Recommended listening: Lyatoshynskyi — String Quartet No. 4

CHAPTER XXIX: UZDÍGH

Even Azgaur Queen rose early the next morning with minimal persuasion. Once all trace of their camp had been expunged and remnants of the previous evening's meal found its way into their mouths, the trio set about rigging the dinghy's sails. They were upon the water before the brazen sun had so much as broken the horizon, before overcast skies gave way to faded mallow. As rosy streaks of dawn crept across the seemingly boundless expanse of Zünuur, Azgaur saw fit to curl up beneath a blanket and continue his rest in the prow. Truva, on the contrary, was ill-contented to be without use.

'Are there no paddles?' she asked, glancing about the tiny hull.

'Allow nature to assume the brunt of the labour,' said Pallando. He sat with one hand on the tiller, a rather self-contented smile upon his face.

Rebuffed, Truva turned to watch the Sea's northern shore speed past, and smoothed back stray locks of hair against the buffeting winds. Perhaps she imagined it, or perhaps the bow wave grew slightly as Pallando muttered almost imperceptibly behind her. After catching several of her glances, the Wizard broke into a soft chuckle.

'Be at ease, Marshal!' said he. 'We shan't reach Uzdígh until tomorrow noon at the earliest, even if we sail through the night; nor I do not think we shall be so unfortunate as to encounter any of the East Rhûn navy – they, too, march upon Gondor.'

'Immense galleons have I sailed upon before, but it was only by their rotating crew that they were able to maintain an uninterrupted course. Surely it is dangerous to do so alone and without aid?'

Pallando's smile only grew wider and the curls of his bushy beard scattered upon the wind. 'Time is of the essence, and I will sacrifice none of it,' he declared.

Truva mulled over his cryptic answer in silence a while, observing the relaxed manner in which he manned the dinghy. 'Then will you not teach me?' she asked. 'The means of sailing so small a vessel?'

Without a moment's hesitation, the Wizard beckoned to her and – settling her just in front of himself – passed to her control of the tiller.

'This here is the boom…' he began, indicating the long pole jutting from the mast; and one by one he explained the dinghy components and the purpose each served. As morning wore on, Truva swiftly gained moderate proficiency in the more theoretical aspects of sailing, and so Pallando progressed to their practical application. By the time midday rolled around and Azgaur roused himself from his doze in hopes of a noontide meal, he was greeted by the sight of Truva manoeuvring the boat on her own.

'Skai!' he cursed in surprise, though his fears were soon pacified with waybread and wine. Happy to be fed (albeit modestly), the Queen then struck up a song. It could not be said to be considered a lovely song to the ears of any Man – and perhaps even to those of fellow Orcs – but he sang with great enthusiasm, which lifted the entire company's spirits regardless; a contented mood overtook them, and even Pallando saw fit to recline against the hull and rest.

His song concluded, Azgaur procured a fishing rod from some unseen cranny of the dinghy and cast it over the side, intending to supplement his paltry lunch. Truva looked on easy amusement for a time, but her attention soon drifted, and after several hours still Azgaur had been met with no success. Grumbling in frustration, the Orc tossed his rod back into the hull and splayed out as best he could in the cramped space, determined to indulge in what little sunlight streamed down.

Truva continued to guide their course – for there was little else to do, and it was a far preferable task to sitting listlessly as the featureless shoreline slid by. But even sailing the dinghy proved to be a rather less than thrilling activity. She felt no small amount of relief when the sky began to shift periwinkle and Pallando roused himself from his rest, wordlessly exchanging positions with her.

They sat for a time, listening as the dinghy bow ploughed gentle waves. Azgaur, in spite of his ever-ravenous nature, did not seem compelled to waken, and instead continued to doze through the period that would ordinarily be their evening meal.

It was the Wizard who ultimately broke the silence. 'Not much dinner to be forged upon the water,' he said. 'Sorry, lass.'

'I have gone without a meal or two more than once in my life,' Truva replied with a half-smile. 'And I am not terribly eager to subject myself to the struggles Azgaur Queen faced while attempting to fish this afternoon.'

'The Queen would most likely starve if it fell to himself to procure his own meals,' Pallando quipped.

The dark shadow of the Wizard's diminutive form was hunched over the tiller, stolid and immutable. A sense of tranquillity sat heavy about the boat, in spite of the speed with which it cut through the water; the chilling winds felt muted, serene.

Pallando then broached an even less amusing topic than the lack of dinner. 'Have you given any consideration to what you might say in Uzdígh on the morrow?'

Truva baulked. 'Must I say something?' she exclaimed.

Panic constricted her throat; memories swirled before her eyes, blinding her: the recollection of standing before a sea of Hidlanders, their expectant faces staring up at her as she begged them to sacrifice their very lives for a cause they knew nothing of. A scene in which she asked a company of fighters crowded into the makeshift quarters of Minas Tirith to make that exact same sacrifice a second time. The unmoving bodies of those who had trusted in her – their unblinking eyes and purple-tinged hands, blue lips and blood-encrusted armour.

'We have suspected Alatar's movements for a long time,' said the Wizard, oblivious to the horrors that plagued Truva's mind. 'The armies of East Rhûn migrated to Zünuur's southern shores nigh on three moons ago, and though we know not what events subsequently stayed their movements, we began gathering our own scattered forces about us in response.

