The Battles We Choose by Hoglorfen

The Hunt Is On

First there was pain. Blistering, mind-searing pain, beyond screams and reason.
Second there was darkness. A darkness so deep that all light and memory waned in its presence.
Third there was the voice. Whispering, booming, reaching inside.
WHO ARE YOU?
It wanted to answer, but there was none to give.
YOU ARE MINE.
A purpose, a reason!
MY CHILD, MY CREATION.
A history, an origin.
SEE ME.

Slowly the existence came to. It tried to see, but the light was painful. Something shielded it from it, someone, and it opened its eyes and looked around the room. Everything was black except the torch and the Eye. It closed its eyes again, taking a deep breath. Then it looked at the one shielding it from the searing light. The man's eyes burned, so intense that it could not meet His gaze.
”No,” He said. ”See me.” It forced itself to meet His gaze. ”What do you remember?”
It moved its dry, broken lips to speak. ”Darkness.”
The man seemed pleased with the answer. ”And who am I?”
”Father,” it whispered. ”Creator. Master. Fire.”
The man laughed at this, a laughter that rang off the walls, so beautiful it brought tears to its eyes.
”Rise,” He said and beckoned with slender fingers.

It rose mechanically as its body remembered something its self did not. The man gave an order to help 'her'. A shape, an existence! Two other, lesser men took place on each side and supported her as they followed Him out of the room, through a corridor and into another room. This one was lit by small braziers in the corners. The man turned towards her.
”Who are you?” He asked again.
”I am yours.” The answer came naturally, now that she knew it. The two lesser men covered her body with a soft, black robe.
The man smiled; a terrible, beautiful smile. ”I am your Master. You are mine. But you can be more.” He took her face in His hands, His burning eyes boring into her. ”You can be my weapon against my enemies, my lash against my slaves. You can be the living, breathing sign to Elves and Men alike that none can stand against me, not even the Noldor. You can walk where others fall, succeed where others falter. You can be Záhovar.”

A name? But not yet. He let her go and turned away. ”But first you must learn and prove yourself worthy. I have no use for the useless. You will be given tutors; learn what they have to teach you. Do not fail me, Za.”
Catching the Elf's warped fëa had been like catching an invisible, soaped-up eel. Only the taint upon it had told Him of its existence in the Unseen and allowed Him to hold onto it as He released the final spell. But now it was done and, judging by the answers she had given, successful. Still, He had to be careful. If she regained her memories too soon, the delicate cage He had placed her in could be broken and her fëa escape. For now, it was better to leave her without all but the most vital of memories, like how to walk and talk. The rest He would portion out over time, disguised as learning.

”You're a bloody madman.” Praktash snorted.
”Aye, but he started it.” Graznikh readjusted the hacked-off leg he carried on his shoulder as they made their way past the second gate, heading back to the stash room.
”That didn't mean you had to pull a knife on him. He was a wimp, all talk and no claws.”
”And now he won't bother any of us again.”
”Pity. He was fun to mess with.”
Graznikh sighed. His temper seemed to only get worse with time. He had always pictured himself as a sensible fighter who didn't take unnecessary risks, but after the Eye touched his mind something had snapped, and once the red haze clouded his vision there was no stopping the carnage that ensued. ”Why do you even try to keep me alive?”
”You know why; I like ya. Besides, you're a bloody one-Orc-army once you get riled. If the tarks come, we'll just stick two knives in your hands, mention you-know-who to ya and point ya at the enemy. You'd depopulate the West in no time.”
Graznikh couldn't help but laugh. ”The Eye makes sure to keep those it finds useful. You may pretend to be all rogueish, but you're a real zealot deep down.”
Praktash grinned. ”How do you think I've stayed alive this long without fightin'?”
”By sucking cock to those above and giving it to those below?”
Praktash grinned even wider. ”That too.”

As they returned to the stashroom, Graznikh's warg lifted its head and gave them a welcoming growl. Seven years had passed since Graznikh and Zuzar came to the Tower, and the warg had now grown to full maturity. He barely fitted on Graznikh's mattress anymore and they had been forced to widen the door, but curled up against the warg's warm belly was the only place Graznikh managed to sleep without being harried by nightmares. Graznikh grinned at his 'pup' and threw the leg.
”Here buddy, catch!” Meat was difficult to come by and most of the Tower's inhabitants were fed an oily, sludgelike gruel dotted by minuscule cubes of meat of unknown origin. Feeding a fully grown warg in the Orc city would have been impossible if Zuzar had not hunted most of his food himself. And Graznikh made sure to take the warg for a run outside the gates regularly so that he would not trash the workshop in a restless fit.
”I was thinking 'bout going to the scrubhouse later,” Graznikh said. ”You wanna join?”
”To watch your pretty arse? Sure,” Praktash purred. Graznikh laughed. Praktash's preferences were obvious, but the Uruk never made any serious passes at him. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only one except the Top Ones who was completely safe from Praktash's predatorial advances.

