Early 1312 S.R.
Mirkwood Mountains
"Move it, you maggots!"
The slave driver's demand is punctuated by another crack of the whip across my back. His whip is a thing of tightly knotted and twisted leather with what feels like a mixture of jagged stones, glass and metal shards twisted into the leather. I know very well the feel of it, for it feels like the thousandth time it's cracked across my back. I've given no trouble to him - why would I? I have nowhere to go back to, I've become used to changing warlords and this is just another way of doing it.
"Faster, maggots!" Heedless of the fact that we're all at our limits for lack of food and water over the last days, he cracks the whip again, this time across my legs. I've had more strokes on my legs than on my back. Probably the only reason I'm still on my feet is stubbornness. I silently contemplate ways to kill this oversized pile of festering pushdug one day and settle on a specially juicy one that involves a sizeable fire, a roasting spit and a bunch of screaming. I'm just a nice easy target. Many of the orcs left are shorter than I, sometimes half my size or even a quarter. I've never seen runts like this in my life. One of the smallest orcs drops and, though the driver lashes with tongue and whip both, he doesn't try even once to get up again, lying utterly still beneath one of the odd spires of rock that dot these mountains. His eyes have that glazed look I've seen often enough lately - if he's even still breathing, he won't be for long, and he's never going to do the driver's bidding again. Soon enough the driver realizes this, too, and leaves him to rot.
We carry on down into a tunnel that has a bitter musky smell of caked filth, blood and bodily waste. It's a familiar smell, for it's what happens when orcs live together. Nobody cleans ourselves or our surroundings, of course. It's not a thought that occurs to most of us. Perhaps our skins would come off if we tried, so caked on is the filth.
I let my mind wander down that path and other paths strange to any orc in the brief respite the driver gives us from that whip. There's no turning or escaping here and he knows it; the tunnel's straight as an arrow and too narrow for more than two to walk abreast. It might have been smooth once, but it's crumbling now, abandoned perhaps by whoever made it. It's not orc work, that is quite plain to be seen by the runes all along the stone at about shoulder height to me. They go unnoticed by the rest of the smaller orcs, being well above their heads, and by the driver, who's too busy watching to see if anyone else falters. I think sourly to myself that he probably doesn't have the brains to note the runes and wonder about who made them or what they might mean. Dwarf work's my guess.
I'm suddenly jarred back to more orcish thoughts as we're brought to a halt in the center of a bare room ringed by torches. This is apparently where the local warband buys its slaves. There's a man-high orc waiting for us. He's the tallest one I've ever seen, his skin a dark umber color, one eye a copper color and the other just gone, an indescribable bubbling mass of tissue where it should be.
I'm positioned at the far end of the line of slaves as we're all set into place for his inspection. He scoffs at the size of the others and I can definitely see why if he looks like the rest of the band. He's quite right of course. The rest of the Hammer and Spears were either sent off with other slavers or already sold along the way and what's left is a sorry sample of orc kind, half dead and knee high to him. No doubt fearing he's going to earn himself a whipping from his own master if he doesn't sell at least one of us, the driver finally points me out to the big orc.
"Here," he says, and though he gives the other orc no title or name, probably not knowing either, his tone is positively servile. "This one might suit you better."
I'm in pretty sorry physical shape at the moment from the whippings and lack of food and water and my clothes are torn to shreds, but the driver grabs my arms and twists them so the big orc can see my forearms and hands, clearly marked with the signs of a smithing trade. I again contemplate ways to kill him as he uses far more force than necessary, wrenching my shoulders and causing me to stifle an annoyed growl. The spit occurs to me again even though I don't eat orc flesh, but I let the urge pass and focus my attention outward. The big orc's copper eye immediately catches on the scars of my trade and he easily recognizes their origin.
"Hreh, this is more like," he says, his voice hoarse and raspy. "What kind of smith is she?" My breasts make it obvious I am indeed a she, though I've never made an issue of them.
"I don't know," says the slave driver in a display of utter incompetence, his voice suddenly small and timid. Only then do I realize he never asked me any questions as he drove me here, nor any of the others. I'd been too busy taking lashings from him to think of it. The copper eye looks to me then waiting for an answer. I gather it's not customary for a potential buyer to speak to a slave, but in this case there's no choice.
"Well, snaga?" he barks.
"Armor mostly," I answer, my voice softer even than usual with my exhaustion. It's quiet in the room, though, and he hears me just fine. His expression changes, the lone working eye lighting with interest that it's perhaps fortunate for his chief's purse the driver doesn't see. It's the last time I'll ever have the word "snaga" directed at me except when I scare him.
"Hrah!" I later learn this is an exclamation of triumph or pleasure for him. He goes off with the driver and they settle on a price for me. I don't ask what he paid. It doesn't matter. All that matters is it seems I'll have yet another warlord and the driver's going to have to find another target for his cursed lash.
