Incunabulum 10: Induction at Isengard
Hrothmar trembled as they emerged from Fangorn Forest several days later and were confronted with a dark, towering structure crowned with steep spikes. It was so tall that he nearly fell over backwards when he tried to see the top. It hurt his neck horribly, but at last he caught a glimpse of the high platform that was the roof of the building and standing on it a white figure with a tall staff. A fell voice could be heard on the wind as though coming from far away.
"Aieee—ee—ee—eee…"
"Sounds like the boss is back," said one of the uruk-hai without even bothering to look up.
They strode up to the tower and got into the lift. Hrothmar was nearly sick as the lift shot suddenly upwards, and he flew up and nearly hit his head on the ceiling when it stopped just as suddenly at the top storey.
"Come on," said the uruk-hai chief, giving him a shove. "Stand up straight and behave yourself for the boss."
They entered a round room with a ceiling so high that it was cloaked in darkness. In the middle of the room was a table with the palantir on it. Saruman was just descending the ladder to the roof when they came in.
"Back already?" he asked. "You've done good work. Where is he?"
The uruk-hai gave Hrothmar a second shove which sent him stumbling to the floor at Saruman's feet.
"What is this?" said Saruman, his pleased smile dying in an instant.
"That's him," said the uruk-hai.
Saruman glanced at Hrothmar and then turned on his uruk-hai chief. "Miserable worm!" he shouted. "This is no elf—it's an orc!"
"That's the one they said was making the swords."
"Then you were duped. Fool! You should know better than to believe Misty Mountain scum."
"Does that mean we get to eat him?" asked one of the other uruk-hai.
The chief looked sullen. "He had this on him," he protested, proffering Hrothmar's hammer.
Saruman took the hammer and examined it. It was glowing a strong blue from the proximity of orcs. In fact, it had not ceased to glow since Hrothmar was first captured, and it was by its light that Hrothmar had crafted his swords in the orc dens. Saruman knew enough elvish to decipher the runes on the handle: they translated to "This is not a toy."
"Where did you come from originally?" asked Saruman, turning on Hrothmar. "Mirkwood?"
Hrothmar could not remember and said nothing.
"Speak, cur. Are you an elf?"
Hrothmar had long ago forgotten what he was, but he deduced that if orcs were treated this badly, elves would be treated worse, so scampered backwards crying, "No, no, no!"
"Then where did you get this hammer?"
"It's mine," Hrothmar whimpered.
"He seems to speak truth," said Saruman. Hrothmar squealed and ducked as the wizard darted forward and seized him by the arm. With a long, thin knife Saruman pricked one of Hrothmar's fingers while Hrothmar struggled violently.
"It's orc blood," said Saruman, looking closely at the black stain on his knife. "I'll have to put it under the microscope to be sure, but it's definitely not elf."
"Then do we get him?" asked an uruk-hai. Personally he did not think Hrothmar looked like good eating, but he thought he might make a decent snack.
"Put him with the others," said Saruman.
The uruk-hai retreated back into the lift and descended to ground level, taking Hrothmar with them. At the bottom of the tower he was pushed and cuffed down a ladder leading into a deep pit from whence an orange glow emanated accompanied by a blast of hot air and the sound of hammer blows. The ladder was connected to a second ladder by a rickety platform, with more ladders and platforms beneath and they clambered from one to the next until they had sunk themselves underground by at least two hundred feet.
Hrothmar reached the floor of the pit with relief but scarcely had time to look around him before he was made to march on again. They passed huge, slowly revolving iron wheels and other dangerous machinery, forges where bent swords were being mass-produced, and contraptions that looked like electric dryers from which freshly-assembled uruk-hai emerged periodically. Past all these were pits with heavy iron grills over them through which Hrothmar could see savage wargs snarling and trying to leap out. He shivered with the momentary idea that that was what Saruman had been speaking of when he had said to put him with the others. He was relieved when they passed the warg pits and stopped in front of a high desk with an orc behind it.
"New recruit," said the uruk-hai.
The orc squinted through his glasses at Hrothmar. "Name?" he said.
"Grobber."
"Spell it."
"I don't know how."
"Never mind. I'm putting you down as Etwol. Don't forget it. Next!"
They passed on through a door into a large room, stopping just inside in front of a hulking uruk with a hammer and a chisel, who struck off Hrothmar's shackles. Next the uruk-hai escort thrust Hrothmar into a small cell where he was sprayed with some sort of asphyxiating gas that was supposed to de-louse him, after which disturbing experience, he was marched on a short distance, stuck into a chair, and given a haircut. He scarcely had time to look at the result before the uruk-hai dragged him over to a table with a tray on it with about twenty hypodermic syringes. An orc in a white lab coat pushed Hrothmar into a chair and clamped his arm down on a table. Hrothmar shrieked, but the operation lasted only a few minutes.
