Incunabulum 14: Shortcut to Mirkwood
Etwol lined up his followers in orderly file and began to inspect them. The Mordor snagae were surly and suspicious, but he was confident of handling them. The zombies would also be easy, and Etwol knew how to get on the vampires' good side, which was all that was needed in handling them. He stepped back in satisfaction and suddenly received a debilitating blow between his shoulders.
"Mind whose toes you step on, slug," said a rough voice. It was an uruk from Mordor who had come up behind him unexpectedly. "Who's in charge of this carrion?"
"I am," said Etwol.
"Well, step down, then. I'm taking over."
"Says who? Where's your orders?"
"Who has to say?" replied the uruk. "I'll say, if that makes any difference. I been stuck in this stinking hole ever since I brought a company of orcs over in January. I ain't staying behind and I ain't going to be under a wireworm like you, neither. So stand down."
"Saruman said I was in charge," Etwol protested.
"Nobody takes orders from Saruman where we're going," said the uruk. "Mordor, mate! It's a different world."
Etwol got in line with the others. There was no use in arguing with an uruk. They had just begun to move towards one of the Isengard exits when a small snaga came running pell-mell after them. He reached them panting and fell into step at the back of the line beside Etwol.
"What are you coming along for?" asked Etwol, recognising the orc as Isengard's official tattoo artist.
"I've got paid time off for the next few weeks while the war is going on in Rohan," he explained. "I'm going home to visit my family in Mordor."
"We're not trekking straight across Rohan, are we?" asked Etwol, shouting to be heard over the clanking of armour and mutters of "brainz" by the zombies. The zombies were obsessed with brains because Saruman had fried theirs.
"It's a short cut," said the uruk leader, whose name, Etwol had learned, was Bhagszh. "The horse boys won't stop us. They're all headed to Helm's Deep for the big battle."
They were all running as fast as they could get the zombies to go and making fair time, too. Etwol didn't like being out in the open, though. He had never gotten used to open spaces.
"There's somefing coming up ahead!" he shouted.
Bhagszh turned to look back at him.
"What do you mean?" he said. "There's nuffing there."
"Yes, there is." Etwol's eyes may not have been much good in the sunlight, but they were still far better than any orc's. "There's a lot of horse boys coming straight for us."
Now they could all see the dust of the Rohirrims' approach. Bhagszh cursed roundly and swerved to the left.
"Running's no use," shouted Etwol, who, along with his keen vision, had not lost the elven delight in stating the obvious. "They'll ride us all down. We're frew."
The Rohirrim had by now caught sight of the invaders and immediately gave chase. The snagae began to slow down because they looked so often over their shoulders. The zombies slowed up, too, in hopes of brains. The vampires stretched their wings and began to fly ahead, shouting discouraging predictions back to their erstwhile companions.
"Get a move on!" shouted Bhagszh, taking out a whip (uruks always carried them) and beginning to flog the hindermost. Etwol had no whip, but gave the best encouragement he could with his hands and feet. Uruks are extremely brave for, although they are always ready to let a snaga get killed instead of themselves, they nearly always bring up the rear whenever there is danger about.
The Rohirrim were coming closer, waving their spears and shouting. The thunder of their horses' hooves shook the ground beneath the fleeing orcs. Etwol gave a kick to a slow snaga and cursed, fumbling at his belt for his hammer. He looked back.
Just then, something very strange happened. From the south came a small white figure, flying over the grass like a white seabird or a delinquent star. It came closer and Etwol saw that it was a white rider on a white horse waving a long white staff and shouting—or at least his mouth was moving, but Etwol could not hear him over the sound of the horses' hooves.
The Rohirrim slowed as the rider approached them, while the orcs continued to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers. Etwol ran looking back and saw the white rider speaking to the Rohirrim and waving his hands towards the south excitedly. The leader of the Rohirrim pointed in Etwol's direction and seemed to be asking if he couldn't destroy those pesky orcs first and then go do what the rider was telling him to. The white rider shook his head and with a disappointed air, the Rohirrim turned and followed him southwards.
The orcs, however, did not slacken their pace. Who knew if the horse boys would change their minds, or if there weren't more of them about. Best to get clear of Rohan as soon as possible. They ran on and on. At last Etwol shouted again.
"There's somefing ahead—trees this time!"
Bhagszh slowed down and stopped plying his whip. He wiped a very damp brow and looked at the formidable forest ahead.