'The Generals of Uzdígh shall be easy to convince; I have impressed upon them the dire nature of these circumstances. With assurance of allyship from a Marshal of the West, they will be more than amenable to war. But it is the King that concerns me greatest, for still I cannot guess her mind.'

'You say you have long suspected Alatar's movements?' said Truva, making no mention of Pallando's assumption that the West would willingly unite with Orcs – or even that she would deign to meet the King.

Pallando did not answer immediately. Truva felt more than saw him draw inwards, as if bent by the weight of his own knowledge.

'I do not think Alatar came to Middle Earth with the intention he harbours now,' he murmured, voice scarcely louder than the wash of waves against the dinghy hull. 'Yet I wonder whether he had not considered this eventuality, even as he first began to sow conflict between East and West Rhûn. He has simply been biding his time since then, strengthening his numbers and making secretive allies with the likes of Umbar and Harad.

'I believe Alatar was content to quietly serve the purpose we Istari were tasked with – for dividing Rhûn would help ensure Sauron's downfall when the inevitable clash came. He knew also the West would assuredly be weakened in the process, thus providing him the perfect opportunity to seize his true objective: dominion of all Middle Earth.'

In the silence that followed, Pallando adjusted the tiller slightly. 'It is not my wish to ensure the security of East Rhûn alone, but also that of Gondor and Rohan, as well – and even the lands of those Hobbits Gandalf is so enamoured with.'

Truva weighed the deviating details of the two Wizards' stories in her mind, comparing them to all that she herself had witnessed during her brief time in Rhûn. Perhaps both Alatar and Pallando intended to mislead her, in their own manner; but even if so, it was certainly not towards a common goal – the attack she had sustained immediately after arriving in Rhûn evidenced that. Nevertheless, doubt was doubt; perhaps it would be best to forgo entirely these troublesome Wizards and their warring lands.

But then Truva recalled the callous way in which Alatar had suggested that she abandon her duties as Marshal, that she betray her people and all those she loved. Once again, she felt the Noyon's restraining arms about her, felt in her bones the reverberations of East Rhûn army's marching feet above as she lay locked in the dungeons of Baradorn. Her conclusion came swiftly.

'I suppose I shall have to make a very good speech,' she said.

This elicited a humourless chuckle from Pallando, but Truva could not bring herself to join in. She drew her cape across her like a blanket and settled low in the dinghy to rest, though she was not tired. Still, who could say when her next sleep would come?

Her unfocused eyes gazed off into the distance, where clusters of lights dotted along the lakeshore indicated villages and distant lives being lived; otherwise, there was only darkness and gently rocking waves – the lull of which proved far too effective for Truva's liking. The watery sun was several fingers above the horizon ere she awoke.

Pallando sat in the stern, maintaining the exact same course as ever. Truva glanced towards land and judged their speed to have increased rather significantly at some point in the night – though how they sustained a pace rivalling that of a dromund and all its oarsmen, she could not suppose.

Opposite the Wizard, Azgaur crouched in the bow, scowling at the single wafer of waybread in each of his hands. He was unaccustomed to eating such meagre fare three days in a row, and was feeling rather put upon. The fact that he had consumed their entire store of wine the night previous did not improve his mood any.

'We haven't made as much headway as I should have liked,' said Pallando when he saw Truva had awoken. 'We shall be lucky to reach Uzdígh before sundown.'

With a howl, Azgaur heaved one wafer far out over the Sea, then located his fishing-pole and cast it into the water with an air of melancholic desperation. Thus the previous day's monotony was begun again. As Truva watched the Queen's fruitless attempts, her thoughts turned to how best to plead her case before the Orcs of West Rhûn – yet each contrived phrase made her to feel as though she were floundering in the waters of Zünuur itself, dragged ever deeper into its murky depths. She sat gasping, knuckles white upon the gunwales.

'Sha!' Azgaur exclaimed suddenly, wrenching Truva from her own introspective trap. The line of his rod was drawn taught, something caught upon it. Pallando slowed the dinghy's pace as Truva leapt to help draw the fish in, for the Queen was scarcely able to keep hold of the pole as it was. After considerable struggle, an immense brown trout lay flopping noisily against the ship hull.

Truva waited for Azgaur to dispatch the fish, yet when she glanced up, he merely stared at her expectantly.

'I doubt he's ever slaughtered his own catch before, Marshal,' laughed Pallando, resuming the dinghy's original pace – or perhaps an even faster one.

With a sigh, Truva drew her knife and slashed the trout's hindbrain before gutting and filleting it – for with one look at Azgaur's ravenous face, she knew he couldn't wait for the fish to be bled. Scarcely had she finished before the Orc fell upon his breakfast, shoving pink slices of flesh between his dark lips.

Then, astoundingly, he paused a brief moment and – selecting the smallest of pieces – offered it to Truva. She eyed it warily.

'You'd best accept that,' said Pallando. 'Never have I seen the Queen be so generous, even towards the King. Now you see his crafty ways; he knows an advantageous alliance when he sees one.'

For fear of offending so significant a figure as the Queen, Truva gingerly took the slice of trout in hand. Her talks with Óddîr revealed that whatever had been offered to her in Karkürem was vegetable in nature, and now that it came down to it, the notion of eating raw fish straight from the Sea seemed rather unpalatable. Yet the Orc's evident enjoyment aroused some small seed of curiosity in her, and so she placed the slice in her mouth and chewed thoroughly before swallowing. Azgaur's dark, sclera-less eyes peered at her intensely, awaiting her reaction.