Praktash himself was happy. Half a year had passed since the bond died, and things were finally going back to normal. Graznikh had spent the first few weeks afterwards howling and screaming in that funny dialect of his, calling the name of his lost mate even in his sleep. Praktash realised that his buddy had never really given up hope on the Elf and he could not help but be impressed that she had lasted as long as she had. He figured it must have been a tough bastard.
Zuzar had been a great help during the healing process, first by simply lying on top of its master as he thrashed, assisting Praktash in getting the drugs into him to calm him down and later by dragging the depressed berserker out of his booze nest and into the world. And slowly but surely, Graznikh had learned to enjoy life again.
If anyone else had found him on the walls that night long ago, Graznikh would have been dead for sure. He had shown such obvious signs of weakness during his stay in Lugburz that anyone else would have killed him for it. Anyone but Praktash. As long as Graznikh kept his shit together, he was alright. Just fine, actually. And sensible folk who did not run in the other direction once they got a whiff of Praktash's lousy reputation were hard to come by in Lugburz. Sure, a lot of people depended on him for booze or a cure for the headache after, or other ailments that they were not tough enough to deal with on their own, but those were business arrangements. There was no trust whatsoever and no one would ever come to his aid if he got himself into a tight spot. Graznikh had gotten more than a whiff, and he simply did not care. His laid-back attitude made a lot of people underestimate him or take him for granted. But the last guy who had tried to take advantage had been left alive without a face once the berserker was done with him.
Graznikh had not formed any solid alliances either. Berserkers were both feared and shunned in equal measure; feared for their ferocity in battle, shunned for their unreliability in the same battles. Praktash had learned to see when the madness began to creep into the pale Orc's eyes and take the necessary precautions, but Graznikh had never berserked on him or even turned on him when Praktash stepped in. Praktash still watched his back a little around him, but he found himself relaxing more and more in Graznikh's presence and the warg was a huge bonus. It felt odd, not having to sleep with one eye open to keep intruders out of his little hidey-hole, but it was a pleasant oddity.

Graznikh briefly looked up from his braiding as Praktash checked the progress of his latest brewing experiment. He could not fathom why the Uruk kept pushing him back up. Graznikh had met a few berserkers during his time as a raider; they rarely lasted long due to their lack of self-control. In the strongholds, they were considered a danger to the entire community and they did not fare much better as raiders, where the ability to break and run could mean the difference between life and death if an ambush went wrong. Graznikh himself had often sneered at them behind their backs; now he embodied that flaw himself. He did not like it, no matter what Praktash said about berserkers being seen differently in Lugburz. What does he know anyway?
Graznikh frowned a little as he returned to braiding. What did Praktash know? The tattooed Uruk was an enigma. His cheerfully arrogant attitude was like a breath of fresh air after a dungeon crawl, but he was as tight-lipped about his past as Graznikh was outspoken about his own. He was a good listener and seemed to genuinely enjoy hearing about his pale little 'buddy's grand tales of raiding and raping, but he never spoke a word about himself. Even when drunk he laughed the question off and switched topic; when pressured, he claimed that his past was too boring to relive; when pushed further, he simply fell silent until the annoying pest gave up. He never seemed to take offense, but after a year or so, Graznikh had stopped asking. Something in the Uruk's veiled face made him back off; perhaps it was the barely noticeable tension in the corners of his mouth, or perhaps the tiny crease that appeared in the corners of his eyes and lent the smiling, too-pretty face a haunted appearance. Whatever had happened, revealing it was not worth losing the only shield Graznikh had. Whatever had happened, the present was far more interesting.

In the beginning of their acquaintance, Graznikh had not understood why the snagas bolted whenever they spotted Praktash in the streets, or why the guy in charge of the alehouse where Praktash delivered most of his booze and where Graznikh hung out whenever he was off duty always greeted him with ”still walking, eh?”. At first he had thought that it had something to do with him being a berserker, but when he eventually got around to calling him out on it, on a night when Praktash happened to be absent, the grisly truth had been unveiled.
”He's a bugger,” the barkeep said after ensuring that Graznikh was not joking. ”Worst o' the lot. Likes 'em screaming in pain. Dunno how many snagas that one's spent.”
”Spent?”
”Aye, y'know... fucked 'til they stopped howling. I'd wager that one's the main reason the gruel always tastes salty when topped with snaga meat.”
”Hnh.”
The barkeep gave Graznikh a quizzical look. ”'At's fine with ya?”
Graznikh shrugged. ”Why would I care what he does to snaga? Never tried anything with me. A few sweet words's all.”
”Izzat so? Thought you were one o' those what liked that kinda stuff.” The barkeep frowned. ”Maybe you're too big for his taste.” But the look on his face told Graznikh that he did not believe so. Afterwards, Graznikh had turned this new knowledge over and over in his head and come to the conclusion that he truly did not care. Praktash had never tried anything with him and Graznikh felt confident that he could handle things if that ever happened. Besides, the Uruk knew that he would have the berserker exploding in his face if he ever tried to violate him, and Graznikh was equally confident that Praktash was not so stupid as to risk that. Graznikh never brought it up with Praktash; there simply was no need. That was five years earlier, and Praktash had done no more than leer, ogle, purr and comment on Graznikh's physique and 'delicious' scars whenever he saw him less than fully clothed. It was obvious that he had no interest in going further.

