****Author's Note****
This story isn't meant to strictly follow the canon of Middle Earth/Tolkien. It's a casual piece that I'm just writing for fun. If breaking canon isn't your thing, you probably won't care for this story.
Where There's A Whip, There's A Way is a sequel to You Reap What You Sow and will contain significant spoilers. Please read YRWYS first!
Don't want to wait for more? Read chapters as soon as I finished writing them on my discord! Link in my bio!
If you are enjoying WTAWTAW, please consider leaving a comment! It really makes my day to hear what my readers think!
1
"—An' there weren' no sign of Pugrat after tha'! 'E just went poof! GONE." A clawed, warty pair of hands gestured, fingers starting all together and moving outward in one movement to mimic a gruesome, explosive fate.
A few voices snickered, but another, hoarse and graveled offered his own thoughts on the storyteller's tale, "Musta been tha' rang'r. Ya know, the one they sez can make a fire blast ya sky high wivv just his hands! And they sez he kills wivv arrows ya can't see too. One minute ya could just be standin' guard, and then yer shot through the skull, not even getting the courtesy of knowing wot 'it ya!"
Horror stories around a campfire were all in a night's entertainment; even for the most vile of creatures, orcs being no exception. In fact, rather than finding such things terrifying, it seemed they reveled in it. Missing comrades, rogue tarks hunting orc-folk in the night... such rumors were the height of comedy. No one actually believed them. However, of course, Pugrat would be the kind of glob to get himself blown to smithereens by spontaneous combustion of a grog barrel; doddering drunkard. Worth a good laugh, though.
Those gathered round were plenty eager to add their own quips to the mix, "Naaarrr... Tha' ain't no ranger. Juss some stupid orc tha' think's 'imself all high an' mighty. Looks down 'is nose on us lesser beasts an' likes ta pretend 'e's manfilth and using tricks ta make fools of ya."
"No, no, that Gondorian piece of shrakh is real. My blood brother saw 'im! Ya seez, my blood brother's got sum magic, and he can see the arrows, an my blood brother sez the rang'r's actually half elf-shade—"
"WE DON'T CARE 'BOUT YER STUPID BLOOD BROTHER!" A couple orcs barked in exasperated unison, hurling rocks and a few blades at the blathering idiot in question.
One orc, who seemed to have a modicum more pensive reflection, tapped his chin thoughtfully with a gnarled claw, "I don't think we're talkin' 'bout the same bleedin' rotter. I've heard o' both separately."
A couple orcs rolled their eyes.
"Ya think there's two arrogant bastards running around Mordor, actin' like they own the place? Nah, come off it."
"There's 'undreds of idiots tha' act like that, like Frushkul. Ruddy, scar-faced pushdug. Where'd 'e run off to anyway?"
The mention of this "Frushkul" evoked a number of irritable, but tempered hisses.
"Shut yer bleedin' gob, idjit..."
"If the boss hears ya mouthin' off, yer dead."
"I really don't wanna get on the wrong end o' tha' whip o' his..."
"Nah, I'm shure of it," The contemplative orc cut in before the conversation could run off on some unrelated tangent. "We're talkin' about two diff'rent blokes. If ye have a run in with that tark, 'e ain't gonna let ya ferget who he is. Calls 'imself light lord or some pricky nonsense like tha' and he struts on that piss like 'e's marking territory. As fer the orc? No one knows 'is name, but some folks been whispering. They call him Gulkoth Warg-rider."
The speaker was met by several cat-like eyes leering at him from his fellows around the fire before one snorted, "Oh now I know yer havin' a laugh."
"Nah mate, couldn't be more dead serious—"
"Ain't been any wargs in Mordor prop'r fer... wot... A few hundred years now?"
"Yah... I miss the taste of warg... Good, strong meat on them. These old bones ain't had warg fer ages."
"Right? Caragors are fine I s'pose, but they just ain't the same as a good, fatty warg haunch."
"Yer all daft. I ain't just making this shrakh up. Their both real, the rang'r and the orc beast-master! But he weren't just any orc, nar..." The serious orc growled to shut the jabbering up. It was his turn to share, and he had the perfect thing for a night such as this. "Gulkoth wuz once in the Dark Lord's inner circle, till he were driven mad by tha' very same tark, the shinin' shrakh-shakh or whatever tha' yer talkin' about. The tark caught 'im unawares inna ambush, and they fought. A battle for the ages it wuz, but the rang'r fought dirty, brought a bunch a traitorous scum, cuz 'e knew 'e couldn't take Gulkoth alone."
That evoked a few scoffs, eye rolls, and nods from the audience. It would be just like a tark to need backup to fight his own battles; pathetic weaklings.