'In truth, I've had many a far worse meals in days past,' she concluded, though she did not feel the need to elaborate upon the things she had been forced to eat to survive in the Hidlands.

Satisfied with his overture, and with his hunger slackened, Azgaur immediately returned to his repose. Pallando granted Truva control of the tiller once more, but he seemed disinclined to rest, and instead inclined towards conversation.

'Forgive me if you find my question overly forthright,' he began, 'but will you not tell me what became of you since your youngest remembered days? I long most desperately to learn the story of Ezele's child.'

Though she was taken aback by the Wizard's sudden invocation of the King's name, there was a strong undercurrent of emotion in his voice which moved Truva quite unexpectedly. She hesitated only a brief moment, feigning to adjust the tiller, before she responded.

'I find no call to forgive you,' she said, 'for your question is not unwarranted, and I take no offence. I cannot recall many of my earliest memories, yet I can describe to you the Hidlands…'

And so the seemingly unending hours of morning stretched into noon, then afternoon as Truva told her tale. Azgaur awoke at one point and demanded Pallando translate until the Orc grew bored and turned to his own ruminations, draping himself over the gunwales to dangle one finger in the water. Pallando, on the contrary, proved a fair listener, interrupting only when he required the most necessary clarifications. When Truva at last fell silent, so too did he, only to heave a heavy sigh after a prolonged spell had passed.

'So many misfortunes in so short a life,' he commiserated.

'Yet more than equal in number of auspicious turns,' said Truva.

'Perhaps.' The Wizard then pointed far off in the distance. 'I do believe one such fortuity lies before us.'

Upon the eastern horizon, a thin line of grey rose above the Sea water and its shores, hinting at the nearing of civilisation. Azgaur gave a short declaration of enthusiasm, only to resume his daydreaming as the dinghy ploughed on. Truva peered through the descending darkness as they drew near the outlet of River Running, hoping for any new information as to the Easterlings' position – both East and West – but was met with nothing save inscrutable landscape.

Just as Pallando predicted, night had fully fallen by the time they drew near enough to distinguish the fortresses of Agdî and Uzdígh. The harbours of both cities lay still; no activity could be seen upon the waterfront, no boats coming or going.

'What few warships Alatar boasts of must be moored upon the southern shores of Zünuur, which lie under control of East Rhûn,' commented Pallando as he looked upon the especially bare docks of Agdî. 'Still, it is best we give the city a wide berth – perhaps there are still a few companies lying in wait to attack.'

Truva was more than happy to oblige. 'Are there not many warships in Rhûn?'

'Warships require money and resources, time and training,' answered the Wizard. 'It is far easier to conduct our minor skirmishes on land rather than on water; neither Easterlings nor Orcs are traditionally seafaring peoples, you see. There are trade routes across Zünuur, to be sure – but these are predominantly controlled by Alatar, and are run almost exclusively by smaller merchant vessels.' Pallando paused then, and the shadow of a scowl crossed his face. 'Even so, he had sufficient shipwrights to send southward and garner Haradrim allyship.'

'Shipwrights? So it was by Alatar's strength the Sutherlands were able to attack Pelargir,' Truva concluded.

Pallando's mouth became a grim line. 'It would seem so.'

'Yet we repelled their attack, and drove them from the Stonemark! Why then would Alatar march now upon our lands, having been defeated once already?' But even as Truva said these words, the images she had seen in the palantír came flashing back – of Aragorn surrounded in flame, of northern ships burning – and her assurance grew less.

'If I have learned anything of Alatar, it is that he is patient, and weaves complex webs to ensnare only those he is certain to triumph over,' said Pallando, shaking his head. 'Whatever he intends, I am certain it does not bode well for the West.'

It was well past midnight by the time they circumnavigated the waters about Agdî. As with those of the East Rhûn fortress, the battlements of Uzdígh towered high above the River Running, extending far into the Sea and affording their harbour moderate protection. As soon as the dinghy rounded the long breakwater, the entire Orcish city itself came into view, every corner illuminated with bright lamps in spite of the late hour – for the citizens of Uzdígh anticipated with no small degree of enthusiasm the return of their Queen.

Pallando procured oars from beneath a hidden lip of the gunwales and passed them to Truva, so that he might take over the sails for the last stretch.

'Did you not say there were no oars?' she accused.

'And risk being stuck adrift upon the Sea?' said Pallando, one eyebrow raised archly. 'I should think not! No, it was merely that I know a determined countenance when I see one: the face of one who will use up their full strength and exhaust themselves unnecessarily.'

Then he paused momentarily, a puckish grin twitching his beard. 'I should also like to clarify that I never explicitly denied the existence of oars – merely suggested you ought to allow nature to assume the brunt of labour.'

'You taught me how to sail,' Truva pointed out. 'Is that not fatiguing enough?'

'Yes, well… There are some to whom boredom and inactivity are equally as wearying as physical exertion – and manning a ship's tiller, especially of a craft this small, is no comparison to rowing. Moreover—'

Their conversation was cut short when Azgaur snatched one paddle from Truva's hand and thrust it ineffectually into the water, so desperate was he to return to his accustomed lap of luxury. Truva sighed gently and took back the oar, paddling where Pallando directed.

With her back to the city, Truva could not see its finer details, yet the hum of excitement was palpable as the dinghy drew nearer. Tension erupted into cheers and joyous cries as the company pulled alongside the dock.