After the first few weeks with her new tutor in the art of war, Za learned a new feeling: hate. The man was more interested in torture than in teaching and his punishments for her imagined failures became more and more excessive over time, as did his attempts to 'harden' her. When he realised that he could not mar her, that her wounds healed swiftly and without leaving any mark, he resorted to other means instead.
”You little bitch..!” The trainer's fist crashed into Za's face and she hit the floor hard, scraping her elbow and shoulder in the process. She reflexively kicked at his leg as he approached, but missed.
”Your insolence is beginning to bore me,” he muttered as he grabbed her long hair and lifted her to her feet. Za quickly regained her footing, but he kept pulling her up until she was forced to balance on her toes to prevent her scalp from tearing. Her trainer eyed her intently, upper lip curling in a sneer as he glanced at her jagged ear. The scars were already fading and soon no trace of them would be left. The jagged cuts into the cartilage would remain, an eternal reminder of how flawed she was. Za let out an involuntary little sound of disgust as he trailed them with a finger, only to cry out as he pinched the utmost tip and twisted it hard.
”Pointy-eared wretch... Your presence here matters little. Your kind has no place in the new world order my Master is laying out, and you will soon find out why.” He let go of her ear and grabbed her chin instead. ”But you are pretty... And you're a woman.”
Za bit back another cry as he released her hair unexpectedly and made her fall to her knees. Then he dragged her over to the desk, pulled her back to her feet and shoved her forward. The next moment, Za was lying bent over the desk's edge, fingering her aching scalp. Little flecks of red stained her fingers from where the skin had broken. A sound from behind caught her attention and she found that her trainer was unbuckling his trousers. Does he intend to... relieve himself on me? She gave him a glance that said 'is that the worst you can come up with?'.
”No foul words for me?” he sneered. ”No spitting curses or pleading for mercy?” He chuckled when Za did not reply. ”You do not even know what is going to happen, do you?”
”What care have I for your petty insults?”
”Indeed..? Then allow me to teach you what it means to be a woman.” His hands moved to the back of her trousers.

All of a sudden he was close; too close. Za tried to fight him off as her trousers were torn and her lower body exposed, but he was too strong. His weight pressed her down into the hard surface and her hips ground painfully against the edge of the desk as he groped and prodded below. What is he doing?! Then Za understood, a moment too late.
The first thrust forced a scream over her lips. Getting it in was difficult with no lubrication and the trainer cursed under his breath while trying to force the issue. Then he pulled out, spat a few times and smeared her with no care for her comfort and tried again. This time it was easier and he impaled her with a single, hard thrust.
It hurt in a way Za had never before imagined. He was inside her, using that part of his body as a third fist to punch her insides. Every time their lower bodies connected, the pain reverberated up through her body; after a while she threw up a little from how intense it was. And from the sound of it, her trainer was enjoying himself immensely. His fingers dug into the flesh on her hips and he pulled her towards himself with every thrust. Za clawed the desk in a feeble attempt to get away but her struggles only served to drive splinters in underneath her nails.
The agony soon ended. Her trainer let out a shuddering groan and slammed into her one last time, then he pulled out.
”It looks like you do have a use after all!” he said, his face ripe with weary, malicious spite. ”Woman.”
Za was well acquainted with pain and both physical and spiritual intrusion. This man's petty acts could not move her, not even as he began to call in his pet Uruks 'for a treat' after he was done. The Uruks at least were straightforward. She soon found that her moans of pretended pleasure from their attentions seemed to infuriate the man even more than her defiance and that was a victory, however small.