" 'S'Fangorn," he said (he was tired, so his speech came thickly). "Must be. 'S'all right, though. All we got to do is turn east. Then we can head straight acrost the brownlands to the Black Gate. Better that way, anyway, because we don't have to cross the Emyn Muil."
"Fought you said this was a short cut," said Etwol.
"It is," said Bhagszh. "We'll get there faster, if we do have a bit further to go. Now get a move on!"
They set off once more. There was no sign of Rohirrim or any other pursuit.
"This is the fird river we've crossed," said Etwol, struggling through a deep place and catching hold of the tattoo artist just as he was about to be carried downstream. "There's only supposed to be two rivers. We're going the wrong way."
"No, we ain't," said Bhagszh. "We ain't, and we ain't going to be. I know the way to Mordor—been over it scores o' times. You've never been, have you?"
"No."
"Then shut your trap, carrion beetle, and don't let me hear no more from you."
They waded out of the river, the tattoo snaga removing his breastplate to allow about a gallon of water to escape. His name was Ghashbug—that was not his real name, but that was what everyone called him. They called him that because he was a ghashbug: he was always smoking cheap pipeweed cigarettes and leaving the butt-ends about.
They had travelled through the night without a break and it was by now nearly dawn. The vampires were saying that it was bedtime and that they wanted to see the schedule. Bhagszh was being short with everybody because he was beginning to be a bit worried that they really were going the wrong way. Everyone was glad when he called a halt and allowed them to light a fire to dry their clothes.
"I fink we need to bear more to the right," said Etwol, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire and tossing bits of dry grass into the flames.
"Shut up," said Bhagszh. "I told you, you never been here afore."
"They have," said Etwol, pointing to the zombies and vampires.
The two classes looked shy and said nothing.
"Well?" said Bhagszh.
"I don't remember zat," said a zombie.
"We got totally fried," said a vampire. "We don't remember a thing."
The Mordor snagae had never been over that area either because they had come to Isengard via the Cirith Ungol route, and Ghashbug hadn't because he had always been too busy tattooing to be sent to collect zombies from the Dead Marshes.
"So it's just me, then," said Bhagszh. "So no more complaining about where we go."
The company fell silent and began to eat their rations. Suddenly Bhagszh glanced up.
"Where'd that carrion go?" he asked.
"What?" said Etwol. "The zombies?"
"Yeh. There were a score or so, weren't there? Well, there's some missing."
"Probably went to look for brains," said Etwol.
"Well, you're the one what was sent to look after them, right?" said Bhagszh. "So go look for 'em."
Etwol got up reluctantly and struck off into the darkness. It would be daylight soon and he didn't want to be caught by something, away off by himself with no one to save him. He put away this idea resolutely and concentrated all his efforts on listening for gutteral murmurs.
He found the zombies soon enough. They had gone back to the riverbank and it was soon evident why: at the same time Etwol saw their dark forms stumbling along up ahead, he saw also the gleam of a campfire and heard low voices talking. He hurried forward, hoping to waylay the zombies before they were discovered, but he soon realised that it was useless. He stopped and stood still, watching in helpless horror as the scene unfolded.
The two men crouched by the fire were not at first aware that their doom was approaching. One of them was talking and unconsciously raised his voice slightly.
"I didn't say that. I said eating vegetables would make you grow. I did not say grow up. I know what I said. You don't—what is happening?"
He had broken off the conversation to remark thus on the appearance of five elven zombies. As bad as they looked in the daylight, they were positively petrifying when seen by the low glare of a campfire, especially when you had thought you were alone. The two men leaped to their feet with synchronised shrieks.
"Brainz," said the zombies.
"Back! Stay back! Don't come any closer!" Thus said the two at bay, with swords held out at arm's length before them and faces exceedingly pale.
"They're unarmed," remarked one of the men.
"Probably some elven trick. Quick! Let's tie them up and see what we can get them to tell us."
Throwing down their swords, the two men grabbed the zombies and had them trussed in a trice.
"Tell us what you know!" screamed one of the men.
"Tell us now!" screamed the other.
They began to hit and kick the unhappy zombies, who were unable to do anything more than mutter, "Nozing."
"I got it," said one of the men. "Let's suspend them over the campfire and roast them slowly."
"Do elves roast?" asked the other.
"Let's try it and see!"
"No," said the other decidedly. "Avariel will never like me if I roast elves."
"Aw, she won't find out," said the first.