Several Orcs leapt forward to moor the boat, and another to assist Azgaur onto solid ground, yet no sooner had these guards laid eyes upon Truva than raucous squabbling broke out. She turned around to find a swarm of Orcs dressed in menacing armour racing down the pier. The Orc that had aided Azgaur now seized Truva's arm in his massive fist, dragging her from the boat and onto the planks as she scrambled to catch her footing.

With a single bound, Pallando alighted upon the dock.

'Lût!' he cried.

All at once, the congregation came to a halt. Pallando laid a gentle hand upon the arm of the Orc who detained Truva, who released her at once. When she stood and dusted herself off, the city unfurled itself to her. In spite of her precarious situation, she couldn't help but look with awe upon the sight: a steep, terraced hill rising from the very waters of Zünuur, each level boasting row upon row of mud brick houses, all decorated with stark black geometric motifs. Not a corner was left unadorned; canopies of patterned textiles were stretched across streets and alleyways, down to a sprawling market tucked amidst harbour warehouses.

As Truva gazed upon this magnificent city, Pallando spread his arms wide and began to speak in a dialect of Orcish, casting his voice above the eddying whispers sweeping through those crowded upon the quay. One tremendous Orc, nearly two full heads taller than Truva and thrice as wide, stepped forward in response. Muscle rippled beneath a scarlet tunic and along bare legs. It took a great deal of conscious effort on Truva's part not to step back.

'Kîzge King,' Pallando whispered beside her. Truva bowed, yet when she went to straighten, the Wizard's hand was upon her back. 'To your knees. Flare your elbows and incline your head three seconds before rising – that is, if you wish to survive your first meeting with the King.'

Sudden alarm flooded Truva's mind; she had been betrayed yet again! To be sacrificed upon the very docks of her arrival! Why had she not fled Karkürem alone when the opportunity had presented itself? Surely Gondor could fend off Alatar without an ally as untrustworthy as Orcs – regardless of their origin. Instead, Truva was left with no alternative save prostrate herself before this King, and hope for mercy.

She did so.

When Truva rose, the King stood staring at her, entirely motionless. Then, with a grace belied by her size, Kîzge returned the gesture – though she remained inclined for far shorter a time. Truva did not breathe all the while, suspended in fear.

Once the King regained her feet, she inhaled deeply and addressed both Pallando and the gathered Orcs in a voice deep and rumbling, as of rocks tumbling down a cliff face. Truva had no notion of what was said, yet in a flash the crowd surged forward with renewed exclamations, bearing Azgaur Queen off in a fur-lined palanquin.

But a great many others, eager to see what became of the peculiar Easterling, remained behind as guards hemmed in on all sides. Pallando raised a hand to halt their approach.

'I apologise,' he said, turning to Truva. 'Failing to teach you Orcish greeting customs was an immense oversight on my part. Long has it been since any visitor unfamiliar with our culture has come into these lands, let alone one of Easterling origin, and so it did not occur to me. Even so, the King has agreed to treat with you in spite of your perceived rudeness, and shall grant you entrance into Uzdígh – provided you submit to being bound.'

'Bound?' Truva repeated. Uneasiness set an edge in her voice.

'Your hands alone,' the Wizard added, more than a little contritely. 'You will not be blindfolded.'

Truva sighed. 'I haven't much choice, have I?'

'I'm afraid not.'

At a gesture from Pallando, a ring of Orcish guards stepped forward and stripped Truva of Fréodhel and all other weapons before securing her wrists with a length of abrasive rope. The King did not wait for them to finish before turning on her heel and striding back along the pier towards the harbourside market. The guards scrambled to drag Truva along behind in her wake.

When they gained the quay, the crowds shrank back in awe and fear – for they dared not approach one as mighty as the King, or as exotic as Truva.

Beyond the harbour, an immense staircase divided the city, cutting deep into the cliff face and granting access to each prominent terrace. This the company ascended, step by step, until they came to the uppermost heights of Uzdígh, which levelled out entirely. A thoroughfare spread before them, flanked by clay brick residences boasting low doors and few windows, adorned in the most elaborate designs: stripes from floor to roof, filled with triangles and stars and dots and all manner of artistic ornamentation. When Truva peered closer, torchlight revealed the dwellings to be painted not with black, but deep midnight blue.

The company walked along this thoroughfare a short distance until their path intersected a second major artery, lined along its far side by an immense wall. Here, many of the curious onlookers deviated either left or right, making towards smaller huts or boisterous taverns or crowded inns. The King, however, crossed to a gate in the wall opposite, which sprang open at her approach. The party was admitted into the fortified quarter beyond, where the path was so narrow that no more than six Men could walk abreast; the more robustly-bodied Orcs could scarcely fit four.

This new path came to an abrupt end just before a high, circular wall – yet unlike all others, this was unadorned, its smooth clay facade unbroken save by an arch so tiny not even a Holbytla could pass through upright. Truva watched in amazement as Kîzge King knelt upon the ground and crawled through the tunnel, followed by half a dozen guards. Pallando went next; yet no sooner had his toes disappeared than another Orc shoved Truva forward, forcing her down onto all fours and nudging her with his boot.

Truva was in no position to protest this unbecoming treatment. She crept ahead as best she could with hands bound, passing through a tunnel nearly three feet thick. When she emerged upon the opposite side, Pallando immediately assisted her to her feet as Kîzge King and the Orcish guards merely stood about and watched. Their unabashed stares were joined by those of watchmen stationed in intervals around the inner wall, whose curiosity superseded their dedication to duty.

