Early September 1422 S.R.
Rhun
For some unknown time I wander randomly, not quite straight toward the smudge, passing through lands of men like those we fought beside in the last great war. Once or twice in the early months of it my tribe was called to reinforce a position, and I remember their eyes and their standards. They had no more care for my kind than I did for theirs even then, despite our mutual overlord, and it soon becomes obvious that hasn't changed a jot. With winter coming on in these lands, and with no caves or forests anywhere in sight, I'm at a loss for finding shelter. The idea occurs to me to offer to work through the winter. I remember that tarks can't handle the weather like we can, but none will take me on for even the most menial work, even though both they and I know their numbers were decimated during the course of the wars with the lake-men and dwarves. Most come at me steel first just for asking, and that's when I even get the chance to ask. Usually they just come steel first when they realize what I am. I can't blame them. Nonetheless thrice I am forced to kill, and I continue on until I come to the largest body of water I have ever seen just as the first plants poke their heads above ground. I am mesmorized and forget my surroundings and the danger that is my constant companion for a while. I have seen ripples, yes, but I have never seen water go up and down like this, and the sound of it as it approaches and retreats lulls me into a strange floating sort of daze. I watch for I don't know how long until a movement to the side draws my eye to a boat with at least half a dozen well-armed men coming ashore. There are more behind these men, some with – I dredge my memory for Leanne's lessons on Tark words – women and children, and some with more soldiers. Suddenly the rolling water seems like a trick to me and the daze departs, leaving me feeling briefly restless, a feeling I channel into a head-clearing irritation with myself.
"Fool, Garl, for dropping your guard," I curse myself as I search for some kind of cover and retreat from the shore, turning more southerly now. That smudge is still calling, and I'll die if I linger here. I still haven't found the answers to any of my questions and if for no other reason than that, I continue.
Early August 1423 S.R.
Nameless cave, Ered Lithui
I continued to wander aimlessly for a long time, killing more highwaymen along the way, dodging patrols and people who seemed to be building a road or something and leaving whoever patrols this area a pretty puzzle when they find dead bandits, and only dead bandits, looted and abandoned. I deliberately lost myself in the mountains, aimlessly traveling along for a few days until I found a cave.
This I entered, only to discover it was occupied by some pretty good-sized orcs. It almost became a very nasty situation when one of the largest decided to kill first and ask questions later. He did not live to regret his choice. Still standing in his blood, I watched the others in the cave warily, but let them know by my lack of movement that I would only continue to offer violence if they did.
The moment I step into the cave whose light attracted me, a blur of movement resolves itself into the form of a hulking red-haired orc a few inches taller than me, coming at me blades first. He uses two swords in a style similar to the two-knife method Garnog taught me so many years ago. It seems I startled a sentry and he's in no mood to talk. His attacks are rapid, a blur of movement that is difficult to parry. Rusty iron screeches against rusty iron as I miss the initial parry with my mace and his sword rakes across my gut. He has put yet another slice in my leather tunic that I wore to muffle the mail's clinking and provide an extra layer, but his iron has seen even harder use than mine and the mail links hold. I let my torch drop and draw my dagger, matching him weapon for weapon, though the nature of my primary weapon and my heavier armor make my moves less rapid than his. It's the last hit he lands. My parry is better and his strikes become increasingly wild and desperate. He caught me by surprise and had I been wearing anything less, I'd be dead, but it soon becomes clear he doesn't have my skill. A quick flash of movement draws my attention to several other orcs drawing weapons and racing across the cavern, but they're still too far to do any damage. None of them have bows.
In his desperation he makes a mistake, getting off balance as he takes an especially wild swing. He loses his footing and falls, flopping onto his back with a stream of words in a dialect I don't understand except for the tone, which leads me to believe he's cursing even as he starts to try and gather himself to rise. I certainly would be. Already both my weapons were on a downward stroke and it has too much momentum behind it for me to check it in time; the mace crashes into his head and the knife into his chest. His rusty swords clatter to the floor and he flops limply as all tension leaves his body. His death was mercifully quick for both of us, for I find myself wishing somehow that I hadn't had to take his life and pitying him on his journey to whatever awaits us orcs when our lives are finished. His blood flows out of him as if from a burst waterskin and I'm standing in it looking down at an orc I only then realize is completely unarmored, wearing naught but rags.
I stand unharmed, the inferior and much-dulled iron of his blades unable to penetrate my mail, even battered as it now is. I ran out of oil far too many months ago and can do little now to prevent its rusting away, but it still has some time left to it and still does its duty. There's a long moment's profound stillness as all movement in the cave ceases, the leader having raised a hand I didn't see as I briefly examined my kill. The only sound is the crackling of a low-burning fire in a makeshift firepit. I wait quietly. Are these lads going to make me kill any more of them? Will I have come all this way just to die here like millions of orcs before me and long before I can learn anything or do anything to redeem myself?