Her tutor in the knowledge of the Tower and its workings was different. Gîrakûn was old and wizened but her eyes were dangerously bright. She was a dushatâr, a sorceress who had dwelt in Blog Shakâmb as a scholar for many long years before the Dark Lord called her back into His service.
”You have so much to learn and so very little time,” she said the first time Za entered her study. ”Our Master is not a patient man, and if you do not study well enough to please Him, both of us will suffer for it. You will read what I tell you to read, learn what I hand out. I encourage you to do to more; every step you take on your own is in itself a valuable lesson.” She took a large book from the desk. ”Can you read?”
”I do not know,” Za said.
Gîrakûn gave her a mirthless smile. ”Try it. Read the title aloud to me.”
As Za opened the book, strange symbols danced upon the parchment. But after a while, they settled and formed words in her head. ”He Who Arises In Might; A treatise on the history of Darkness.”
The old woman seemed pleased. ”You will come to me every second night after the fifth toll, and you will describe what you have read with your own words, the meaning of it and your thoughts on the matter. I will ask you questions on the topic at hand and you will answer, again with your own words. I know these books by heart, so I will know if you try to simply repeat the words you have read. When we are done with this book, I will give you another. Our Master has also commanded me to teach you the basics of sorcery, so after each rehearsal I will give you exercises which are intended to strengthen your mind, body and spirit so that they will not deteriorate too quickly when you embrace the Unseen.”
As Za nodded, Gîrakûn held up a hand. ”And if you somehow manage to damage or, Utumno forbid it, destroy any of my books, I will have you piece it together and write a new copy. I do not think I will need to make any harsher threats than so.”
”I will defend these books with my life,” Za assured her and Gîrakûn gave her a genuine smile.
”I am glad to have finally received a sensible student. Run along now! I shall expect your return two nights hence.”

Two nights later, three tolls of a bell rang out from the underground, vibrating up through the Great Tower despite its size. Za was awake already when the first one reached the floor of her little room. Being late for the lessons was no alternative; her mentor was as ruthless when meting out punishment as she was meticulous when teaching. The slightest sign of disobedience earned a new one, as it should be. Not like the martial trainer who beat first and asked questions later. No, Her Ladyship Gîrakûn was better than that. Za knew by now that she should not even be here; she had far more important things to do than to educate a thing like Za. ”It.” Less than ”it”; ”za” was not a word that could be used on its own. Za Lug-durbatar; ”the High Officer”. She was only ”the”. Not even that...
Za sat down by the little mirror she had been granted and looked at the foreign face within. She did not know that face, but then there was much she did not know. The dark mark over her left eye had nearly faded and the only memory of the split lip was a pale little line that would fade as well soon enough. No matter how her trainer tried to mark her, his attempts never lasted. Za watched as the corners of the mirror-image's mouth arched slightly. Although she did not enjoy the trainer's attentions, she enjoyed the slighting he was given every time her battered body refused to obey him. None could mark her but Him, and none could slay her but Him. Those were the words of awakening, and this petty Man could not change them. His frustration and futile hate almost made her hope that he would hit her again, just so she could savour the look of defeat upon his face one more time.
When the third toll had fallen silent, there was a brief knock on the door before a Lug-snaga entered with a tray. Today's breakfast was some kind of watered-down broth that told Za that today's lesson would be strenuous. Gîrakûn never let her eat anything solid before the lesson if it would be so; broth meant that there would be no solid pieces to choke on when it came back up. The Lug-snaga brushed her hair with mechanical moves as she ate and helped her dress once she was done. When it was time to tie the sash, Za held a hand up to stop the slave and took it. She placed it around her waist and frowned as she tried to remember how to tie the knot. Cross them like this, then one over the other... No, that does not work. After a few attempts she gave up and allowed the snaga to tie it for her. It would not do to be late, and there would be other opportunities to practice.

Gîrakûn sat at her desk as she always did. She looked up when Za entered and gave her a little smile. ”Ah, there you are.” She motioned for her to sit and Za obeyed. ”Now what have you learned?”
”That the True Master spent three full ages in vilest torture beyond the Sea, where the Elves drank greedily of the knowledge He offered. They too were snaga, but so beguiled by that land of undeath that they could not see it for what it was. But their greatest smith rejected the offer of alliance and earned the True Master's wrath. So it was that He went to Avathar in search of one who had once dared to spurn Him, and offered the gift intended for the Elven smith to her instead.”
”And our Master..?”
”Remained in Ôngburz and governed it in the True Master's stead.”
”And how do you think he managed to escape when one so formidable as the True Master did not?”
It was a difficult question and Za had to think for a while before she found the answer. ”At times, a ravenous warg will go for the large chunks and forget the smaller scraps. Perhaps the Nameless did the same?”
”'Perhaps' is not an answer I like.” Za bowed her head and accepted the inevitable, but Gîrakûn smiled. ”But I shall let it pass this time, if only because you will soon have enough on your mind as it is. Continue.”
Za took a deep breath. ”A great blow was struck against undeath that night, and together the True Master and the Queen of Avathar left that realm behind. But the Queen of Avathar's treachery was folly and her theft an even greater one. She stood no chance against the ghâshgoths who lay in wait for the True Master's return, and the battle cry that was sent forth there permeated the very rocks in that valley, reawakening whenever someone called out there.”
”Mmn... Passable. Do you have any questions?”
”I only wonder... What happened to the Queen of Folly after the True Master drove her off?”
”Unfortunately, whatever records there were of that fate have been lost. What I wouldn't give to find even a fragment of such a manuscript... But I doubt that it is ever to be. But let us not stray; what happened after?”
Za looked down. ”The Sun and Moon rose in the sky.”
”And you have a question about it.”
”I do not know what it means. There is no light in the sky.”
”But there is. There are places where the sky is different from that here in Lugburz, where our Master's will is strong. One day you might be permitted to see those places with your own eyes, if you are found worthy.”
”But what does it mean? Why did they rise when the True Master returned to His dwelling? Did He make them?”
”No... There are many theories about where they came from, all very plausible. I am not sure that I believe any of them, though... They all engender questions for which there are no answers within the theory. Whatever they are and whoever made them, it was clearly NOT the True Master.”
”Are they... dangerous?”
Gîrakûn sat in thoughtful silence for a moment before answering. ”No, not precisely. Not to us, at any rate. Orcs and Uruks weaken when exposed to their light; the Sun far more so than the Moon. It will not kill them, but I would advise against driving them hard beneath the Sun if they are expected to fight at the journey's end. If not, then one simply needs to apply some added persuasion. Trolls, however, turn to stone when touched by the Sun's rays.”
”Stone?” Za whispered.
”Indeed. What does that tell you?”
”That... Trolls are not a larger kind of Orc. Perhaps... they came before them?”
”Very good. It seems you have been paying attention. Yes, Trolls were a prototype, of sorts. As a tree turns to ash when exposed to fire, so Trolls turn to stone in the heat of the Sun.”
”Why?”
Gîrakûn smiled. ”That knowledge is not for you. Not yet. Now go; you have another lesson waiting for you.”