The next guard to crawl through the entryway bumped his head against Truva's calves and let loose a string of curses. Before Truva could step out of his way, Kîzge King marched off along a mosaic pathway, its tiles a lattice of ruby pincushion flowers upon a field of white. In following the King, the party wend its way amidst nearly twoscore huts of varying shapes and sizes – tiny and towering alike, square or tent-like or the curved shape of beans. While all were decorated in a similar manner to those beyond the wall, these were painted in scarlet tones rather than black or blue.

'The royal compound,' Pallando murmured to Truva in explanation. 'Its patterns are red, for only the King of Uzdígh may don the colour.' He then pointed towards a comparatively large hut from which flickering light and uproarious noise poured. 'There lies the Queen's chambers. The King, on the other hand, maintains at least half a dozen sleeping quarters, and chooses where to sleep each night upon a whim – obfuscating her location to any potential assailants. Generals and advisors live beyond the compound walls.'

'It seems a wearing way of life,' Truva remarked, laying a map of each structure's location within her mind. She was still unconvinced she would not require a route of sudden escape.

'Perhaps, but it ensures that wearying life continues to be lived.'

The party soon came upon the largest of the citadel buildings: a massive dome with no windows at all, from the top of which long pennant strings arced to each neighbouring hut. This time, rather than enter first, Kîzge beckoned to Truva and pointed at the tiny door. Pallando began to speak, yet the King cut him off and pointed again, this time more forcefully. The intent was unmistakable; Truva knelt and shuffled through this second tunnel-door.

Immediate chaos greeted her within.

Three Orcs leapt up and brandished gleaming axes and scimitars, rushing around a central bonfire to attack at once. Truva scrambled to her feet and only just managed to evade the first Orc's strike before trapping the head of the second's axe in her bindings. Pallando appeared through the tunnel and darted forward, shouting in an Orcish tongue, yet the assailants did not cease their onslaught. Truva swung her weight so that the axe-wielding Orc was between her and the others, dragging him back towards the entrance.

Just then, Kîzge King also emerged into the chamber. She straightened to her fullest height, casting an immense shadow upon tapestries lining the wall behind her, and let loose a deep, guttural laugh. The three Orcs came to a sudden halt as they turned to look wide-eyed upon their leader, free weapons still raised in anticipation.

The King seized Truva's bonds with hands searing hot and dragged her forward through the befuddled trio of Orcs, then thrust her down onto the ground in front of the fire before taking a seat opposite. The three would-be assailants joined her as the King's guard dispersed about the perimeter of the hall. Pallando did not sit, instead choosing to hover between the two parties.

For a time, the King seemed content to observe Truva wordlessly, obsidian eyes taking in every detail of the Eorling Marshal: from her pilfered armour and Easterling appearance to the decidedly foreign weave of her braids. Truva evaded the King's intimidating gaze and instead inspected the walls, where geometric patterns had been replaced by sprawling murals of both warfare and cultivation. Upon the eastern wall was drawn a map of Middle Earth, though Rhûn was in the very centre, and its western edge extended only as far as the Firienmist. Truva stared at expansive mountain ranges and river veins – each labelled with names written in indecipherable characters; truly, Zünuur was no more than the nearest reaches of the Eastern lands.

One of the three Orcs that had attacked Truva made a brief comment then, breaking Truva's focus. Kîzge snarled a reply and the Orc shrank back, wholly intimidated by the King's demeanour. After a few moments, however, another of the three resumed the thread of conversation. Garbed in the pelt of a wolf, he appeared rather more stately than his comrades – who wore no furs at all – and the air he commanded brooked no argument.

Kîzge King stared intently at this Orc as he spoke. When he at last fell silent, she turned to Truva and addressed her in what sounded to be a dialect of Easterling. When Truva's perplexed expression did not show any signs of understanding, the King rolled her eyes and motioned shortly to Pallando.

'They doubt your origin,' he said. 'They ask for proof that you are Alatar's daughter, come from the West.'

Truva mused a moment, then spoke in the Eorling tongue: 'I do not suppose my language would be sufficient to vindicate me?'

'Perhaps; you speak as one native,' said the Wizard. When he conveyed this information to their audience, the King's eyes narrowed, and her answer did not sound friendly to Truva's ears.

'A spy knows many languages,' Pallando translated.

'Then perhaps the horn of the House of Éofor?'

'Too easily stolen.' He fell silent a moment, then added, 'Do you not possess a bow of immense power, similar to that of a Wizard?'

'I have never known a Wizard to carry any bow,' said Truva, 'and I have only a modest understanding of its magic; yet if such a display would reassure the King of my quality, I would happily wield my bow – yet you must know that it cannot be controlled.'

Pallando gestured towards a guard near the entrance, who disappeared at once. 'It can be controlled,' he insisted. 'You must simply learn how. I will assist you.'

The guard returned immediately, bearing the Elven bow but no arrows. At a command from Kîzge, the guard cut Truva's bonds before offering her the weapon and darting back, eyes rolling in fear. Truva glanced at Pallando, her own trepidation apparent.

'I have always found it begins from my chin,' said the Wizard, thrusting his magnificent beard forward. 'A certain tingling springs up when I clench my jaw – though at first it feels little more than the effects of focusing keenly. I have witnessed you successfully viewing across space through the palantír; it is very much the same sense of intent.'

Truva ran her hands along the bow, its carvings smooth beneath her fingers. She raised it to her chest, gripping the string tightly.