There was a rustle in the grass and the ropes began to fall off the zombies. The two men watched in consternation.
"How are they doing that?" asked one of the men. The other darted forward and pounced on a dark shape trying to conceal itself behind the zombies. A loud squeal erupted and the man returned, dragging Etwol by one ear.
"Here's better sport than dead elves," said the man. "It's an orc. Let's make it tell us something."
"No, kill it right away. I like killing orcs."
"But it might be able to tell us something." The man had by now tied Etwol's hands securely behind his back. With a blow to the side of his head, he sent Etwol tumbling across the campsite. Etwol shrieked in pain.
"What are you doing here?" asked the man who had hit him. "Why are you trying to help elves? Do you want to eat them?"
"No," said Etwol. Then, remembering what the men had said, added, "Do you?"
"Yuck!" said the skinnier of the two men, turning green.
"Well, he speaks the common tongue," said the other man. "We ought to be able to get something out of him." He turned to Etwol again. "Tell us where the others are!" he shouted, kicking Etwol back across the camp to his original position. Etwol howled and writhed.
"You kick him for a while," said the interrogator to his skinny companion. "I'm tired."
"Hey, what happened to the creepy dead elves?" was the reply. "They're gone!"
The zombies had slipped away. Etwol hoped they had sense enough to find the rest of the party. He tugged at the cords on his hands and scrabbled in the dirt for a sharp stone to cut them on.
"I'll go look for them," said the less skinny of the two. "You watch it."
"Can I kill it?"
"Not until I get back. I may think of some more questions to ask it."
He went off and the other man sat down by the campfire and began to sharpen his sword. Both of the men were skinny and scruffy, but this one was the skinnier and scruffier of the two. The other man had worn green and brown, as far as could be discerned in the dark, but this man wore black and brown. He looked at Etwol with an interested expression.
"I'm not going to kick you," he said, "because I'm too tired. But if you feel like telling me anything, I'm not too tired to listen."
"Are you going to eat me?" asked Etwol, mesmerised by the shiny sword the man was sharpening.
"That's disgusting," said the man, looking disgusted. "Nobody eats orcs, and anyways, I'm a vegan, which means I don't eat meat." He was always having to explain what a vegan was because as far as he knew, he was the only one in Middle Earth.
"Why not?" asked Etwol.
"Well," said the man slowly, "I like a beautiful elven maiden, and I was hoping being a vegan would impress her. Just being a ranger didn't work. But then that might be because there are so many rangers around here. My friend is a ranger, too, but I'm a ranger of the North and he's a ranger of Ithilien. That's why he likes interrogating things. I just like killing them."
Etwol had got the edge of his breastplate between the cords on his hands and had nearly sawed them through. If he could just keep this ranger talking for a minute longer, he would be free. He tried to think of something to talk to a man about, but nothing came to mind.
The ranger stirred a pot that he had forgotten to put on the fire. "Hmm, they look ready," he said. He looked at Etwol. "Would you like some boiled greens?"
Etwol looked at the pot and gave the ranger a glance of revulsion.
"It's really not that bad," said the ranger.
Suddenly the other ranger appeared, running very fast and out of breath.
"There's a whole nest of them—orcs and—and I don't know what," he gasped. "They're coming this way…"
With a herculean effort, Etwol burst his bonds apart and leaping to his feet, darted off into the shadows. The men shouted, but he had a good head start, and they didn't want to run into the rest of the orcs. Glancing back once, Etwol saw the ranger of Ithilien bend his bow and shoot a flaming arrow into the air. It flew up, blazing a deep red, and slowly described an arc in the greying dawn sky.
Etwol was still watching it with his neck twisted around when he was brought up short in his headlong flight by charging straight into Bhagszh, who was at the head of the rest of the party.
"There you are, come on!" said Bhagszh.
The whole company turned and ran. The sun was just beginning to rise and it was on their left, which meant that they were heading north. They were running straight towards a dark line of trees.
Etwol was having a nasty sort of feeling—something like deja vous. He didn't want to enter the forest they were approaching, but he could hear, and so could the others, the sounds of pursuit behind them. Apparently the rangers had reinforcements. The next moment the orcs were breaking through the underbrush at the edge of the forest and plunging into the shadows under the trees. They ran until the forest's edge could no longer be seen; then they paused to catch their breath and count heads.
"We're definitely going the wrong way," said Etwol. "We're in Mirkwood."