapskarn fresh and warm still when he found it. He was still among the females then, not yet old enough to be apprenticed in a trade or taught the sword. The Orcs and Uruk-hai never left their caves; dead falls were the only means of receiving aapskarn, and only by chance. The dead falls were essentially long, narrow chutes dug to the surface by long-dead ancestors and cleverly disguised. They were not big enough for anything as large as an Orc to pass through, but a small animal like a khlaatkû or buzthak could easily fall in if they weren't paying attention.

He was caught in something similar for the same reason when the ground suddenly disappeared beneath his feet. Lurching forward, he tumbled down a steep embankment, his spear flying out of his hands. When he rolled to a stop, he found he'd landed only a few yards away from a pack of creatures that looked very like his visitor, feasting on the carcass of a small animal. Too little to share among so many, if the looks they gave the intruder were any judge.

The Uruk's quick assessment of their eyes and curling lips told him they were not the same creatures. Where his visitor's eyes were warm and friendly, these beasts' were not. They were predatory eyes, and were not interested in play. Slowly rising to his feet, he backed away. Nargratûrz couldn't see where his spear landed, and though he was abysmal with its handling, he would have felt far braver with it in his hands.

The largest of them growled a warning and advanced a few wary steps. The others abandoned the glistening, bloody pile of bones and flesh and looked at the Uruk as if he were a much more promising option.

Nargratûrz spun and scrambled up the embankment. Behind him, the leader of the pack let out a long, high-pitched howl, then the beasts were at his heels.

Frustrated from being cooped up for days with no relief in sight, Sam was out hiking not far away. She heard the howling and felt a frisson of fear grip her. Wasn't this always how the movie warned the hero that a shit storm was about to blow his way? Beside her, the wolfhound lifted her head, ears pricked toward the sound, then started trotting in that direction.

"Darûk," Sam said warningly, "you know you don't want to play with a pack of wolves, right?"

As expected, the wolfhound ignored her and increased her speed to a trot. Sighing with resignation, Sam followed, fingering the gun she always wore at her side out here. You never knew who, or what, you'd run into, and she'd seen too many horror stories on the news to be incautious.

Darûk suddenly halted, nose in the air, and bolted through the underbrush. Alarmed, Sam ran after her. Coming out in a dense copse of trees, she followed the bounding hound up a rise. When she reached the top, something big and solid as a wall hit her like a truck. Its momentum stopped her in her tracks, carrying them both back down the slope, rolling and tumbling to land at the bottom in a pile of wet leaves and twigs. The figure landed on top of her with tremendous force, emptying her lungs in an audible whoosh. She couldn't even gasp for breath; it must have weighed hundreds of pounds, pressing down on her and immobilized by the fall.

It was a man, near as she could tell. His face was buried in the snow over her shoulder, but weight and overall shape told her that much at least. To Sam's surprise, Darûk was licking the man's face, wagging her tail in rapture. Pushing against his leather-covered shoulders, she struggled to get out from under him. After a couple of moments, he stiffened and shot off her like he'd been electrified. But their legs were tangled, and he was graceless in escaping her. He ended up crab-crawling across the ground until he slammed backwards into a tree. Now she saw his face, and a shocked gasp escaped her.

Taking as deep a breath as her body allowed, she scowled at him. Standing up, she whipped her knit cap off, advanced on him, and beat him soundly over the head and shoulders with it.

"Stupid, fucking LARPers!" she shouted as he tried to ward off the blows with upraised arms. "I get no peace from you idiots!"

aapskarn = 'red meat'
buzthak = 'stripe face,' what Nargratûrz's folk call a badger