The speaker continued, enjoying the rapt attention that was now on him, "The tark got the upper hand and forced Gulkoth to his knees by just puttin' his grubby pinkskin hand on the orc's face—"
"No way a tark could pin down a orc tha' easy!" One prideful little runt of an orc snorted in protest. If even he could take down a human, which he let it be known whenever possible that he very much could take one down on his own, then there was no way some uppity echelon could be subdued by a measly ranger.
"But that's just it. The rang'r is more than just yer average tark. He's got meddlin' magics that dig inta yer head like worms." The orc sharing the tale corrected the interruption with a cuff to the runt's head, "And when he got hold of Gulkoth, the rang'r burned 'is bloody brains outta 'is skull! Leaked out 'is nose an' ears like jelly! But poor Gulkoth didn't die. No, the tark banished 'im from death. Now that undead, brainless worm o' a orc roams the land, in a mad frenzy, riding this giant beast of a warg. 'E kills every orc he finds, ally or foe, juss ta keep his the monster fed."
"The tark made Gulkoth turn on 'is own?!"
"Cheatin' scum!"
The speaker reveled in their rile and outrage. He grinned and tapped his claw to his nose, "Oh, aye. But, o' course, his beast likes snaga the best, all bony and crunchy. So he haunts the territory hereabouts, 'round Thaurband. intercepting slavers on their way to the hub, stealing the fresh slaves from their claws and making mince outta the orcs. You'd be wise ta keep a wary eye out tonight, in case the warg-rider decides ta make a feast outta our lil crew. Ye'll know yer being hunted by Gulkoth if ya feel lightning creepin' up yer arse an' yer hackles stand on end, cuz a storm runs ahead of wher'ev'r he goes."
More ill-bred, pointed ears pricked, listening in to the gossip from around the camp, which was strewn haphazardly about the ruined foundations of some long-forgotten age. Half-crumbled stone walls, cracked stairs, and a somewhat raised platform provided a somewhat defensible position; even if there was some cannibalistic orc-warg duo lurking in the area, hopefully, it wouldn't be so easy to sneak up upon the band of orcs.
Some of their ilk jeered at such nonsensical stories, others were intrigued. However at the mention of such an awful fate, to be eaten by a warg, a lone slave, hands bound with scraps of rope and surrounded by her captors, balked with a faint whimper.
But even that was enough to draw the unwanted attention of one of the orcs.
The one who had questioned the whereabouts of "Frushkul" turned to leer at their captive with a chilling, predatory look. The pale light glinted in his pupils like moons, both trained with piercing focus towards the snaga woman, "Wot's th' matter, lil toy? Ye scared yer gonna run inta the warg-rider? Ya wouldn't be so lucky."
He left the fringe of the fire, casting a long, ominous shadow as he prowled towards her, ignoring the low, warning hisses of the other orcs, though none cared enough to stop him.
Freshly plucked from the coast of the sea of Nurn, the woman looked like she was about to scream. The whites of her eyes flared in fright, like someone who knew what orcs, like the monster before her, were capable of, but only in rumor. If she had been truly aware of what was in store behind the orc's dilating pupils, she would have soiled herself.
He cackled at the thought, the smell of dread making his nostrils flare.
What luck it was for the slavers to have come across her when it seemed most of the good slaving spots on the north coast had been bled almost entirely dry. More and more, humans had been fleeing by boat as the dark armies grew stronger and the tide of orc soldiers could no longer be held at bay. But, there always seemed to be some mannish holdouts hidden among the treacherous seaside hollows and cliffs; somehow managing to maintain pockets of sanctuary, villages thriving right under orc noses.
How unlucky for this sharlob, she had wandered away from the safety of such a nest and right into their waiting claws.
The orc's face broke into a toothy grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. He crouched down beside her, reaching a clawed hand to trace the soft tissue of her throat, "Nar, yer not gonna be warg-meal. Yer headed someplace special."
She fought the urge to squirm at his dangerous touch, some part of her gut sending alarms through her head. Some to flee, some to scream, but most told her that she had never been in more danger than this very moment; she simply had no idea how to react. So she froze, even as his claws pricked her skin and as he started to grope lower.
"Oh, aye... Real special. Yer headed for the pits. They'll treat ya like a prissy lil doll, they will. Like such a fragile thing, ye'll be coddled and petted and entertained..." This close, the poor woman could smell the heavy stench of alcohol on the orc's breath, the slur of his tongue tossing flecks of gray spittle across her face.
The captive opened her mouth as if to cry out in pain when he dug his claws into her breast through her linen dress until red bloomed through the fabric. Before the sound could escape her lips, he'd clamped his other hand across them and stuffed a small balled scrap of filthy fabric between her teeth.
The wail she would have emitted eked out as a muffled whine.