I'm soon separated from the other runts and the driver's off again. I'm left with the orc, who turns out to be from Gundabad.
"We needed an armorer bad," he confesses. Then he shows me his leathers, which aren't in much better shape than my clothing. "Our armor sow ain't been seen in months and no one else can fix it. You ain't gonna desert or get yerself killed , are yah? What's your name anyway?"
"Garlakh. No I'm not going anywhere. Got nowhere to go even if I wanted to, and no I don't plan to die." My answer is terse. This is a uruk who has some authority if he's buying slaves and he's got no time for chatter beyond the necessities now.
"Hreh, see it stays that way. Don't do anything stupid. No goin' out alone. Now listen up, we're organized into three crews: scrappers, stalkers and makers. Scrappers are the frontline fighters, stalkers or skulks are the scouts, and the makers …" And he continues to give me the brief run-down on who's who and how things are done.
He takes me down into the main cave where the band lives and gives those present orders to the effect that if any of them let me die to something other than my own stupidity, there'll be Mordor's own price to pay. So it begins. I spend days just fixing everyone's tattered leathers and busted shields, learning better who's who and how the band is organized until it's less of a blur than the brief orientation I was given on my way from the slave holding area. I was given an armband with the tribe's symbol and never took it off as long as my membership lasted.
1312-late 1314 S.R.
Less than two months into my time with this band it changed warlords. The one I met, whom I took to thinking of as Copper-eye, wasn't the chief or even the chief's second, but he was an officer as I suspected. I saw the chief from a distance once, but never spoke to him. He was in the end a very old fellow who lost a grudge match at an orcish moot where all the local tribes were supposed to get together to discuss things. The one-on-one duel was only the beginning. As the chief fell, our shaman revealed himself to have been playing host to some odd fiend. It consumed him, then the dying chief in a disgusting display that made me lose all my meals for the last decade, then formed itself into a monster of earth and attacked the rest of us. Most of the tribes had cleared off before the dual and the one that was left just watched as we took down the fiend. Then they attacked us with the help of a troll. I never forgave that chief even though he was following orders from his own overlord and relished it when he died some years later. Come to think of it, I never forgave the overlord either although for a time he became our warlord, but I'll get back to that.
I learned two things in that fight, where I had expected to die and did not. First, whatever faults I have I am not a coward. One of the scrappers, front line warriors, needed help. Knowing it would probably mean the end of me, I did it. I don't know why except perhaps for tribal loyalty to this new band I'd made my own. Self-sacrifice is not terribly orcish, yet I jumped between him and a troll. That orc never forgot, and afterword there was ever a bond of respect between us for as long as he lived. The second thing I learned as the troll smashed my ribs with a single blow of his massive fist and sent me into unconsciousness is that trolls are strong. I developed a hatred of the things and to this day I take relish in killing them.
The end of that battle was basically that we lost our warlord and his second, moving Copper-eye up to second in command while others took the warlord post. I say others because it was a time of rapid change.
I also learned that this warband in the person of Copper-eye was going to demand more than I knew I had, and I would thoroughly enjoy rising to each challenge. I was constantly expected to pick up new skills and better those I had. Copper-eye earned my loyalty that way, by giving me respect for the skill I had while demanding more from me. Even before the moot this process had begun with a shortbow lesson. This fledgling loyalty was soon to be tested, as the one who attacked us at the moot soon enough came calling demanding we bow to him as warlord. We would have done so had he taken it right after beating the old chief, but for reasons I never understood, he tried to wipe us out instead, then come calling when we were good and pissed at him.
One remained who had been loyal to the old chief for years. He had been acting as our warlord for the last month after his friend's death and he stepped up to challenge. It wasn't even close, and I was professionally offended at the state of his armor, which he had never had me mend. It fell off him in mid fight, and that was the end of him. I was furious with the fool for not making a better show of it - last thing I wanted to do was serve the one who attacked us when he could have just made us his as would have been his right when he defeated our old chief.
No one else challenged him. We had no one to match his fine steel sword, his armor (fine mail like I'd never seen and a full helm in the shape of a skull), or at the time his skill. Our new warlord marked us with the fallen one's blood and we were his, though Copper-eye was left in place as our immediate superior.
Though some had tried to curry favor by going over to his side even before the challenge from the old chief's friend, I wasn't one of them. I waited with Copper-eye and it was Copper-eye who held my personal loyalty, the warlords generally being a non-factor in day-to-day life to this point of my time with the tribe. I took a great chance when I expressed my misgivings to Copper-eye a few days after we were given to our new warlord. His words were a comfort.