'Breathe in deeply, steadily,' said Pallando, his sagging stomach growing rotund as he modelled his own advice. Truva inhaled and closed her eyes, desperation sharp in her mind as she fell under the intense scrutiny of her audience.

Inch by inch she turned her arms and drew the string, waiting for the anticipated trill of energy, but stillness reigned. One breath passed, and then another; only when Kîzge gave a snort – a sound of both amusement and disgust – did Truva's eyes fly open. The King selected an arrow from her own quiver and tossed it to the Marshal before leaping across the fire, scimitar raised.

Truva scarcely had enough time to nock the arrow and loose, bearing no thought for the consequences of killing a king in the very bowels of enemy territory, yet there it was: the spark of something more.

Truva watched in astonishment as the King deflected her arrow and came to a halt a mere hairsbreadth away. Kîzge spoke gruffly, hands ghosting over Truva's bow, never outright touching it. The wood thrummed gently in response, the sound only just audible.

'The King has accepted your explanation of origin,' said Pallando, his own posture relaxing, 'though I think it unwise to expect camaraderie between the Orcs of West Rhûn and your people any time soon.'

Kîzge resettled on the opposite side of the fire. She folded her arms across her broad chest, copper flames flickering in her dark eyes as she lapsed once more into silence. All present seemed to wait upon her next word, and yet the fire's crackle was all that greeted their ears for a very long time. Hazy, earth-scented woodsmoke filled the hall, curling lazily upwards towards a circular opening at the dome's crest.

When Kîzge spoke at last, the tension remained unalleviated; the Orcs turned their attention to Truva and Pallando in equal measure – the King must have asked a question.

'Kîzge King wonders what assurances you can give that the forces of Uzdígh will not walk into a trap, beset upon both by West Rhûn and Gondor, as well as her allies,' Pallando translated.

Negotiations had begun.

'I can offer no such assurances,' Truva answered with all honesty, 'as I am neither king myself, nor currently in direct contact with one. Yet the West was exceedingly fair in their dealings with adversarial lands upon the War's conclusion – perhaps too fair. Do you not have scouts who can confirm the Easterling clans' peaceful return to their homelands? Aragorn King treats with honour and magnanimity, as does Éomer King; you needn't fear duplicity on their part, as you might on that of Alatar.'

When Pallando conveyed these words to the King, Truva rather suspected he failed to mention the first portion of her response, for there was no frown of doubt upon Kîzge's scarred and distorted features, only cautious appraisal. As the King considered Truva's answer, the pelt-clad Orc rose and strode to the wall upon which the map of Eastern Middle Earth had been drawn. He beckoned for Truva to follow.

'Pè,' he said, touching forefinger to nose.

'Ghazubor is the current Pè – the title of Uzdígh's highest military rank,' said Pallando. 'He is second only to the King. The two who serve him, dressed in blue indicative of their rank, are his Òrlok: Agbesh and Grazud.'

Truva bowed slightly in acknowledgement of the commanders. The Pè gave an accepting nod, turned to the map, and began to speak rapidly in Orcish, running his finger along the red clay with its black lines. When he pointed first to the Sutherlands before indicating Rhûn, Pallando explained:

'There is word that the combined forces of Umbar and Harad will soon sail from the south. Those few ships you encountered in Pelargir were, in all likelihood, but a small subset of the navy Alatar helped create in the months following the War. Alatar himself is positioned to march from the southeastern tip of the Sea, then across the barren plains of Dagorlad.

'It will take his army no more than a fortnight to reach Gondor – less, if they drive hard, as I suspect they will. There are rumours the campaign was delayed for some unforeseen reason, and so now the Easterlings rush to realign their timeline with that of the Southrons. Alatar was noted as having been particularly vexed these past few weeks.'

Truva saw a twinkle of humour in the Wizard's eyes then, and couldn't help but allow a small sense of satisfaction to extend to her own mood; Alatar was deserving of any and all obstacles he encountered, she thought vengefully.

The King then raised another question behind them. As several gangly Orcs entered bearing food-laden trays and tankards of ale, Ghazubor took hold of Truva's shoulders and physically guided her to a seat between himself and Kîzge.

'The King asks about Rohan,' said Pallando as the fare was laid out before them and the two Òrlok leaned forward to pour ale and distribute food. 'You are from that land; can you not assemble a force of the Rohirrim to assist Gondor?'

'Éomer King set sail for Umbar alongside Aragorn King,' said Truva, accepting a mug of ale. It had been several hours since her peculiar lunch of raw fish, and her stomach clenched in protest. 'If it is as you say, and the Sutherlands are entangled in Alatar's plot, he will have already sent a call for succour at the earliest opportunity. If – Helm protect them – misfortune has befallen the forces of the West, I fear it is not until we gain Minas Tirith that there shall be any hope of summoning aid; for there lies the easternmost beacon of the Firienwít, which not even the Mark's swiftest Rider can outpace.'

One Òrlok handed Truva a plate, which she took warily – for hidden amongst the stewed meats, chicken bones and flatbread was what appeared to be locusts. Many years had passed since she last resorted to eating insects for survival, and so in an attempt to divert attention from her hesitancy, she asked, 'Can we not assail the forces of East Rhûn before they ever cross into the Stonemark?'

'I very much doubt we shall be able to overtake their army,' said Pallando. 'Even if we do, our numbers alone are insufficient to overpower Alatar's; otherwise, we would not be in our current position, and the conflict between our lands would have come to a head long ago.'