"He's covered for Rubella, small pox, measles, TB, dyptheria, polio, and rabies," said the orc. "Oh, and I gave him a Cortizone shot for the swelling."
In the background, Hrothmar gave a scream.
"Shut the trap," said the orc. "That can't possibly be hurting as much as the Cortizone needle."
Hrothmar was getting his tattoo. The orc who was prodding him with a none-too-clean needle was obviously an expert, being covered with various designs himself. When Hrothmar was finally released from the chair, he sported a blue serial number on his wrist.
He got up groggily and nearly collapsed. The uruk-hai escort shoved him into a curtained shower stall and turned on the water with an exterior switch. Hrothmar shrieked as the ice-cold water hit him with the force of a pressure-washer. The shower lasted about two minutes and left him smelling faintly of disinfectant. When it was over, he stood there for several seconds dripping wet and wondering what he was supposed to do, until the uruk-hai chucked a clean shirt and pair of trousers over the curtain and onto his head.
Hrothmar emerged from the shower looking significantly improved and stopped in front of the last orc in the line-up who stood waiting with his hand in a pot of white paint. He looked Hrothmar up and down, grunted in approval, and gave him a slap in the face with the painted hand.
After that the uruk-hai pushed him down a corridor lit by smoking torches and lined with doors with numbers on them.
"There's your room," they said, shoving him inside one of the doors. "The schedule's on the wall. Here's your hammer." It was flung in after him and slid ringing along the floor. The door was slammed and Hrothmar—Etwol was left alone.
The Great Eye turned with pardonable annoyance upon Isengard. The signals from Saruman's palantir sounded extremely excited and Saruman only ever got excited over a new invention…and Sauron never shared his excitement. Still, allies had to be humoured.
"Well, what is it?" said Sauron.
"I've just made the most incredible discovery," said Saruman, suppressing the excitement in his voice and attempting to sound like he did on his albums. "That elf I was telling you about—I've got him."
"And?"
"And he's not an elf. He's an orc—or at least he looks exactly like one. His skin is grey and his pupils don't dilate well, not to mention the state of his teeth. But I tested a blood sample and what do you suppose I found?"
Sauron waited patiently.
"He used to be an elf…and he turned into an orc!"
"How?"
"I don't know," said Saruman excitedly, "but the DNA matches up. It must be reproduceable! It could be our answer to the elf problem."
"What did you get out of him about Mirkwood?"
"He doesn't remember a thing," said Saruman. "Totally clueless. There's no telling how long he's been underground."
"Then he's of no use to me," said Sauron conclusively. "Do what you like with him."
"He'll come in very handy here," said Saruman with a smile.
Saruman's newest recruit soon learned the routine of Isengard. Everyone's day was run according to the number on his wrist—work shifts, meals, showers, bedtime, training—all were posted on an elaborate schedule and everyone knew exactly where he was supposed to be at any given time. When Hrothmar was not called by his number he was called Etwol and he soon got used to the name.
Life at Isengard was not bad, as Etwol quickly discovered. He was given a forge of his own—larger than his old one in the mountains and with all the latest improvements. Once a week he was allowed the luxury of a hot shower. He was fed much better, and was sometimes even given meat. As an elf he had rarely eaten meat, but as his form had changed under the mountains he had slowly acquired the craving for flesh common to all orcs. It was a terrible, gnawing hunger that consumed his thoughts waking or sleeping (he still wasn't sleeping well). Sometimes it grew so strong that he longed to eat his own companions or even, when it was very bad, himself. It could never be satisfied, but it could be ameliorated when meat was on the menu.
There were other perks to being one of Saruman's soldiers, one being a strange white substance that was supposed to make one stronger. The uruk-hai got addicted to it, but Etwol didn't notice much effect from the few times he had taken it; perhaps there was still some elf in him.
But with his hammer in his hand and a stack of orc swords to forge, Etwol didn't need the drug anyway. He was still a slave, perhaps, but it was an entirely different sort of life from what he had lived with the Misty Mountain orcs. The white hand on his face marked him as Saruman's servant, which made him someone important. The first day in his forge he broke the chain on which the button hung and reforged it round his own neck, and with the badge came new confidence. He pulled himself from his usual round-shouldered stoop and stood upright, so that he looked less like a snaga and more like a kebab skewer.
Most elves only have one life that goes on forever. But Etwol was lucky; he had already begun on his third.