"This is my mountain. I'm his lieutenant, for now. Ultimately, Garl, you still answer to me." And that was enough to stop me from contemplating desertion for the first time in my life, for I had come to trust Copper-eye even in a culture where distrust is the norm. Time would show it was also true.
I carried a distaste for the warlord until the day he died and was not sorry when our next enemy slit his throat as he slept. Meanwhile I continued to improve and expand my skills and soon enough was making the best armor I'd made in my life. Plain leather at first, then segmented leather, then mail to match or better any Tark from our nearby enemies in a lumber village along the river and towering far over what most orcs get to wear.
Thus it continued, picking up and improving skills one after the other, and in time Copper-eye truly became my warlord. Not only was I having to work on my skills, I was expected to pass my knowledge of leathers, metal and armorsmithing on to others. I really do hate remembering just how much time I wasted teaching uruks who were there only because the warlord wanted them there and cared not a bit for the work. They either didn't practice what I taught them or died before they could make good use of it. Very soon many in the band were pressing me to challenge the weaponsmith for the position of forge-boss because of the way he was failing to lead and pretty much never around. I declined, though, feeling myself unfit until I could match him in the forge in his area of expertise. He was an unstable sort, volatile, flat out insane at times, and I wanted no part of challenging him until I believed I could take him both in the forge and in a fight if I had to. I was already his better at armoring and metalworking, but knew nothing of weapon making. I'd already been working on picking up weapon and woodcraft, and though it took me a time to succeed at getting a grasp of either, my reliability in my own area insured I was seen as forge-boss even if it wasn't technically true and I refused to accept the title even when I was doing the bulk of the work in practice. Even the warlord saw it that way and finally started actively encouraging me to work toward taking the forge-boss position from under the less reliable fellow. In time I managed, to the warlord's visible relief.
As I watched the various leaders in the band, it occurred to me that I gave respect to some out of obligation to a higher-ranked officer while others got respect from me for their skills. It seemed there were different kinds of strength. Those who were given respect out of obligation led only by intimidation and fear or just because they were the only one around qualified for a certain position. Those I respected most deeply knew what they knew, were our best at it, weren't reluctant to show others, and would include others outside their group when possible in whatever they were doing. They could threaten punishments and deliver them as well as anyone, but rarely had to because they seemingly had less trouble with their people. The warlord himself was one of these latter, increasing my opinion of him still further.
Some in the tribe worshiped a spirit they swore was the spirit of the forge, who governed the crafting of things and relished blood and death. I didn't have anything else to follow, never having been a spiritual being and also being rather disenchanted of spirits after that scene at the moot. I followed that spirit because of my trade, but never asked for a favor. It was just as well, for there was one who did trust him and was abandoned.
There was always something other than my craft to do, too, be it training to learn a new weapon, sparring with fellows, facing some enemy, or even fending off orcs that wanted a roll in bed. One of the other orders Copper-eye gave on my first day was that I was not to be bothered for rutting. As one of the few sows in the band, that would otherwise have been a real possibility. Some asked anyway, but usually took "I wasn't brought here to rut just any passing snaga who asks" as answer enough or didn't live long enough to attain the stature of one of the orcs I would have put myself under. In time one of the skulks took both a long-lasting interest and a patient tack. He was an easy-going fellow who also happened to be a hard worker, one of the band's fiercest fighters and a good scout. He was one of those who'd made it plain he wanted to rut with me, but I made him wait. I still remember how he made a song of my name - "Gaaaaaaarrl" - only one other did so and I hadn't seen him since the slavers took us.
He shocked me in the forge one day a good couple years later after we'd both made marks in the band and become trusted, catching me alone and taking a break. He backed me against the wall and waited to see if I'd resist. There was a level of trust between us and he wasn't harsh about it, so amused, I let him. Then he pressed his lips to mine. Is there a word for that? It gave me a hot rush of some fluttery feeling inside, so I did it back to him, then we both started experimenting with it. He told me I was his mate, and I didn't feel any urge to object. Sometimes he would do something else I have no name for and wrap his arms around me and pull me close to him, too, and that was different altogether: a warm, quiet, calming feeling like I've never known since. At first we would go to a cave behind a waterfall when I could get time away, and eventually we made our situation more public, wrapping arms and touching lips in front of the other uruks, who were visibly disgusted by the displays. Others would brag of how much pain they would bring their partner when they rutted, or the pain they wanted to bring, but he seemed to want to do something different. We didn't get to rut because we both wanted some privacy and time undisturbed that we couldn't get in the warren. We talked about some day starting our own place once the Tarks were defeated, where I could get and play with any metal I wanted… It didn't last more than a few months. I learned one day that as fierce a fighter as my mate was, some elf killed him one day just outside the human town nearby. Again I felt that nameless hollowness inside, but too many others were counting on me this time and I still had a warlord to whom I had given my loyalty. I never told a soul just how much I missed my mate's presence, how much I longed for him to wrap his arms around me and pull me against him again. I have long missed that feeling and longed for it in vain. I can't ask someone to do it. Who among orc kind would understand? I still don't understand over a century later and I feel the longing. He had also for a brief time been the avatar of the spirit of fire and blood, who abandoned him. I could take no vengeance on a spirit. I vowed vengeance on the elf.