"Might be yer last chance, ya know... Out here. Ta get ta know what a real buck is like before we hands ya over ta those limp-bone, over-spent studs at the pits!" The orc swayed unsteadily as he heaved himself over the woman, using his own weight to shove her down and straddling her with his legs so she couldn't flee. He restrained her bound wrists with one hand, and in one swift tear, ripped the bodice of her dress down to her skirt, cutting her olive skin in the process. Another cry crawled from her muffled mouth and the orc started undoing his own gear with a feverish vigor at the sight of her struggling, "Wot's that ya say? I should give ya a ride ta break ya in—"
The orc's words cut into a howl of agony as a vicious crack split the air, the meat of his back, and his eardrums all simultaneously. Before he could react, a heavily-scarred hand seized him by his scruff and effortlessly threw the orc off the cowering woman. The momentum sent the unfortunate slaver's loose armor scattering. He hit the ground in a cloud of dust, snarling as the pain had broken the haze of grog that had blinded his better judgement, only to find another orc hovering over him.
His voice faltered nervously as he tried to hide the grimace, "Ahh... Frushkul... I didn't... I wuzzn't gonna... I'z juss teasin' 'er ya see—'"
"Think this is a game, do ye whelp?" The second orc, Frushkul, looked down at the one he had thrown to the ground. Cloaked by the light of the fire behind him, his scarred face contorted into a furied, bale-eyed glare that flashed in the shadows. His distorted lips curled in a snarl, and he brought the whip down upon the orc again with a sharp flick. "I explicitly ordered ya, the LOT OF YA, ta keep yer rotten paws ta yerselves!"
The strike of the braided, leather cord, intertwined with razor-sharp barbs of iron, tore across the guilty orc's face and chest, splitting flesh and cartilage and ripping away chunks when it was withdrawn. The orc howled again, shying away, and rolled about on the ground in pain while still trying to stop the ringing in his ears, "Ar'right! Ar'right! I get it! I won't touch the bleedin' merchandise!"
Frushkul wouldn't let his victim crawl away, "Yer right. Ya won't touch 'em ever again."
Not a single other slaver present dared raise a finger to stop their boss. The offender had been warned as they all had been... So now, he would be made an example.
Their human captive looked on in horror as the dominant orc deftly kicked the other orc's limbs out from under him and rolled him back onto his back. There was a glint as Frushkul pulled a curved knife from his belt, and with one swift swing hooked it into the other orc's exposed flesh between his legs and ripped the blade upward without a hint of mercy.
The shriek that followed could have cracked glass.
Frushkul growled, standing upright to lord over his injured underling, "Quit sniveling. That's juss a lesson so ya won't ferget... If ye survive."
The other slavers still sitting about the fire stared warily at Frushkul, as if waiting for him to sling his whip at them as well, but he didn't. He'd turned on the slave where she was quailing against the foundation of what was left of one of the ruined walls. His expression turned to a distasteful sneer as he yanked her up by the bindings and forced her to march towards a small makeshift tent strung in the corner of two crumbling arches.
"Let tha' be a less'n every single one of you scum. Ye'll get the same treatment if I catch ya toying with the snaga. So, unless ya plan on paying the price at the block, they're OFF LIMITS!" Frushkul barked back at the other slavers, ripped the gag of fabric from the woman's mouth, and threw her roughly ahead of himself, into the privacy behind the swaths of canvas that made up his tent.
She hit the ground hard, knocking the wind from her lungs, but she scrambled to right herself as Frushkul followed closely behind. The woman balked and covered her face, waiting to be struck, but still biting her tongue in silence, as if hoping that doing so might make her less of a target.
She could already hear the jeers of the other orcs cackling over their injured comrade; merciless beasts.
Frushkul's dark amber eyes glinted in the faint beams of firelight that breached the weathered tent walls. The ominous figure loomed over the captive, slowly coiling his whip between his hands. His features, hideous and distorted halfway between beast and mutant, seemed to hide some sort of temper threatening to boil over.
He hissed at the human with venomous disdain, "What, were ya just gonna let that piece of shrakh do whatever 'e wanted to ya? Roll over and take it before ever even gettin' ta the pit? Stupid—"
A sound interrupted Frushkul's tirade, splitting the night air and the quiet of the rag-tag camp like the toll of a bell. There was an unholy howl, followed by a loud crash and a scream he recognized as one of his slavers.
Then came the cry, "ATTACK! We're bein' attacked!"
***** Translations: *****
Tark(s) - Human(s)
Glob - Idiot / Fool
Shrakh - Dung
Pushdug - Rotten filth
Nar - No
Shrakh-shakh - Lord of Dung
Snaga - Slave (one who serves)
Sharlob - Human woman