The underground was a vast network of caves that ran deep underneath the fortress city of Lugburz, shaped by volcanic activity. Because of the free access to both heat and water, the kitchens and the scrubhouses were located there. The scrubhouses, or steam baths as the tarks called them, were simply caverns where steam rose through cracks in the rock and gathered; the Orcs used these caverns to keep themselves somewhat clean. The place brought bittersweet memories for Graznikh; the pyrite crystals and travertine formations reminded him of the secret cave where he had joined with Whin and sealed his own fate so long ago, but the lure of a relaxing steam bath and scrubbing, and possibly a backrub from Praktash who turned out to be surprisingly good at it, was simply irresistible. Soon he lay on a crude stone bench carved out of the cavern wall with a big grin on his face as the Uruk kneaded away tensions and knots.
”Will you stop purrin' like that?” Praktash complained. ”It's distractin'.”
”Were you a Dunlending whore in a past life? I seem to recognise some of the techniques ye're using.”
Praktash leaned closer. ”What makes you think I'm not one now?”
”'Cause if you were, people would be running towards ya instead of away from ya.” That made Praktash laugh. When he was done scrubbing the dead skin and grime off, Graznikh returned the favor.
”Hey, Prakûth!” Praktash lifted his head and grinned as a naked Orc woman sat down on the bench next to them with a thump. ”Found a boyfriend at last, have you?” she remarked with a grin, nodding towards Graznikh.
”Nar, just a buddy. Graznikh, meet Hîsht. She's part of the garrison in Udûn. Old friend o' mine. Hîsht, this here's Graznikh.”
Graznikh nodded a greeting. The woman before him was not young, but not ancient either. Her flat breasts and belly bore the stretchmarks that were the telltale sign of a breeder, but she was clearly not one anymore. The large scar on her lower abdomen marked her as one of those rare women who had gone barren for some reason but were large and fit enough to be potential soldiers, so instead of having her killed and cooked the pitmaster had punctured her womb with a knife and sent her packing. The Tower had no use for the useless, but Hîsht had proven her worth twice over as both breeder and fighter.
”Not just a 'part'; I got promoted,” Hîsht said with a grin and giggled as Praktash groaned. ”Don't worry Prapsam, I'm not an Officer... yet.” An even louder groan made even Graznikh chuckle. ”Yeah, soon I'll be sippin' wine in fancy robes and you'll both be lickin' my feet clean. How 'bout that, ey Prashnak?”
”Wonderful,” came the forlorn answer. Graznikh laughed as much at Praktash's fake dismay as at the nicknames. Praktash laughed as well, then looked up.
”So why're you here? I thought you were supposed to be in Udûn,” Praktash said.
”Got transferred. The whole hûrk. No idea why, as usual. Guess they gotta keep the wheel o' war spinnin', even if there's no war to be had right now.” Hîsht shrugged and looked at Graznikh. ”So, pretty one? How long you been in the Tower?”
”No idea,” Graznikh said, flashing fangs at being called 'pretty'. ”Years. I've lost count.”
”You in the army, or..?”
”Nar, guard.”
”And fixer-upper whenever someone's favourite boots gets a hole in 'em,” Praktash added with a grin.
”Screw that, we could use those nice shoulders in the army,” Hîsht said with a grin.
”Oh no, you don't!” Praktash shot up. ”You're not takin' my buddy! If he ever ends up there, he'd be a Low One in no time at all and all my fappin' material would be ruined forever!”
Hîsht laughed out loud at that. ”Aw, don't worry Pushaktar, I won't steal your toy.” Someone called, and Hîsht replied with a curse. ”Gotta go, company's missin' me. Anyway, drink and chat tomorrow night? Whaddya say?”
Praktash and Graznikh shared a look. ”Sure, we'll be there.”