November 1314 S.R.
Mirkwood
We wait silently in the darkness in the spot the old warg left us promising to bring the tarks to the ambush. I struggle to remain awake and alert, for as usual I did forge work until only hours before. I'm tired. I'm also used to it. I'm fed and watered, so at least there isn't that distraction atop the exhaustion, but staying awake while you're completely still in quiet and dark surroundings is extremely difficult.
We wait longer. The boss gives us his plan in barely more than a whisper. We're to gang up on each Tark and swarm him. There are several tarks coming that are very juicy because It'll be damaging to the little Tark town if they die. We wait, and we wait. Are they coming? Have they discovered the trap? They believe the old warg is their friend. How gullible are they? The elf is coming, too. We all want that elf. He's the main target. I hope I get just one taste of his blood in my mate's name… Here, elfy elfy elfy…
Suddenly there's torchlight to the east and I hear pieces of a conversation; here they come finally after hours of waiting. Five of them. We outnumber them. I see the elf. First live one I've ever seen. Like a Tark and yet not a Tark. What's the difference? I look between him and the tarks and there's some difference between them, something beyond the physical differences in hair, eyes or ears. Only over a century later will I understand that some deep, well-hidden part of my soul thrilled to that indefinable otherness. Doesn't matter now. I give a silent howl of savage triumph at the look of him. My mate's killer. My artistic side is fascinated with his armor and his weapons. How are they made? Why do they smell like the forest or is that from the elf? That doesn't matter now, either. I want your blood, elf.
I get the blood I wanted, and then some. The honor of watching the life fade from that one's eyes was not mine, but my weapons did touch him. I did get his blood on me and tasted it. I also got his fine white knife and marked it so even if I lose it, it'll never be the thing of beauty it was to an elf. I also killed a tark or two. We head home in exultation, each of us carrying as much loot as we can and still move - for only one tark escaped us in the end. The others are all dead and add their weapons and armor to our stores.
*~*~*1315 S.R.-1419 S.R.
There were plenty more battles in the century or so between the elf's death and the downfall of the lidless eye. I could spend a good while telling you of battles down deeper in the mountain with more of those little runt goblins like I saw when I was sold into the tribe, spiders ranging from tiny to troll-sized, very real trolls, some of which could shift their shapes to look like tarks, battles with other orc tribes in the mirk, battles with the elves of the wood, more raids on and around the folk of the nearest tark town or the larger tark town out on the lake a ways away, or even battles with the dwarves when the dragon was slain and driven from his roost in the Lonely Mountain. We were the tip of Dol Guldur's spear and made it hard on all who opposed its might.
We had our share of wins and when the losses did come they were devastating. By the end of the battle in what they call Dale, the only ones left from my very first day in the tribe were me and Copper-eye. I never challenged him or tried to become his second, though. I always left that to the fighters to thrash out among themselves. It was always good enough for me that the boss knew where to go for smithing and knew I was loyal to him. He did know it very well. He once described me as "the one least likely in this warband to try and gut me", and you have to be an orc to understand just how much trust that is.
My focus changed from armor to weapons and back again, depending on the tribe's needs. If there was an armorer who lived long enough to get good under me, I'd do weapons. If there was a good weaponsmith, I'd do armor. That could change many times even in a single year, for turnover was always high between the deaths and new slaves and volunteers being brought in. All the tribe's members knew that as long as I was given respect, I was quiet and even-tempered unless you didn't take care of your gear. Hand me a piece you didn't seem to have even tried to maintain yourself and I would give you a tongue lashing. The warlord saw me at it once and said I was well within my rights to do it even if the orc would usually outrank me, as I was the one who had to keep the gear up.
I was often called on to torment or brand our enemies when the bosses wanted to use heat and fire to encourage talking or mark a prisoner. I could do it, but I was rather businesslike about it. I was as quick as I could be with it especially when it was a branding. I didn't have the overwhelming need to cause extra pain for the sake of it, which I never understood, but also never mentioned. Still more than a few died under my hands. Then I would return to the forge and take double the pleasure in whatever I was working on.
I never again found a mate. My mate would not have approved of that; he told me at least twice that if something happened to him I should move on quickly, but it didn't happen. If the warlord had asked, I would have been his. There were others who could have asked, usually among the strongest or those I got along with best, but none did except in what I took to be jest. I never had even a casual roll in a nest with someone because it would have put me out of work and there was always too much demand for what I do.