'Tsartsā!' interrupted an Òrlok, the one called Agbesh. He reached around Ghazubor to point excitedly at the locusts on Truva's plate, selecting one and stuffing it in his mouth before offering his own to her. The King observed each motion with scrutinising gaze.

'This variety of locust is a particular delicacy in Rhûn,' Pallando explained apologetically. 'They return only once every seventeen years. For the King to serve you freshly-prepared tsartsā is an honour, indeed.'

Truva frowned down at the gangly bugs, piled high and gleaming. But then she recalled the ambivalence with which she had regarded her afternoon filleted trout, only for it to prove a palatable meal. Selecting a single locust, she brought it to her mouth and attempted to chew as quickly as possible – only to find she somewhat enjoyed the bug's piscine yet nutty taste; it was faintly reminiscent of the morels she had relinquished to the Easterlings, and not at all like the acidic ants she was accustomed to in the Hidlands.

Seemingly pleased by her guest's acquiescence, Kîzge King motioned for all present to begin their own meals, and proceeded to ask (through Pallando) an endless barrage of questions regarding Éomer King and Eorling horses, as well as Gondor and its lands. Truva strove to be forthright, though she feigned ignorance on more than one occasion – for still she did not fully trust the Orcs, in spite of the sense that some level of entente existed now between them.

Scarcely had she finished a third of her meal before gentle waves of lassitude began to lap at the edges of her mind – subtle at first, then stronger with each successive inquiry of the King's. Truva's eyes grew heavy, and thus she was oblivious to Kîzge's peeved expression and dismissive gestures when Pallando interrupted yet another question, or the brief discussion that followed.

But when the King barked a few short orders, Truva's eyes snapped open. With prompting from Pallando, she scrambled to her feet and bowed to King, Pè, and Òrlok alike in the same manner she had upon the docks. Pallando then guided her back through the tiny tunnel-door, where a parade of guards preceded them, and followed after as well – for clearly the Orcs were equally mistrusting of Truva as she was of them.

As she was led along a meandering, circuitous path through the huts, Pallando walked beside her. 'It is late, and the King's questions were many,' he said. 'Orcs do not show tiredness in the way Men do, and they favour darkness and nighttime – though those of West Rhûn have spent generations growing accustomed to tilling their lands beneath the sun.'

Truva nodded, exhaustion slowing her movements. 'All hours of the day are equal in their value,' she murmured. For the briefest of moments, her eyes were open long enough to glimpse Pallando's sympathetic smile.

'I expect the muster horns shall sound early, come morning,' he said.

'Thank you.'

These words Truva spoke with much deeper meaning than their simplicity. Escape from Karkürem, defence against the Orcs' suspicions – for these she owed the Wizard a tremendous debt of gratitude, even if his actions were born merely of a practical desire to aid West Rhûn. The emotions she felt in that moment could not be properly articulated, especially in her current state of fatigue, but Pallando gave an understanding grunt.

'Goodnight,' he said. 'Summon the guards – and, by extension, myself – for even the most trifling of matters, should you find the need.'

He slipped between a pair of buildings and was gone before Truva was even aware he had spoken. In the same moment, her escort halted before the entrance of a small residence and stood expectantly beside its door, which was so minute Truva was forced to nearly crawl upon her belly to enter. The sound of guards assuming position outside followed, and she knew there would be no leaving that night.

Despite years of contrary depictions in tales of old, told to misbehaving children on stormy nights in the halls of Meduseld or throughout the homes of Edoras, Truva found the hut to be quite austere and neat within – much as the rest of Uzdígh had been. A single torch illuminated a low cot and little else, but there was scarcely a dust mote out of place.

Against the opposite wall rested Fréodhel.

Perhaps these Rhûnic Orcs were of a different breed entirely than those of Isengard and Mordor, Truva thought, or perhaps she had misjudged Orcs entirely. Kîzge King certainly could not be said to have shown equal hospitality as other leaders of the varying lands along her journey – yet Truva was alive, and that fact in and of itself exceeded her expectations.

Still Truva slept fitfully, and just as Pallando had predicted, horns blared before the tinge of dawn light was visible. The sound reverberated deafeningly within the tiny dome, rousing Truva in an instant and sending waves of disorientation through her mind. She leapt up from the cot, gathered her weapons in a rush, and squirmed through the entrance – only to be greeted by an Orc who had unceremoniously thrust the end of his long trumpet into the tunnel mouth.

Already Pallando was striding along the mosaic path towards Truva, showing no regard for the other compound residents being woken in a similar manner.

'Are you prepared to speak before the troops?' he asked, without offering so much as a 'good morning'. Truva's stomach immediately calcified; the task hadn't slipped her mind, so much as been pushed so very far into its recesses that she had succeeded in ignoring it – for a time.

'I do not suppose I shall ever be more ready,' she said.

'Excellent!' said the Wizard. The twist at the left corner of his lips suggested he understood her meaning, yet chose to interpret it differently.

Just then, several guards emerged from a nearby hut, followed hard upon by Kîzge. The King was garbed in a tremendous armoured coat, the gleam of its black lamellar plates only just visible in the gloom of early morning.

This small party made its way back to the gate of the royal compound, beyond which waited the Pè and his Òrlok, who were in turn accompanied by standard bearers and drummers. Ghazubor held out a glinting double-bladed halberd and bow of Kine horn, which Kîzge seized in her massive, taloned hands. Energy thrummed amidst the Orcs as she did so, and the drums were struck up. Even Truva was awed – for the King cut the figure of a fearsome warrior, worthy of standing beside the mightiest of leaders.