Graznikh shook water out of his ears as they left the underground and walked out into the open air where they were violently welcomed by Zuzar, who had been out hunting and had tracked them down when they were not to be found at the stash room. There was some kind of commotion on the training grounds as they passed. A large group had gathered, probably to watch some prisoner or other sorry bastard get beaten to death under the pretense of a training session. Neither Praktash nor Graznikh cared much for that kind of entertainment, but something made Graznikh stop to listen. Perhaps it was the tiny whimper of pain, or the way the torturer spoke to the victim, but he began walking towards the crowd. Praktash caught up with him.
”I thought you didn't like this kind of shit.”
”It's not that,” Graznikh said with a frown. ”I gotta take a look.” He pushed his way to the front, growling and simply shoving smaller Orcs out of the way.
The woman on the ground was thin and pale. She had long brown hair and wore a simple, dirty linen tunic and trousers. The scars on whatever skin could be seen showed that she had been in the dungeons a very long time before being dragged out here to die. She had been whipped recently; there was a dark red spot on the back of her tunic. There was also blood on the back of the tunic's hem, a tell-tale sign that she had been subjected to another form of torture as well. Graznikh felt a hole begin to grow inside; he did not need to see her face to recognise her.
The tark who was 'sparring' with her barked at her to pick up the sword, then slapped her with the flat side of his own as she tried to reach for it. The sound of ribs cracking was heard amid the laughter and hooting of the onlookers.
”How useless can you possibly be? How am I to train you to fight if you cannot even lift the sword?”
Graznikh noticed another tark standing nearby with a concerned look on his face. He gulped down his disgust and went over to him.
”What's going on here?” he quietly asked. The tark twitched at being spoken to, but he found his tongue admirably fast. ”He... Our Master has commanded him to teach this young one the art of war and weaponry, but I doubt that this was how it was meant to be done. We were clearly instructed not to maim or mar her, but-” he winced as the other tark kicked the woman; Graznikh felt the red haze burn at the edges of his sight when he heard her pained groan. ”If this goes on, he will kill her and it's our heads on the line!”
”Who is she?”
”A High Officer-in-training, I believe. No one seems to know where she comes from or what her name is. This is a special case; normally we do not train Officers. They are simply appointed on the basis of earlier merits.” Then he seemed to realise it was a common Orc grunt he spoke to and fell silent. ”Ask my master if you wish to know more.”
”Oh, I will.”

”You are pathetic,” the man spat. Za tried to stand, but everything spun and she felt nauseous. ”That I would be forced to babysit one of your wretched brood is nothing short of insult! I should inform our Master what a useless wretch you are. After I have killed you.”
”Nar, you won't.” A pair of heavy Orc boots stopped in Za's field of view. ”Although I suppose you could go and explain to the Eye how you're incapable of doing even such a simple task as teaching an already experienced warrior to fight.”
The man stared, almost too infuriated for words. ”How dare you?”
Graznikh shrugged. ”It's pretty easy, really. You're doing most of the job yourself.” The onlookers began to back away. He twirled a knife between his fingers and turned to the tark servant. ”You can go back and tell the Top Ones that this one's got a new teacher. One who'll actually teach her something instead of beating her senseless. And you,” he turned to the torturer, ”will now show me how good you really are with that sword.” He began advancing. The red haze grew tronger, and this time he welcomed it.
”You dare not raise a hand against a High Officer! I am far above you in rank!”
”Didn't you read the contract before you signed, little tark? We've got no use for the useless! And pulling ranks you don't have isn't very smart. You don't wear the armour, that means you're only a Low One. And now you're prey.”

Praktash crouched down beside the woman. Graznikh could have his fun, he was not going to interfere this time. He pulled the plug on his ghâshpau-flask and held it to the woman's mouth, making her swallow a little. She coughed and spat at first, but some went down. She met his gaze and there was no fear or hate in those catlike eyes, only quiet resignation. Zuzar sniffed at her and met Praktash's eyes with a low growl.
”Golug,” the warg said with a voice that only Graznikh and Praktash could understand. Praktash frowned. Elf?? He took a closer look at her ears and frowned at the deep cuts in them. But they were pointed once. Didn't Graznikh say that Elves have pointed ears?
Za felt the liquid's strange effect spread in her body. The pain dulled, but she was too weak to do much more than move her head slightly to watch the slaughter with hungry eyes.
Seven years, Graznikh thought as he chipped away at the tark's defenses. You scum stole seven fucking years of my life. You took my Elf, you tortured her, you turned her into that thing on the ground. You've chased me and tried to kill me all my bloody life and so help me Darkness, I will hurt you for it! The tark dropped his sword. Graznikh continued to hack off bits and pieces, whittling him down and savouring every curse and every scream. When he was done, there was nothing left but a carved-out carcass. Some of the onlookers cheered. Zuzar wagged his tail, hoping for a treat.
”Wuf?”
Graznikh nodded to the warg as he turned away with the bloodlust pounding in his ears. ”Take whatever you want. Enjoy!”