Suddenly from the back of the cave comes a voice I had never expected to hear again.
"Gaaaaaaarrrrrl," a croon I hadn't heard since I was very young. The voice was too deep to have been my mates even if I hadn't already known he was dead. I recognized it immediately. I hadn't heard that croon since before he started to teach me to use knives and it used to make me happy for some reason I never understood. I looked deeper into the gloom.
"Gana?" I had been slow to learn speech and that was what I called my brother for the first couple years of life and even after I spoke properly until he began to teach me. Then it was either use of his proper name or his rank, never any closeness to be shown publicly again. Pet name for pet name today, then, brother? Is that your way of telling me there's no threat? My mind briefly flashes back to that croon; he used to hunt for the tribe and it was his task to see the pregnant and nursing sows and their young were fed and he made me and my dam his last stop, always saving us a little something extra.
And sure enough there he is. He steps forward, hands extended, open and empty in token that he does not wish to offer further challenge to me.
"Stand down lads," he says to the four remaining orcs in the cave. "I know this one. No, Gorthak, she ain't for ruttin' tonight." The one called Gorthak looks monumentally disappointed that he must keep himself inside his pants yet again and has had to do so for quite some time to judge by his grumbling. He's a fine specimen of uruk kind, big and strong, but Garnog's right I'm not interested in rutting. We all put our weapons away and I step out of the fallen orc's blood.
"Don't worry about him," Garnog says before I can speak. "Never did have any brains. Only reason he was here is because I saved his hide when the towers fell. I slept lightly around him."
I learn these orcs had been cobbled together from other shattered bands into a new one that served right around the gates of Mordor and this is all that's left, many of the rest having thrown themselves into the pit where Barad-Dur once stood, many more having wandered even deeper into Mordor to whatever's on the other side. Garnog, too, had become something of a leader and as the other orcs went back to their dice and dinner as suited their moods, we sat off to the side talking for hours.
"I stay here because it's easier than the risks I could take," he tells me. "Lost the urge to kill everything I see and I don't have any other skills. You know all I was ever really good for's fighting, hunting and skulking around. He -" pointing to one of the other orcs, but not naming him -"Has taught me a bit of mining. This cave's just about exhausted, though, so we're gonna have to move again. I've got some ideas, but who knows where we'll end up? You, now. You're different, you might be a little more than all right if you can work up your courage if you've learned all that. You always did love making things so I'm not surprised. I've heard tell there are some humans who'll deal with us. You'll be one like they've never seen, Garl, with those skills. They're used to the likes of me and these others. I doubt they've had someone skilled come out. There were forges not far from here, but they were all crushed to powder when the Eye's power broke. None came out of there at all. I can't speak to what happened to the White Hand's uruk-hai, but it can't have been much better for them."
He stands and walks around me, studying me intently. His gaze is envious as he looks at my mail, slightly rusted now from lack of oil and battered by fights with beast, man and orc. "That's good stuff. Wish I'd ended up in your band. I can see the quality of it even as battered as it is now. You haven't been able to do a lot to take care of it lately, have you? Dumb question. You were one of the few who always took care of your stuff. Anyway, you'll be safe here today."
After several hours hard sleep we're talking again. "We're going further east, but if that fails I might seek out some Gondor tarks myself. I've heard rumors there are dwarves within a couple days of here and they'll have no love for us, so we might not get far." he tells me. "The men out east past the dwarves and the nearest tribe aren't anything to talk about. Too much like us orcs. I think your road lies back south and west. There's an inn I heard about where orcs have actually made friends with the tarks. Not something I understand, but maybe I will one day. Luck to you, Garl. I don't know why we've both been spared, but I hope we meet again."
He kneels in the dirt and draws a map to guide me, telling me about a couple of different swampy areas and other landmarks along or near the path he suggests I now take, then taps a sparkling red stone with greenish flecks where he says the inn is before rising. For some reason I can't explain, I'm tempted to wrap my arms around him, pull him close and squeeze, then just hang onto him a while. He seems to hesitate, too, watching my eyes with an oddly soft look as if he is considering something similar. We both fail to bridge the gap between wishes and reality. He gives me a rough swat on the shoulder and we go our separate ways for the time. I remember my encounters in Rhun and have no desire to repeat them, but before I seek out Gondor tarks I need to answer a question. I am still drawn to see what's on the other side of these mountains.