When Kîzge and company emerged from the fortified district into the main streets of Uzdígh, this same energy pervaded the gathered crowds, where the old and infirm (as well as those too young to keep pace) had come to pay their final respects. They pounded their chests and stomped their feet in time to the drums; some even fell upon their hands and knees before the King, beating out a menacing dance of death.

Kîzge spoke not a word; she merely bowed as the Orcs of Uzdígh do, her forehead brushing the ground for three suspenseful breaths. She then rose and turned westward, walking parallel to the battlements of the fortified district. This portion of the city boasted structures decorated in deep emerald greens and bright yellows; yet as the company neared the city walls, these buildings were replaced by livestock pens and market stalls – all shuttered for the day.

The bleating of goats and clucking of chickens gradually fell away as the walls loomed larger. With an abrupt turn, the immense gate suddenly reared up in front of the company. Kîzge King did not stride through this archway, however, and instead led the party into the nearer of two gatehouses and up its spiral staircase. They emerged upon the battlements even as the sun broke the horizon to sit trapped beneath expansive, low clouds.

In a breath, all of West Rhûn was laid before Truva: vast swaths of millet and bean fields stretching as far as the eye could see, with a smattering of dwellings here and there. Far to the southwest rose a range of low mountains along the shore of Zünuur – though they appeared little more than high hills in Truva's eyes (accustomed, as she was, to the piercing heights of Firienwít).

Yet most arresting was what lay directly before the gates of Uzdígh: rank upon rank of Orcish soldiers, thousands strong, beating halberd upon earth or axe upon shield in time with the drums, scimitars raised in the blood-red light of dawn.

Kîzge King leapt up onto the parapet itself and raised an arm. At once, the city's pulse stilled; the drums fell silent and the warriors lowered their weapons, waiting with bated breath to hear what wisdom their exalted leader would bestow upon them. Yet the King spoke no more than a few words, her raspy voice carrying easily to even the most distant formations, before beckoning Truva forward.

Truva stepped delicately into one of the embrasures beside the King, willing herself not to look down at the dizzying drop below. Still, the exhilaration of standing unprotected at such a height matched the terror she felt in finding herself before so large an audience. She dug her short fingernails into the palm of her hand, thinking of Aragorn and Éomer, her homeland and loved ones – it was for their sake she made her appeal.

'I am a stranger to you,' she cried. Her voice sounded feeble in comparison to that of Kîzge, but she took a shaky breath and continued. 'In fact, I wear the face of your enemy – both in name and appearance. I would not begrudge you, were you to regard me with suspicion. Yet at this current juncture, the fate of both Uzdígh and the West lies upon the same path.'

Pallando translated simultaneously as Truva made her pronouncements, their voices weaving together in spoken round, ebbing and swelling with the emotions of the Marshal's supplications.

'I have come in recent days to recognise the vast and complex nature of Orcish tribes. All I ask in return is that you do not allow my kinship with the Wizard Alatar cloud your judgement of me, for I too have suffered at the hands of his deceptions and mistruths. Though I be Easterling by blood, I know nothing of their spirit – for it is not a fortnight gone since I first stepped into these lands.

'Nor would I have you judge me by my true origin: that of the Riddermark; for though our lands have fought bitterly in ages long gone by, it is actions of the present – not the resentments of the past – that guide our course now. Rohan and Gondor have crowned fair and just Kings, and they will treat in earnest with West Rhûn, should we find victory upon the field of battle.

'And if we do not find victory, we shall most certainly seek out death!'

Even thunder would have been drowned out by the response to this declaration – though Truva suspected the Orcs would have roused themselves for any speech invoking war and death. The drums struck up once more, their beat soon echoed by the warriors; horns sounded, low rumbles and high timbre in equal measure.

Then from behind Truva came the clopping of hooves. She turned to find herself face-to-face with a Kine steer – taller nearly doubly than she, its massive horns wider than the battlements themselves. The animal seemed far more massive than those she had spied off in the distance of the plains, now that she was no more than an arm-span away and could examine in detail the creature's coarse fur – pitch-black, save a stripe of pure white stretching from shoulder to tail. How the Orcs had succeeded in guiding it up through the guardhouse, Truva could not fathom.

The Pè passed to Kîzge King a wide, shallow bowl, embellished with red mosaics reflecting the designs of the royal compound. This the King placed before the Kine and, drawing her scimitar with a flash, swept a single stroke across the creature's throat. Scarlet blood spurted forth, overfilling the bowl and splattering upon the wall-walk flagstones as the beast sank to its knees. When at last its tremendous horns lay propped upon the ground, the King seized the bowl and raised it to her lips, drinking deeply.

After downing nearly half the contents, the King then passed the bowl to Truva. Not even the Pè blinked at this clear delineation of rank, and so Truva set aside all misgivings and rushed to follow Kîzge's example. When she, too, had drunk, Pallando advised her to offer the bowl to Ghazubor in turn.

Thus the bowl circulated amongst all the commanders before Kîzge King accepted it once more, raising it up over her head and pouring a vermilion waterfall upon herself. With a final flick, she cast the last droplets across the forces below, who cried out with such ferocity the very walls of the city shook. Another chorus of horns and drums sounded, signalling for the entire army to turn and set out, making for the lands of Gondor.