They carried the wounded woman to Praktash's crib without further incidents. Soon she was lying on Graznikh's mattress while he washed the blood and grime off and rubbed some of Praktash's greasy healing salve on the lash marks on her back, cursing under his breath. Praktash kept an eye on the entrance while working on some mixture.
Graznikh stared at her naked upper back. There were not only fresh lash marks but hundreds, even thousands of scars that covered every visible spot of skin except her hands, feet and face. They formed an intricate, bramble-like pattern that was disturbingly hypnotic to look at. Elves aren't supposed to get scars. He also noted that someone had made jagged cuts into her once leaf-shaped ears. On the left side of her ribcage was a large irregular dark spot. She's broken a rib, Graznikh thought. Maybe even more than one. If I ever get my hands on those bastards, I'll...
”You were there.”
He started at the whisper. ”Eh?”
”You were there,” she repeated. ”In the Darkness. I felt you.” She met his gaze with eyes that did not recognise him. ”Why?”
Graznikh stared back. ”I... got pulled in somehow.”
”And you killed my teacher. Why?”
”That was no teacher. And we had a... bond of sorts, back before.”
”But there was only Darkness before.”
”Err...” He looked away. ”I might tell ya about it another time.”
She gave him an impassive look, then she nodded. Graznikh was not sure what she nodded at. He watched her as they shared a moment of silence, feeling shocked and empty. I felt you die. I felt the bond go dark and silent, and it still is. How can you still be alive?
Praktash barely had time to shout a warning before the door broke and four fully armed Uruks marched in, followed by a true High Officer. Graznikh lashed out blindly but was quickly knocked unconscious. They did not smash the place, for which Praktash was immensely grateful, but the woman was taken and carried away.
 

When Graznikh came to, he found his hands and feet bound. Zuzar had balled up into a corner with his tail between his legs, letting out little frightened whimpers.
”I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't do anythin' stupid,” Praktash said. ”I'll let ya go if you don't.”
”They took her! They fucking took her again,” Graznikh roared at him.
”You can't lay claim like that! Whatever she was before, she belongs to the Eye now and He doesn't share!”
”Fuck the-” Graznikh began, but Praktash slapped him.
”Don't. Just don't,” the Uruk growled. ”Not here, not in the streets, not ever! If He hears, and you bet your sorry arse He will, you're dead! You and everyone you're seen with! The Eye sees all, you can't hide anythin' from Him. And you're already in His view because of that stunt you pulled before, it's sheer bloody luck they didn't take you too!”
They stared each other down, growling. Then Graznikh gave in and rolled his eyes.
”Fine,” he said. ”Now can you get these off? I need a drink.”
Praktash leered. ”I don't know... you look kinda good, all tied up like that.”
”What? Shut up, I'm not in the mood for this!”
Praktash continued to leer as he untied him with deliberately slow motions. Graznikh sat up and rubbed his wrists to get the blood flowing.
Praktash frowned. ”So that was the one you've been pinin' over all this time?”
”Aye.” Graznikh reached for his drinking skin.
”Hnh...” Praktash studied the broken door.
”It's not like I'm gonna see her again,” Graznikh muttered after a swig. ”They'll probably lock her up after this.”
”I'm not so sure about that. No one gets out of the dungeons without the say-so of the Eye. If the Top Ones wanted her safe and out of reach, they'd never have let her out of there in the first place. I'd guess they want her out on the floor with the rest of us, only not dead.”
Graznikh grunted.
Praktash turned to look at him. ”What did he say? The tark you spoke to?”
”That she was an Officer-in-training. The guy I minced was ordered by the Eye to teach her how to fight, but wasn't doing a very good job of it. Bloody understatement of the age.”
Praktash laughed. ”Then you probably did him a favor.”
Graznikh snorted. ”When the Eye finds out, I'm done for.”
”Probably already know. You saw how fast they came to pick her up, didn'tcha? Besides, if you were done for they'd have dragged you along, not left you knocked out in my tender care.” He shot Graznikh a nasty grin.

Graznikh lowered the skin. An idea came to him then. It was dangerous, ambitious and completely crazy, but he liked it. Praktash stopped smiling as he saw the insane gleam in Graznikh's eyes. ”Now what?”
Graznikh grinned. ”I'm gonna kill the next one too.”
”You... What?”
He nodded. ”And the next one. And the next. I'm gonna pick 'em off until one of two things happen; either they kill me, or no one wants the position as her tutor anymore because they know it's a death sentence.”
Praktash stared at him for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed. ”You're declarin' war on the Eye.”
Graznikh shook his head. ”Only her tutors. I want that position for myself.”
”Think you can do it?” Praktash asked with a thoughtful look. Graznikh nodded as he returned to drinking.
The Uruk grinned. ”You sick, fuckin' bastard. I love it!”
”So tell me more about these Top Ones,” Graznikh asked.
”Well, they're the highest in charge under the Eye,” Praktash began. ”I've never cared much for them, mostly tried to stay far away. The Low Ones, or Low Officers as they say, they're in charge on a daily basis. They're drartuls an' krîtars in the army, Captains'n sergeants in charge of the guard posts an' lesser fortresses. Anyone can be one, if you've got the guts for it. They take orders from the Top Ones, or High Officers, an' those are handpicked by the Eye itself. I've never heard of any Orc, snaga or Uruk, ever becomin' a Top One. Those I've seen were all roundears, or looked the part anyway. They're warriors, sorcerers, commanders of the major fortresses like Udûn or Blog Shakâmb. There's probably a lot more to them, but I've never bothered to find out. They're creepy.”
Graznikh frowned. ”What are those places? I've never heard of 'em.”
”Udûn's a huge fortifed gate bein' built in the north. Blog Shakâmb's a fortress to the east, they say the Eye lived there before Lugburz was built. The road from the nearest gate leads right to it.” Graznikh tried to inquire further, but Praktash refused. ”I don't wanna talk about that place. Gives me the shivers, it does.”

Half a year later, Za knelt with her head against the floor of the audience hall. The hall was empty save for herself and the Dark Lord, whose eyes cut into her like knives.
”Five tutors,” He said. ”Five dead tutors.” She felt rather than saw Him beckon. ”Stand. See me.”
As she obeyed, He brushed a finger against His lips as He often did when thinking. Then He held it up.
”The first one; torn to pieces on the training grounds. This we know was done by a berserker, so I shall not hold it against you.” He lifted a second finger. ”The second; stabbed in the back in an alley near the market. The third,” He said as He held up a third finger,” poisoned. A simple, common toxin that he should have had the antidote for, if someone had not stolen it from his belt the very same night he died.” He looked at His hand. ”And that one antidote was the only thing that was missing. The fourth I know you killed yourself. But not alone.” She met His gaze, careful not to let herself tremble. ”The fifth was apparently devoured by a warg. And now I have been forced to have three others killed, because they disobeyed orders and tried to flee when notified of their new position. I must say, I am somewhat... nettled.”
Dark Lord smiled as He lowered His hand. ”I shall let you decide the Orc's fate.”
Za swallowed. ”What choices do I have?”
”All. Do what you will. But know this; if you do not find yourself a new tutor, I will consider you failed.”
He waved His hand in dismissal. Za bowed deeply before leaving, desperately trying to calm the storm inside. Well away from the audience hall, she allowed herself to relax slightly. Many in the Tower believed the killer of her tutors to be either she herself or an enemy assassin in disguise. In truth, it was neither. She was not surprised that her Master knew the culprit, all-seeing as He was. The Orc puzzled her greatly. He made sure to let her know that it was he who killed her tutors, as if he was trying to challenge her and lure her out of the Tower. But he had never made any attempts on her life whenever they had met, instead chatting amiably and in general behaving in a decidedly un-Orcish manner. Hate, fear, repulsion – these were feelings she knew well, these she could use. But there was no trace of those in the Orc's eyes, only that strange familiarity. He had nothing that could be manipulated and it confused her greatly.

'Do what you will', the Dark Lord had said. Za tried to detach herself from the situation and see the Orc with other eyes. He was cunning, this he had proved by staying undetected for so long. Strong as well; some of her tutors had been very skilled warriors but still they had fallen. Both were signs of the makings of a Captain. The third was ambition. She frowned. If he was ambitious, should he not have risen in the ranks of the Tower already? His outfit was that of a regular grunt and she somehow doubted that he would have been able to disguise himself well enough to go unrecognised for so long if he was of higher rank. He had stepped in as her first 'tutor' was about to kill her, asking nothing in return. Or had he? She remembered his words from before. Was it ambition that drove this Orc, or something else? And if not, what else was there?

Chapter End Notes

Blog Shakâmb – literally 'blood stone', Orcish name for the fortress of Seregost. Seregost was the first dwelling of Sauron, before Barad-Dur was built. It is described in many places as a 'place of dark sorcery' and was the breeding ground for the Black Uruks of Mordor.
Udûn – The Black Gate has not yet been built when this story takes place.

Prakûth – ambush
Prapsam – behind
Prashnak – mispronounciation of 'plashnak' – cunt
Pushaktar – Sharpshooter, a division of Black Uruk marksmen armed with heavy duty bows.